Blog 10/06/08

Hello fans,
Firstly I’d like to thank all those involved in the bid to put The ShowWith No Name up there with such television classics as The Collectors and "The Twiddlebugs go to Indented Head".
We can’t disclose too much at this point, (what with nothing having actually happened and the Pigeon that we tied our hopes and electronic dreams to possibly crashing into some power lines round ACDC lane), but it is good to have actually been part of licking a self stamped and popping stuff off to a bunch of grey headed people, who hate this confounded modern age, but love a good panto with Kevin Rudd dressed up as Luscious Lillypad, a transvestite frog who’s off to see the Emperor! (Cymbal crash!…cue piano.)

Ahhh….the smell of the greasepaint….. Lube me up Charlie! I’m ready to rock. (Cash, cheque or money order)
But I digress…..

How lovely is it to be frozen stiff in the mornings? How wonderful to see the Walrus lolling about on the council steps, their gritty flukes tapping away at water rates and the like?
How delightful is it to see mercurial hump bunnies fused at the frozen dude outside gaily-lit nightspots?
Yes indeedy, Winter in all of its floral shirted goodness is here.

How I love to see the flakes of exhaust fumes settling on the children, their cak handed attempts to make a petroleum snowman being thwarted by motorists scooping the carrot nosed busts into gleaming automobiles and chugging along to work on crap and steam?

How I adore the happy panted choky scrufflers, scooting about with the monthly horde, the Vinnie Barbawino’s emerging all smiles with their crisp bags of new goon, the pleasant singing of pregnant teens, like tender mother buffalos, bellowing to their squat progeny down Central Square, their jammy Longbeach fingers poking into bargains and what not.

Yes…. It’s certainly Poetry in some sort of motion (perhaps Poetry at Bingo nite or stuck in traffic in Mossman), but indeed I truly think (conditions apply) that of all the wonders of God’s green tea bag, that Winter in Ballart puts the gleaming stars to shame and makes the beanies hide their furry heads in awe.

As a pup, growing up in this Alpine light, we would be huddled into a room with the livestock, perhaps a few old blankets and then we would set fire to the unused wings of Doggly Manor, (Central heating still being a pipe dream in 73’).
We’d sing songs into a Cb radio and it was wonderful to hear the truckers fill our cold little chicken roost with odd, dreamy far away sounding names such as Boort and Maldon.
It was cold, colder that the teat of a cryogenic Witch (Moly! Dat’s cold!), but we laughed and died, like soldiers in a drink tray together.
We’d skootch under four metres of doon at night and back in the day we had tame Elves, (except for that one got rabies and took out the dog before Dad clubbed it to beans), who would drive weenie snow ploughs, so you could get to school and be cold there for the day.

Our beloved lake Wendouree would freeze and we’d skate, happy as horny Larks until the Ice Pirates came in July and stabbed you with a swan if youtried to get to the kiosk for a cup of warm mulch.
Ahhhh…Winter. It’s like the frozen things your lover pokes up your bum on one of those night where you are both feeling co-sassy.

Sure, it’s a shock at first and one is almost tempted to pull away, (perhaps to Brisbane), but after a few deep breaths and a little melty patience, soon Winter is as snug as a bug in a bog roll and you just await the comforting melt while your lover tightens your saddle. Yee Har!

In fact I’ll go as far to say you can keep you balmier climbs, what with all the Secession talked about the Colonel Jo.
Sure, it must be bearable to waddle from the waterbed with a “Free pass to SeaWorld with every dressing gown” dressing gown on, make your lackadaisical way to some squid vendor and go the morning chomp while naked young’ns catch the tram to their get fit fondles.
It must be passably to sit at night with nothing but a flimsy chenille on, sipping on some sparkling liquors while some sort of Afro Jazz plays to the freakish skies, the night breeze flunking through the drying washing and the nymphs from next door have a “Nude against Mug!” contest on their frilly trampolines.

It must be o.k. to have endless sunny skies and that “Tie me Campervan down, sport!”, you beaut Ute Aussie dinkum sports drink attitude that seems to come easily to our northern neighbours, but given the choice I’d like nothing more to stand on the top of Sturt street, my dude whipping about in the frigid air singing “Counting the Beat” by the Swingers and then rubbing myself all over with the moist, carbon smelling soil of my lovely freezy burg.

Of course, after certain court orders have now been freed from their envelopes (rather like that scene where NASA smashes the prison prism in Superman III and the bad guys who can kick superman’s ass get out and wreck terrible havoc setting fire to Buicks and the like, but Superman gets better lines and Lois won’t root the beardy henchman and the leather dominatrix chick falls in love with Kurt Cobain’s country cousin, Capt. Kyle Cobain Jr and the really smart guys with the evil eyebrows gets his own show called “Punch in face for a million!” , where ex-wrestlers get punched in the face by a man who excerpts more force than a steam train being dropped from space when they can’t answer questions like “What is the mathematical representation of the code needed to seed other planets with sentient life?”), then the above mentioned nudie duding won’t be appearing at an Arch of Victory near you soon. Pity………..

Still……it nice to be cold. (sorta)
I find it brings out the resilience in a person. An attitude where you have keep your wits sharp and your eyes open lest you blink and they freeze together.

All for now!

Mick ‘Wimmens is better that electamatrical blankets” Dog.

The Henson photos you can't see

It's all gone bear-shaped now. Until the Rudd paedo-police move in, here's the exclusive inside report on the Henson exhibition as filed by the Show With No Name...

Rock and roll hospitalisation in B-town

It's all gone hospital shaped for our comrade in charms Mr Len this week, folks! Last seen headed off for a public performance of loud guitar abuse, more lately it seems he's gone and landed himself in a small cell with a leg full of plaster and nought but a couple of euro-crit music mags and a small wire connected to a box which pipes the sounds of daytime television, of which a small box hangs from a ceiling some 6 feet above him broadcasting pictures of the same.

We gots to bust the man out. It's only a fortnight since our award-binning Rock for the Mok, in which we drove mid-song up to Albury Wodonga to bring you the sounds and commentary of the huge celebration of the return the nation's latest celebrity outlaw to justice... with fond appearances from our very first celebrity
home detention figure, Glenn 'i was caught wiping the tax from my nose' Wheatley.

But I digress. As I said, Lenny's managed to sidestep the usual public medicine predilection for invoking the horrors of Floydesque institutionalised uncomfortably numb drug trips (Just a little pin prick... there'll be no more AAAAAAAAAGH!) and ensuing spiders-crawling up wall. Or, indeed was that a Linda Blair-lookalike from the paedetrics wing-type freakzone? Nup, he's sitting tight.

But we gots to get in there.

The Utility Dim Sim Production Facility (nah... we're waaay not up to researching muffins yet... although a lot of it IS done in the kitchen..) - is hard at work nailing together the finishing sparkles to last week's Nude Henson Gallery Outrage edition of the Show With No Name. It truly was something to behold... nevermind where the hell we're going to find a picture of Gonzo... oh dear.

Regardless, send us any suggestions for Len's recovery - there'll be no show for tomorow, they wouldn't let us bring in the special Ratnet Hardware death-ray/multitrack/phonebong broadcasting gear (yeah, I actually DID check..) to let Len loose from the bed on the airwaves of 99.9 from Ballarat to greater western Victoria/earth, but we shall definitely be back on air next week, with latest rumours from the local bookie-fish'nchip/video/newsagent in South Central Ballarat declaring this will mark a return to the classic insane recordings as heard on the Show some months back when Len last found himself with smashed bones and a bruised sense of entitlement from the crime gang known Fate, Gravity, Pure Shit Luck all operating under the brutal doctrine of Murphy...

..and with that, ladies and gennilmen.... the 23rd of Elvis. Watch for Lenny as he plugs in the four-string Doberman and gets it boisterous...

For those about to Mok: we salute you

No-one but the Show With No Name could do it - a one hour special broadcast to commemorate the return of Tony 'The Mok' Mokbel to the warm and loving arms of Australian justice.
It was a broadcast that brought forth the best of the world's entertainment industry, from Australian legends Queen Bea and Vinegar Tits to the remarkable spontaneous performance of Chinese Democracy by Axl Rose live at the Albury Showgrounds.

We'll never see the likes of this again.... here's the highlights

Show With No Name playlist May 20 - special Rock for the Mock edition

It was emotional. It was intensive. There's probably gonna be some 'tube of it 'cos it was at times hysterical. Here's the tunes, or as much as I can remember.

The full list of Mok tunes wil be listed as soon as the audio is carved... lazy tongueless bugger I am, but... Mok the Casbah, Mok Around the Clock, even the surprise inclusion of the Tony Bartuccio dancers just couldn't compete with Only the Tony in the early heats...
But anyway... here's the tunes for our many* listeners .

The Prisoner - Iron Maiden
Tony's Theme - Pixies
Maniac Blues - The Bell Rays
We Don't Understand You - Front End Loader (live)
Thin Lizzy - Jailbreak
Carlton - Skyhooks
Welcome to the Jungle - Guns n Roses
Killer Parties - The Hold Steady (remix)
Jailbreak - AC/DC
Hate the Police - Mudhoney
Riot In Cell Block #9 - The Coasters
Chains of Love - The Dirtbombs

7 O'Clock Mock Mix
For Whom the mokBell Tolls - Metallica
Thousand Points of Hate - Anthrax
Over You - The Dwarves

Stay Hungry - Twisted Sister
(And a huge shoutout to the first caller in two years who called about the music. Right on!)

100 Fresh Disciples - Nokturnl
Zombie Woof - Frank Zappa
Smile - Quadbox
I'm So Bad Baby I Don't Care - Motorhead
September Crush - Asteroid B612
Eiffel Tower High - Husker Du
I Got Chills - The Bronx
New Direction - Gorilla Biscuits




*word 'many' may not correspond with any dictionary definition

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.

Cure for the winter horn, Kyle Sandilands and backpain

That's about the long and short of it judging from the latest Youtube that's gone up... bless us, you mothers, for we have sinned.


There's also the report into the Big Horn of Ballarat, following scenes of wild hysteria in the studios last week.