Hello Fans,

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 But It's time to give this outdated crap the heave ho.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
Love again
Na...oooooooh!
Are gunna eat that?
Who cares?
Not me
My head hurts.
Ooooooh!
Is there any beer left?
Shit.
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)

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.)

Ok.
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).

So.
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.

Cheerio!

Mick (The Curmudgeon of Fudge) Dog.

Regrets? I've had a stew

we were talking about 23rd elvis which is just as well as no one else was. we have a gig at the idgaff bar on the 29th of March, well, that's the idea at this stage and as all of you in the topsy turvy world of scum independence know these things can change with the blink of a "Can't make it I'm washing my neck". Wow this is fun isn't it? Imagine the possibilities? Why they're opening up in technicolor even as I type, like one who says "Have they no wrists?" Marvelous stuff. The chances of deep late night regret that once put on record, can never be taken away, are endless! 23rd of Elvis will be on tour during April with SilverFinger, though they probably aren't aware of this. If you have a deep and close personal relationship with any of "ver lads " from the finger please dont tell them as we've been saving it as a surprise! Much like the feeling when you're sure it's just a scratch til you put your hand to you're head and look in horror at the river of blood running down your elbow. "Get your dirty hands off my filthy arms" A lesson in discretion for us all. Happy Days.

A little song we couldn't play on the radio

Just tried watching 20 seconds of the Liberal Party doco on ABC TV... By that, I mean the How We Were Dumped from Office By the Aussie Electorate and Are Now Trying to Blame It On the Guy Who's Not Here For the Racist Scumsucking Lying Arseholes We Were for Ten Years show. I got a better idea... a public service announcement from Devil's Cabaret - and I'm sending it out to that racist dickhead at Recovery Records on Sturt Street, too...

Tomorrow the Show With No Name is back on the air... and after the last few weeks of pounding Iron Maiden tributes, we might even go a tad low-key and summery... what with all this hot weather and stuff. Now I just gotta think up some songs for a stinkin hot summer's day... I'm thinking of an old time number by The Cramps to start with...

How long can Karova survive?

There's a story about a man who runs most of the pubs in this town, and of an evil franchise who've just arrived... and of one podgy rockdog stalwart who stuck it out.

Stuck it out like an Anzac on the shores of Turkey, forever raising the middle digit, rigid and stiff...

Stuck it out in the pursuit of honest rock and roll, friendly barkeepers and a cold beer in a world of push-button plasma-screen wank videos with a dancebeat, fuelled by Bacardi breezers and underage drinkers high on faux-eccies and a sense of doing something naughty.

Despite being threatened, cajoled and flat-out outsold by the Forces of Bland, our man continued to book original bands and didn't screw the punters for their dough. That period has ended, and he's now sitting somewhere quiet with a book, enjoying this thing some people call 'daytime'.

Does life go on as usual at Karova? The quote about the new owner is that he wandered up to the bar and said "I've had a listen to that Triple J... some of it's not bad."

Be afraid... the Pseudo Echo tribute bands and Get Your Tits Out Tuesdays promotions are surely not far away...

How many album sales does it take to get to number 1?

I found out something interesting last night. Was dining with a character known as Systah BB over a sandwich and 8 or 9 litres of quality grape moonshine from a local still, and she asked me how many albums did it take to get to number 1 in Australia.

She asked me about the new Timbaland album - which zapped to number 1 on the Aussie album charts a week or so ago. How many albums did I think it takes to get to that esteemed level?

10,000?
20,000?

How about.... (old fasioned drum roll by Animal from Hey Hey, if you will)

3,000.

Yep, 3,000. In fact, if you could call a half-cold pie sold at the MCG during a crap footy match an album, we'd top the charts with 'D'ya want sauce with that' no probs....

And people are still questioning whether the music industry is viable... hmmm. Speaking of people who drip from their mouths, I was handed a DVD of classic Ballarat 80s band Tabu the other day. Nice one. We might just have to see if we can't get some of it on air for this coming week's Show With No Name. We think Lenny has been contracted by Britney's people to help the young lass deal with her insanity.

I'm guessing the answer will be "don't stop till you get enough"...

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 www.hardypants@corpseeater.com)
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.
Marvelous!

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.

O.k.
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!

Cheerio!

Mick "MInd my comfortable pants!" Dog.

Who are the show with no name

We're a tired old bunch of rockstars who've spent a collective 750 years at the top of showbusiness and now we're awaiting the return of the prophet known only to Radio Dave to lead us to the promised land... Until then it's a bit like the Goodies, albeit living in a small cardboard shack in the wilds of a place known only to us and 90,000 other people as 'Sebas'... but that's another story.

Lenny's currently still coming down from the Grammys where he was arrested trying to snort Mariah Carey. It wasn't the fact he'd laid her out on the table so much as the way he was wielding that razor blade... Poor old Mick Dog was last seen wandering aimlessly down the highway outside of Wodonga clutching a half-used souvlaki and asking people if they knew how to call in an airstrike on Rockhampton...

But we continue, like the famed Hamburger Cart - night after night churning out the steaming hot goodness to the varied mumbling freaks, suits and geeks of our town. Things are pretyt grim for music fans in this place, what with Grainery Lane now closed, big Paddy O out of Karova and the ever present menace of 'Dirty' Frank Callahan on our streets... we shall fight the good fight here and forever... are you gonna eat that?

We cling tenaciously to the dream of honest rock and roll and someone shouting on the radio... via the medium of the Show With No Name - the only radio show in Ballarat to have its own Youtube action...

Not quite as monstrous a media empire as the man known only as 'Hardware' is amassing, and far from the greatness that was BTV6 in the old days.. but we will continue the struggle...