For those about to rock - or wooga wooga

Can't begin to tell y'all about the awesome rock-throbbing power of Camp Street the other night, with Ballarat legendary goth kings/queens/royalty Immaculata in the Helen MacPherson Cancer Stiff Theatre on one side and Tassie's bad boy duo betterknown as the Beasties from Hobart stylee (otherwise known as The Scientists of Modern Music) on the other in Ye Olde Karova, you couldn't go wrong.

After the sad post-AFI baby-baby rock of Talk Radio, the earnest college kooky rockness of Neon Love began the night properly, to be followed by those two little rascals bangin' the electro vibe like Dr Who with a strapped-on Angus model Gibson SG... with bonus dance moves. What's not to like? These Scientists of Modern Music received my thrustily put $10 for a CD and all is well.

While we've been hard at the Youtubin the switchboard has gone wild, hence we've had to include the Sebastopol-Redan remix of the Frank Callahan Lal Lal sessions tapes right here and now due to the pressure of the public persuasion (yeah, it's cut short to a minute or so):




we hope that's suffficient for the hard rock appetite of our devoted listeners.

meanwhile, we're talking about a new way of getting down Humffray Street and a new way of employing the energy of youth for our mutual entertainment.

THE BLOTTEST BAND IN THE WORLD

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.

Jock Cheese: rest in peace cobber

Reports not published anywhere say Jock Cheese from TISM is dead. Oh, the ironing of a band who made pisstake and parody behind the veil of anonymity their business. No brief poignant tributes from the newsreaders. No current affairs show snippet with Molly. No epic video tribute session on Rage. I dunno if it's broken anywhere in the media yet - and by that I mean the only media channel who'd care about a really talented muscian of his calibre, Triple R.

I heard it from a friend of a friend of mine, if you want me source. I look forward to that feeling of wanting to punch something when I read the snooty 'in the know' article in the beiAge.

What can you say about a man who held down one of the fundamental positions in a band who were always too clever for the dickheads paid to write something interesting about them. I will never, ever forget the sage words of the prophets:

"why don't people find rock bands funny?"

TISM were funny. The funniest. And clever. And talented. And Jock Cheese was one of 'em. And he never took off his mask. And they never sold out/copped out/fucked out. And there will be no public shows of grief or anything as shit as Wally Meanie's infamous 'ciao bella' epigraph because these guys had no time for fools.

Jock had been sick for a while. In fact, it's my dodgily held theory that you can pick up some lyrical hints as to how sick he'd been in songs such as this:

My best concert experiences are of TISM gigs. Monash Uni, Old Greek Theatre, Rosebud Drive In, Prince of Wales, Collingwood Town Hall, EVs in Croydon, Big Day Out. All awesome. Never a shit night.

I'm glad Jock got to knock out some solo stuff and hit the road touring it. I'm glad we never knew who they were, although I'm sure some self-important fuckhead at the Hun or the Beige will dig it up in the 'public interest'.

Yes, the spirit of TISM lives on in the band Root! And bless Humphrey B Flaubert and his unseasonably large sack of goodness for putting the cunty back into country. But nothing, nothing will compare with the opening bass lick of I'm Interested in Apathy for wanting to get this big dopey Skip on the dancefloor.

Jock, you made us realise just how fucking average so much modern music is. And I thank you.

Ideas for Ballarat 2020

There's a gathering in Ballarat today of 150 people selected as the best, brightest, most visionary in the local land, sitting down and knocking out ideas for their local member Catherine King - for her to dutifully bind together in a specially labelled ring-binder, cover in pithy post-it notes and place on the ever-expanding desk of Prime Tin-Tinester Kevin Rudd.

I managed to call the media guy for Catherine King and asked if anyone could pop down and have a chat. Or even have a listen to what was being said. The short answer was... no. Apparently what these people discuss and chalk down for the future of Ballarat is not for Ballarat people to know. Knowing what the popularly elected member for Ballarat will do with the opinions of these fellow electors is not for the electorate to know.

In light of that, here's my basic questions/discussion tips for Ballarat's future in 12 years time.

- stop electing pitiful dickheads to your local Council and then complaining about the pitiful dickheads at the local Council.

- why is it a small cabal of former private school rowers can command the Council and State Government to pour millions of dollars into refilling a lake that has gone dry?

- how come one ex-police officer can control nearly all of the licensed venues on one block of one town?

- why is it the Begonia Festival can drain the council of so much money when so many people of Ballarat think it's shit and never go?

- how much money did the Council sink into the Sovereign Hill Music Festival, and why didn't they book any local artists?

- if there's such a skills shortage, why then does the newly opened UB Tech have such a low number of students?

- how can one cinema manage to maintain a monopoly on cinemas, and why do they insist on showing only shit films continually, with only the briefest of schedules for anything vaguelly grown-up?

- do you really think the superpipe is going to fix all your water worries?

All these questions and more... but my feeling is we'll get muddled gravy of bureaucratese feel-good, with some basic keywords: "sustainability" "fighting obesity" "lowering petrol prices".

Meanwhile... the ship continues to flounder.

Do you wanna DJ me gig?

That's not what he really said. The man known as Jones rang. He said there was a gig at the Ballarat skatepark. His band, the Best Boy Band in Ballarat, were gonna play. Condition was, the guy who owns the P.A. and he has a band, too.

Thinking this could go anywhere, I wondered....


Because the Brand X are a bunch of guys in their 30s holding on to the dream of fuckin' loud, fast, funny music.. I heard these guys the night I met Hot Thighs, my gorgeous girlfriend. First thing I thought was 'hillbilly fugazi'. Which is pretty accurate, except any accusations of being straight edge...

But this other band? Could be a bit soft... And when you're old, you want to let the skaters know that loud, ugly music is a family. And the elders must be respected. Ladeez and gennilmen, this is how the Brand X take to techno...


It's a four hour gig. One of the bands plays really fast, quick songs. Umm... and it looks like the 'DJ rig' is going to be a portable CD stereo patched through a mixer into the P.A.... cheap? punk? p'shaw!

And take that fuckin' mp3 player outta here, kid! I'm tryin' to patch me record player into that gas barbie!

Stick your begonias up your arse; we're at Golden Plains

Our humble state of Victoria has few rivals when it comes to shit-awful/boring-as-sand festival events, but few of these can better the absolute creamy fly-covered turdness of Ballarat's Begonia Festival. It takes a special kind of journalist to whip interest out of this shallow grave of ratepayers money, and we salute the hardworking womble who chiselled out this particular irony-free zone in the Courier, Ballarat's august paper of record. All errors of grammar and syntax have been kept from the original publication, and I've highlighted the bits that nail the sad, decaying corpse-eating pit of sadness that is Begonia Festival 2008:

Traditionally the festival is based around the flowers, art,
craft and stalls. But this year younger children could not get enough of
the "We Built This City" cardboard box arena and jumping castle. Not to
mention the mobile entertainment vehicle simply known as The Bus, which came
complete with Internet access and console games.
About 250 children had visited the cardboard box area in just the first few hours it had opened Saturday morning.
Box City "safety officer" Nathan Gurney said safety was his middle name.
"I have got cable ties for tricky corners, a texta for making signs and then a spare texta just in case," he said.
"We haven't counted exactly how many boxes are here, but there is at least 2000."
Children were encouraged to stack boxes as high as possible, before knocking them down and starting again.
While children had fun with the boxes, the Begonia Festival was of
course about the begonia's. Festival volunteer Graeme Strachan said "bus
loads" of tourists had stopped to admire flowers inside the Robert Clark
Conservatory which this year came complete with an Aladdin theme. Mr Strachan said the drought had failed to dampen the size, or colour of the flowers.

Ladies and gennilmen, it don't get much better than that. I missed the parade, but again, the laser-sharp reportage of The Courier mentions this year had more floats than ever. Ballarat folk who were there say this is because most of the city's garbage trucks and Council vehicles were tacked on to the end of it. Apparently you could SMS a vote for your favourite garbage truck. Instead of whinging about the hijacking of more than $200,000 of public money to feed the sad egos of a few people who insist there be nothing interesting allowed to happen in Ballarat, just down the highway we were losing our minds to two insane Tasmanians with synths and vocoders

It was Golden Plains the 2nd, and yea, did it rock verily. Here's the shortlist summary:

Ween: overblown, overhyped and over here. Two hours onstage and you still can't play Gabrielle? Sure, you're a shit-hot guitarist. But if you can't do something more than play your own jukebox in double the time allowed the other bands, you are boring. Fuck off back to novelty songland.

Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings: plagued by a dodgy microphone but nailed the funk/soul banner to the wall and made everyone dance a funky salute to it

South Rakkas Crew: when will they learn? Dancehall djs are fine, but don't ever walk onstage at the Supernatural Ampitheatre and think you can pull this 'put your hands in the air' shit. We will call it as we see it. And you are wankers.

The Dirtbombs: Everything that is good about rock. Totally awesome, two drummers, awesomely huge sound, tight as fuck with a proper traincrash finish. A joy to behold.

The Vines: will the crowd stop giving this guy shit about antidepressants and being bipolar? Probably not. But the crowd danced. The old folks remained impassive.

Jens Lekman: somebody call TISM. I have a new target for them.

Buffalo Tom: OK... but making jokes about Altamont? *yawn* And he fucked up the chorus on Taillights Fade. Seriously, mate - you only had to get one song right. Is that too much to ask some hasbeen college rockers?

The Panics: great stuff. It's true what people are saying about them being the new Go-Betweens. If only he can keep from sounding like whassiface from the Whitlams, he'll be alright.

Pikelet were a tasty discovery early on. Kind of like Bjork, but from Northcote. Chick plays accordion, makes her own live loops and sings. Never seen a band all recline on banana lounges while the singer does a solo number... these guys were interesting.

Beirut got bigged up to me by the aforementioned Systah BB. She said not to miss 'em. I say: what if Morrissey joined a Balkan-gypsy band? The girls sighed. The band were great, but never hit that vodka-fuelled gypsy speed metal vibe that I like with that kind of music.

The Bamboos: the night after Sharon Jones, the skips had a crack at this "funk and soul" thing, and these bad boys from Melbourne danced up the pitch and belted it waaaaay out of the park. I'll never see the Bar-Kays or the Mar-Keys, but by Christ I saw the Bamboos knock it out with total sharp-suited aplomb, ably helped by Kylie Auldist on the mic and - I shit you not - a freestyle rap sesh from the TimTam Genie.

Jay Reatard: just when I thought I was going to die from either the heat or boring music, these guys played a set of furiously fast and stupid punk rock. And the bass player was playing a four string Flying Vee - how rock is that?

Jane Badler and Sir: most of this was spent explaining to sad young folk what the tv series V was all about. Her music sounded like something you'd hear Sunday arvo at the rehab clinic. The musical equivalent of a trip to Wobbie's World - it's never going to be great, but it's important you at least see how crap it can be.

Iron And Wine: great, but I wish I was sitting down and it wasn't so crowded. Which is a stupid thing to say at a music festival. Perfect music for hot days amid the gum trees.

Scientists of Modern Music: two little guys from Tassie goin' ballistic. What can I say? I hate keyboard driven Pseudo Newman tunes (that's the fusion of Pseudo Echo and Gary Newman, y'all..), but these guys were stupidly infectious and fun.

Meanwhile, in Ballarat's Botanic Gardens.. Councillor Hudson encouraged residents to come along to the Lake foreshore to soak up the festival atmosphere. "We have a great entertainment line-up in store this year with everything from Kylie Minogue's pop anthems to tributes to Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin and Sammy Davis Junior with The Rat Pack Show," he said.