Wednesday, April 23, 2008

World Series Protest: Australian edition

As we predicted, it is time.

Ladies and gentlemen we are under starter's orders. We have Chinese security who are determined to form a human ring around the torch. We have every remaining Kombi from the North Coast and patchouli-powered Corolla from North Shore Sydney along with every Private School Marxist from Melbourne gathered in the nation's capital. We've got a feisty Federal Police force determined not to have the Chaser make them look like dickheads. We've got roughly 10,000 Chinese members of Amway loose somewhere north of the Murray.

Ladies and gentlemen, suddenly we have some of those online rapscallions at Crikey even telling people to get into it:

China’s Foreign Ministry have warned against protests in Canberra because the torch "belongs to the whole world". That the corrupt thugs who run China (latest
effort – dispatching a boatload of weapons to fellow despot Bob Mugabe) object to expressions of dissent even in other countries is no surprise. But let’s get over this fetishisation of the Olympics.
Year after year the same faces, the Kevin Gospers and John Coateses who are apparently on the Olympics gravy train for life, stand up to declare that it’s all about the sport, or world peace, or the youth of the world. In fact it’s a giant media event designed to generate massive revenue which, this time around, is being employed to promote one of the world’s most brutal regimes.
And you can see where these sports administrators come from.

Just about every athlete or sports person parrots the same lines about sport having nothing to do with politics or, for that matter, morality, as if sports – professional, international sport, in all its cash-generating glory – is somehow a priori disconnected from basic ethics and standards of
civilized behaviour.

For those planning to have a crack at disrupting the relay, or who just want to marvel at some wonderful security overkill, the event kicks off at 8.30am tomorrow morning.
Whoah, go Crikey! Somehow we don't reckon your mob are the kind to get out of bed early and loft a water balloon - but the sentiment's there. It's time we turned the Olympic Torch relay into something meaningful - and World Series Protest can begin with us here in Australia.

If Tintin and his crew manage to continue their shiny new Post-Hawkie/Labor Intellectual Love party, we're doomed to life without one last mass punch-on between bogans with slogans and gym-toned burly blokes whipped into a frenzy by the nation's tabloid press, radio and tv, and frankly, after 11 years of the Evil Bastards and the 2007-style Grand Final finish to the election, we deserve better than that.
It's going to be a kick-on, and I just know Australia's going to show the world how it's done.

Smell the radio magic

Oh yes, we've begun making our own tv. You might notice the Youtube channels over there on the right hand corner of the page... Our man at Handl TV does indeed handle the tv... his work both the Smith, the Lash and with Lenny has been a constant companion for the Show, and bless his fireglass prostate he's been recently been visiting us in downtown Ballarat, and inspired us to fire up the Atari home-edit suite ourselves

Here's just a taste of one of our big sponsors over the 378 years we've been at the top of showbusiness, our man known as The Lash.

More news at 11... now sports.


Libel laws being what they is this in Go' bress Amerca this article was turned down by a funky rockin mag specifically marketed to young white teens. With recent Grand Prix events and as I'm quite fond of it I thought it was worth getting down for posterity, here goes:
Many of us are more than familiar with the proposition that if you were to place an infinite number of monkeys with an infinite number of typewriters and then left them to type for infinity eventually they would write and record the KISS album Hot in the Shade. I seem to have started this article in the middle, a common enough literary device nowadays but let me take you back to the beginning.

The year is 1978 the place Ballarat, Victoria, Australia. Yep where the kangaroos drive buses and wombats hassle the elderly. At this time I am 8 years old and as far as I know ABBA is music. Down the road, two houses in fact, are the towns toughest family. Three brothers who when not playing cricket with me on my crutches (not a permanent fixture happily) are down at the local bowling alley breaking into pinball machines or beating seven types of christ out of whoever gets in there way.

I am in their bedroom this day and the eldest and toughest brother "Antonio" is listening to a Sex Pistols tune by the name of "Friggin in the Riggin". Me being 8 and all, the frequent use of the word "cunt" is quite exciting couched in this piratical rock'n roll sound. Enjoying the "if my folks find out about this I'm fucked" ambiance of it all, I start to glance through his lp collection and come across a bizarre painting of some long haired dude with a purple aura around him with a black star over his right eye. Now being a reasonably keen Spiderman fan this find is quite exciting and I ask Antonio "What's this?" He says "That's a guy outa KISS, there's four of them and they all have a different blah,blah,blah." You know the basics I presume? To cut to the chase I start to collect everything I can get my hands on about this band and within a year I am what is known as a "KISS freak".

Their are fights in primary school defending the musicality vs the show. In truth I'm barely 9 and what the fuck would I know? It's loud and freakish. Just like me. Now although Paul was the first to catch my eye I find myself gravitating towards the Spaceman and the Cat. They seem to be infinitely cooler than the other two merely by not being such try hards. Also by this point I have begun belting holes in every cushion at my folks house and am on my way to becoming a budding drummer.
The album Dynasty comes out and though I'm completely unaware that the KISS juggernaut is losing steam in there homeland, in Australia the whole country is about to go completely fucking batshit!! And they do. The pulpit follow their American counterparts and the "Knights In Satans Service" theory comes into play. Kids everywhere are burning the hell out of themselves trying to eat fire. People across the board are losing their minds and I, for one, am loving every minute of it. The rumour mills are starting to say that the band are to tour! Me and my big brother are keen as mustard and begin to save what little pennies we have. We are a working family and there aren't many of those to be had (pennies that is). My bro and I construct guitars out of paint, cardboard and bits of scalectrix track and look forward to the official announcement. Then the bombshell, Peter Criss has left the band! Of course nowadays we know he'd had a gutful, was off his face and was playing like shit, but back then the horror was almost to much to bare. Naysayers at school took the piss and said "What about yer band of superheroes now? Not so super huh?" "Fuck off" I say "They'll get someone" and they do. Eric Carr steps up to the plate as the Fox. We hear on the grapevine he was to have been the Hawk but he looked to much like a chicken. There is a special on a local music show interviewing Paul, Gene, Ace and Eric. Ace in particular seems out of his mind. As with Peter we all know why that is now but at the time it was the coolest thing on earth and noticing that Gene seemed to resent not getting all the attention came in a close second.

But I digress. The tour is announced, the lightweight pop of Unmasked goes to number 1 and they'll be here in December! Then the 2nd bomb shell of this story drops when my Mum tells me "You're not going". "But,but,but" I say until I start to sound like a motor boat, all to no avail. I'm getting over some leg operations and there's not a chance in hell I'll be going to that concert. And I don't. It's the start of a lifetimes regret but I fly the flag for team KISS regardless as the day approaches and they arrive. there is a Beatlesque media frenzy and every newspaper and tv show in the country is ravenous to get to them. The stadium tour goes off to sell-out crowds all and then with promises to be back in 9 months to visit there children, they're gone.

One day later and it seems like they were never here and are replaced by the Village People. THE FUCKING VILLAGE PEOPLE!! The kids at school ask "Are you gonna get into them now?" "Piss Off!!" I say "they don't even write there own tunes! Or play them!" "KISS are dead man" they take great relish in telling me. "No way they're coming back" I plead but for all intents and purposes they are right.

A great hush falls over KISS world but me an my brother keep the faith until about a year later a clip pops up, a poncy ballad! They've all got short hair and that WANKER Simmons cries at the end! Still I am loyal and take to The Elder with gusto even though I haven't the foggiest notion what it's about. Unlike only one year before, the whole country patentedly couldn't give a rats arse and the album sinks like a stone. The KISS brethren, me, basically, don't give up and soon enough Creatures of the Night comes out. It's cool, it's heavy, good cover but there's something fishy about it. Why aren't there any Ace songs on it? Third bomb. Ace has left the building! First Peter now ACE!?! What the fuck are they doing/ We see the 1st pictures of some Egyptian freak and all of a sudden the classic rock is out and the gutless 2nd guessing pretend metal is in. So begins the long decade of the soul. Lick it Up.
"Jesus they're ugly bastards aren't they?" say all and sundry. My defence is pretty weak since secretly I agree with them. Paul looks like a preening ponce, so, not much change there obviously. Eric looks like his face could dissapear at any minute. Vinnie a red-headed step child with access to hair dye. And Gene just looks like some dick with his tongue hanging out which of course, he is. That WANKER Simmons. I try to get into but it just doesn't have the zeitgeist of four guys who cant really play yet when they do it together it somehow just happens. Like Herpes. Animalize comes out all stripey. Turn the cover around "Who's that cunt?" I ask myself. Mark St Who? It's just not Ace and Eric cant swing like Peter. If it doesn't groove it aint worth piss.

Witness Steven Adler vs that knobend from The Cult. Right? Right.

At this point I'm about 15 and some diehard fans are starting to come out of the woodwork. We swap bootlegs and try to get our hands on anything to do with the classic line up that we can while pretending the current KISS is up to scratch. It aint. Asylum comes out. "Oh look at the pretty colours!" But wait a minute! Again. "Who's that cunt? Bruce? BRUCE??" Since when has anyone in KISS been called Bruce? At this point it becomes painfully obvious that it's become the Gene and Paul show. And I must say it's just as obvious that it's Paul that's holding up the ship as Gene resembles nothing less than a poodle and his songs sound like he shat them out in his sleep whilst pursuing a career in dud films. That WANKER Simmons. Crazy Nights, done with mirrors. Same cunt for a change anyway.

Then Hot in the Shade. Aaaaaaaah! It reminds me of a story actually. When I was really young I had four wooden dolls that I used to play with. They were little soldiers without joints so obviously you couldn't do much with them but I loved them all the same. Until one day when I went to find them and I'd lost them! I cried and looked everywhere but they couldn't be found. Until Hot in the Shade came out AND THE FUCKERS SHOWED UP AGAIN DOING EVEN LESS!!!

KISS Exposed was the last straw. The awesome sight of the real band knocking out I Stole Your Love and Shock Me then cutting to clips of Gene and Paul walking around the archives hanging shit on Ace and Peter. "If they're that bad" I remember thinking " why do you keep falling back on them you WANKERS!" It was about this time that my deep mistrust of anything Gene says EVER really dug deep as I realised what a compulsive lying soulless big mouth the fuck really was. That WANKER Simmons. And that was it. "Fuck those two" I thought and from then on any news I read or heard was taken with bemusement. Much more entertaining were stories of Peter becoming a derelict and being rescued by Roseanne and Tom Arnold only to find out it was an imposter and hearing the real Peter ripping shit out of him on Geraldo. Or tale of Ace being on tour again only to be spotted walking into a hotel room with a slab of beer on each shoulder never to return. "An dats dee end o' dat tour Curly!" Surreal, preposterous and proper rock'n roll!! Not like that wigged up corporate tosspot who if he could fuck himself I'd have been relieved cos we'd have never heard from him again. Veil.

1996 rolls around. The reunion tour is on!! Simmons, and I quote "We may have had our differences in the past but so fucking what? Nothing beats the magic of Paul, Gene, Ace and Peter". "Well alright" I thought "the fat cunt has come to his senses." they came to our shores once again and this time I saw them and it was truly the stuff that dreams are made of!!! Like being shot out of a cannon. Ace played like a GOD! The best thing for mine was that because Peter and Ace were so seemingly fragile Gene and Paul couldn't just gloss over into being a gutless memory. Because it was so spastic they had to play AS A BAND!! It seemed like it could fall apart at any moment. BUT IT NEVER DID!! It was dangerous wild and loud! Fucking KISS man!! All was forgiven. And then there was news of a new album? A new album? I was dubious but it was the four of them and the gig was so staggering I felt I had to give them the benefit of the doubt. I jumped on a tram, slipped into the city bought this thing called Psycho circus slipped back home and chucked it on. Later that day my housemate Ruddo laughed as he told me how while he was sitting outside in the back yard that afternoon he could hear the cries of "OOOOOOOOOOOOH!!" and "YOU FUCKIN WANKERS!!" The shit, as they say, was fucked up. It just reaked of being done by committee. Shitty gutless over produced slop that went nowhere and stayed there. By the time I got to Peters "I finally found my way" I thought "Like fuck you have" and threw it against the wall in disgust. Seasoned fans and old friends said "It's pretty good really" as if they were pleading with me to cut it some slack. "Bullshit" I said "It's a record for cunts by cunts". Then they toured again. My bro said "You gonna go?" "Nah" I said "that night was magic, I'm not letting them fuck me over a second time". Then comes the news. They sack Peter, Ace leaves and I say to myself "You're not telling me they're about to fuck it up all over again in exactly the same way they did the first time?" Yes. Yes they are.

So here I am in 2007 (8) A KISS fan who not once, but twice has had to watch those greedy fuckheads water down the legacy that I used to fight for as a child. Truth be told, I did go to one more show. One afternoon my bro rings up and says "C'mon, it's two for one, they can't fill the 2nd night." "Alright" I say and off we went. Strangely enough it was 20 years later and here I was on crutches again. We stood about ten metres from the front dead centre and on they came and y'know? It was ok. Tommy Thayer? Well who gives a fuck y'know? eric Singer seemed a cheeky fucker who gave it some boot and I had to hand it to Paul. Seeing hi that close was pretty cool. He still puts in. But Gene, Gene, Gene. If ever there was a more grotesque waste of a concert stage going through the motions so he could pocket another hundred grand that he didn't need then I've never seen it. It was blood spitting time. He hit the first "BOING" on the bass and he did all his neck wrenching. then out came the blood, there it was! Now because it was only two thirds full with a lot of families to boot, the sheet metal applause you hear on alive 1 and 2 wasn't there and there were several moments when you could hear a pin drop. This was one of them. Out came the blood and seeing the whole ludicrous display up so close made me laugh from the gut in the sort of high pitch you might've heard from say, oooooh, Ace Frehley? Gene heard this laughter and looked me straight in the eye. All the fans around me looked immediately as if to say "What the fuck are you doing man?' There he was the fat old God of Thunder and Betrayer the man who says "It's all about the fans" then calls them "scum" behind there back and charges $200 bucks a pop and that's just for the nosebleed section. There he was looking me in the eye. And I laughed in the fuckers face. That WANKER Simmons.