Mint Custard

Let's Take a Ride, Run with the Dogs Tonight

2012-01-08T22:26:00.001+11:00

So I have a little radio show going. It's called Centrelinked and involves me playing a few records that are linked by a common theme. Not an original idea I know, but it's keeping me out of mischief.

So far I've done shows about Electricity, Distance, Radio and Creepy Crawlies. This week's theme was Suburbia - from colourful characters and nostalgia through community-wide conformity to middle-class angst and urban malaise behind neat picket fences. Because I had fun doing it I thought it might be nice to share what I played and give people the chance to point out ones I missed...

Rockin' the Suburbs - Ben Folds
Pleasant Valley Sunday - the Monkees
Neighbourhood - Space
Penny Lane - the Beatles
Our House - Madness
Little Boxes - Malvina Roberts
Build - the Housemartins
Shangri-la - the Kinks
Semi-Detached Suburban Mr James - Manfred Mann
The Frankston Line - Youth Group
The Sandringham Line - the Lucksmiths
Sound of the Suburbs - the Members
Neighbours Theme - Barry Crocker
Suburbia - Pet Shop Boys
Suburban Homeboy - Sparks

...and here's what I didn't get to play because my 90 minutes was unexpectedly reduced to an hour...

Styloroc (Nites of Suburbia) - Pulp

That's Entertainment (Jam cover) - Morrissey

The Suburbs - Arcade Fire

Ghost Town - the Specials

Sunday Sunday - Blur

Blue Velvet - Bobby Vinton

I fully expected to find some Suede tracks on the topic but apart from references to 'pebble-dash graves' (The Power) and a 'ride in a taxi, to the edge of the city' (Asphalt World) came up with nothing. I am, as always, happy to be proven wrong.

Thanks to everyone who contributed via @MintCustard on Tw*tter - you are ace.

Come on Ova

2011-07-29T13:08:00.013+10:00

We’re no strangers to a bit of hyperbole here at Mint Custard but when we called The Lovely Eggs’ Don’t Look at Me (I Don’t Like It) – an effervescent 3 minute rush of Kenickie, Sultans of Ping, Jilted John and Half-Man Half Biscuit - as best single of 2011 back in January we might have left ourselves open to accusations of being a bit premature.

Instead, the Eggs (husband and wife Holly Ross and David Blackwell) have gone on to affirm their place in our hearts with their second album Cob Dominos. Packed with more musical left-turns than you’d think possible in 37 minutes, it’s full of homespun wisdom, heartbreaking tales of unrequited love, cider, sausage rolls, crap jobs, first class swearing and the loveliest anthem to paranoia that will ever be written. It also contains recent single, Fuck It which might be just about the best answer for anyone trying to make sense of the madness that has been 2011 so far.

Keen to find out more about the band who give us a washing line smile, we had a chat with Holly earlier this week. Here’s what she had to say…

Hi Holly - thanks for joining us for a chat. Can we get you some tea and biscuits, or pop and cake? Cheese and Strongbow. All day, every day.

Congratulations on Cob Dominos – it’s one of our favourite albums of 2011. What’s the reaction been like so far? Thanks. The record seems to have gone down quite well we think. People have swallowed it whole. We've not got many copies left so we're re-releasing it on beautiful 12” vinyl. Oh yes we are. They will be limited edition and all hand numbered. Each one will come with a special certificate of authenticness and a letter from us. It's gonna be special. They will be available from September. People can get them direct from us but we've not worked that part out yet.

Don’t Look at Me (I Don’t Like It) is a bit special. Did some of the expressions in the lyrics [sausage roll thumbs, dog dirt eyes, car boot bones] come from people you know or are they all made up? Most of them are made up. But some are real or at least an elaboration on something real that was said. We suppose it's inspired by some of the stuff you hear everyday in Lancaster. We've got some cob expressions up here you know.

There’s that word again. Round our way a cob is a bread roll. What does cob mean in Lancaster and what - if anything - are cob dominos? Cob means funny or weird. A cob domino is someone who's a bit odd you would say. My mum calls us it all the time. She says we're a couple of cob dominos which is where the name came from.

Print an Imprint and Books, Ting! remind me of those bits in The Office where they show how boring 9-5 work can be by filming the photocopier sorting paper. Have you had terrible jobs over the years? Well David was a printer before he started working at Lancaster Musicians' Co-op so that's what that's all about. I've done loads of jobs. I've worked in a newsagent, at a meat shop (grim), at a chocolate shop, I’ve worked as a care assistant in a nursing home, as a tour guide at Lancaster Castle, as a bar maid, I worked as a local journalist, a writer for a travel company in Paris, a TV researcher and then a documentary producer/director and then in a book shop. The shittest one was the meat shop. I am a vegetarian. I thought I could handle it. I couldn't.

Watermelons features a backing army of kazoos to lovely effect. Did you have a room full of people all playing at the same time? No, just me and David. I think that was done before the digital kazoo was invented. David made it up from a kazoo and a pound shop microphone. It’s patent pending. He likes to call it the electric kazoo, but I prefer to call it the digital. Electricity is more than 100 years old. Nobody is phased by electricity any more. They take it for granted. In fact I think electricity has always been there. It comes from the sky I believe.

You’re both sporting magnificent fringes on the artwork for Cob Dominos. How do you feel about fringing on other things – jackets, boots, settees etc? There's nothing wrong with a nice bit of fringing on a settee or, say, a cushion. I don't think we have anything else fringed though. No, not like that...

The incomparable John Shuttleworth is your co-star in the video for Don’t Look At Me. Was that exciting or had your paths already crossed previously? We had met before when he performed in Lancaster. We both love Mike Leigh's Play for Today Nuts in May and just hit it off. He is a very nice man who likes eating sausage rolls. Was it exciting? Yes it was.

Watching Mr Shuttleworth’s original alter-ego Jilted John the other day it struck me that - besides great fringes - there were some musical similarities between you. Who else influences you? There are lots of things that influence us, writers and poets and relations and stuff that happens to you outside yer house. I suppose what a lot of the bands we like have in common is they don't give a shit and are just doing what they want. For us it is bands like The Velvet Underground, Sonic Youth, Huggy Bear, Nirvana, Jonathan Richman and The Modern Lovers, Jad Fair, The West Coast Pop Art Experimental Band. They were all doing something different, making their own sound, which is I suppose what we are inspired by. We like to plough our own furrow. There are no rules in our band.

You released your last single on a bank holiday with the following message on Twitter: New single Fuck It comes out tomorrow. You can’t buy it cos all the shops are closed. You won’t hear it cos it can’t be played on the radio. You’re not in this for the money are you? No.

Is there any chance of seeing the Lovely Eggs in Australia at some point? We would love to. We just don't know any promoters over there yet. That would be amazing if we could pull that one off.

Do you have fans that bring you gifts or make you things? We've got some lovely fans who send us stuff. We've had two fountain pens through the post. We also had some sort of whale sponge and someone sent us a poem. We often get drawings. I always write back to everyone. I think that letters are just the best. Emails should be clunked out. If you want to write to us our address is The Lovely Eggs, c/o Lancaster Musicians' Co-op, Lancaster, Lancashire, England, UK, LA1 1XD

Mexico Can’t Make You Smile continues the Twin Peaks references from your Haunt Me Out EP. What chewing gum would you like to come back into style and did you get to Washington State (where Twin Peaks was filmed) on your American tour? Yes we did. We went to visit North Bend and visited all the locations. We had a very surreal and slightly frightening experience at the motel used in the film Fire Walk With Me. We’ll tell you about it if we ever see you. We are slightly obsessed by Twin Peaks. We better stop talking about it now. Chewing gum…? PK.

We got to go this year and did something similar. The Double R Diner is still there and they do some very lovely eggs themselves, as well as a top cherry pie. Good place to do a gig? Don't even tempt us

For more Lovely Eggs visit their MySpace page myspace.com/thelovelyeggs or follow Holly and David on Twitter via @TheLovelyEggs. That said, when was the last time you wrote someone a nice letter…?

Fright or Flight

2011-07-19T08:49:00.001+10:00

The meal was served in plastic, containers wrapped in foil
A special pack contains salt, vinegar and oil
To add to my discomfort, lightning hits the deck.
Down the aisle they venture, pouring cups of tea
To gentlemen of business and ladies of the scene
They crave for the interior as lightning strikes again...
Gruff Rhys, Skylon - Candylion (2007)

Living 10,000 miles away from where I was born, I’ve spent a few hours of my life in aeroplanes. Distracted by the thrill of foreign travel, an endless supply of Hollywood blockbusters and free gin, I had always rather enjoyed criss-crossing the planet amongst the clouds. There was a certain level of surprise then, when I discovered during a recent jaunt around the world that I’ve developed a fear of flying.

For context, I have in the past flown a small plane, been in several helicopters, done a tandem freefall parachute jump, bungeed off a bridge and jumped off a mountain attached to a crazy Frenchman and a hang glider. All of these acts were undertaken with a bit of youthful zest and healthy sense of what-the-hell. And yet, during what could reasonably be called a successful circumnavigation of the globe (I didn’t die in a horrific fireball at 30,000 feet) every safe landing started to feel like an 11^th hour reprieve from the President from some unseen firing squad.

That our journey (eight separate flights with their own individual take-offs, landings and please-pay-attention-sir safety demonstrations) was further coloured by two different volcanic ash clouds, a mid-flight tropical storm that added 8 hours to a 6 hour journey, four constant hours of North American turbulence and a drug-addled Irishman returning from Amsterdam is just extra detail. The rot had set in long before.

It’s probably no coincidence that my fear of flying has developed during a lull in overseas flights. Not having been overseas for almost four years, I had come to associate flying with Jetstar and Tiger Airways, two cheap and cheerless local carriers, the latter of which has now been grounded due to safety concerns. Their joyless no-frills approaches and up-and-down intercity flights had robbed me of any thrills that air travel might once have had. I would spend flights to Sydney mentally drafting dramatic news headlines and radio bulletins about our imminent crash and thinking about who will look after my dog.

Subsequently my levels of in-flight angst are now influenced by two important factors; the size of the plane and the staff-to-Muppet ratio.

It makes no sense that significantly increasing the size of the thing that shouldn’t be in the air in the first place somehow makes it less scary but there’s no denying the bigger the plane, the less is my terror. Take off is smoother, cabins and seats are roomier, TV screens are individualised, drinks are much freer. When planes are big I can adjust my optimism from the opening scene from the Lost pilot to ‘hey, maybe someone will hear that little whistle across the water before the sharks get me…’

As for staff, I used to think that friendly professionalism ranked highest on my list of cabin crew qualities. I now appreciate what I’m really looking for is a door bitch (male or female) who will come down like a prison warden on even the most minor acts of lawlessness. If someone is unbuckling their seatbelt when the light is on, using ‘electronic devices’ during take-off or turning on their mobile phone before we’ve reached the terminal I want them SLAPPED DOWN.

What I don’t want, Ryan Air, is a situation where a crazy walking stereotype of a mentalist is allowed to get on my plane when he has lost his boarding pass (probably used as a roach), who ignores you (the people in charge of all our safety, lest we forget) when you repeatedly tell him to turn his iPod off until YOU give up, who asks people around him “why have we just taken off and landed again?” before we have even reached the runway, and who gets up out of his seat the second the seatbelt sign goes off, leaving his shoes, bag and coat behind and is NEVER SEEN AGAIN FOR THE REST OF THE FLIGHT…

If that does happen, Ryan Air, I would like you to take control of the situation and make us all feel at ease. What I do not want you to do is try and sell me multi-packs of duty-free cigarettes and/or scratch card lottery tickets.

The other cabin crew quality that ranks above professionalism is calmness. Wings could literally be falling off, but if I can see the benign smile of a non-plussed air-steward I’ll always feel much better about the situation. I learned this when our flight from Dublin to New York was interrupted one hour from landing by news that every airport on the eastern seaboard of the US had been closed down due to violent storms.

After an hour looping around Nova Scotia we then headed north to Montreal because (and these are the reassuring words of the Captain) ‘we are running low on fuel’. Although convinced this was leading to the death that I’d been anticipating since leaving Melbourne, and slightly aggrieved that having planned our holiday for so long, we were going to die without even seeing New York, my terror was eased by watching the seemingly unconcerned Irish crew stop working, kick their shoes off and have a bitch about some of the passengers who were less gracious about our situation. I particularly enjoyed seeing one obnoxious passenger being torn a new anus by a small red head for switching on his mobile phone. You can be my wingman anytime, Maverick.

My panic may have been lessened by the crew’s apparent insouciance, but I still spent the rest of the flight wondering how a pilot planning for a 7 hour flight was able to fly a plane after 14 hours at the helm. All mitigating factors aside my presiding in-flight emotion is still uneasy panic rising to hopeless wreck. It may be safer to travel by plane than to catch a bus or whatever that statistic is, but give me the bus any day.

I’m not as bad as some. Such is my friend’s fear of aviation that she refers to planes as ‘flying coffins of death.’ She is incapable of setting foot on a plane unless she has rendered herself comatose with all manner of long lasting little white pills. Another friend has good reason to be afraid of flying after she was involved in a major incident which saw her flight plummet 20,000 feet (that’s almost four miles) for over five minutes. As a keen traveller she has had to literally force herself to get back on the horse using counselling, noise-cancelling headphones, more little white pills and whole heap of scientific and statistical reasoning to counter the fear.

Logic should suggest that if she can get back on a plane then I should stop fannying about, sit back and enjoy the drinks trolley. If only my brain was wired up that way. Instead, the fact that I know someone who has experienced exactly what I fear goes to show that it could happen anywhere, anytime.

For now I’m just grateful my secular prayers were answered. I’m home, back with my feet and all my other bits firmly on the ground and no plans to travel until my Grandma’s 80^th birthday in February next year. If I set off now, walking non-stop I should have those 10,000 miles covered just in time.

MICF - Did I Miss My Deadline?

2011-05-06T17:57:00.010+10:00

The Melbourne International Comedy Festival is, in my humble opinion, the very best thing about living in this fair city. Coming at the start of autumn it provides the perfect distraction to the fact that Victoria is about to be plunged into six months of dark and reliably bad weather. It offers opportunities for four weeks of wildly varied nights out in the company of all comedians great and small, from 20 seat cupboards to the glittering stages of some of Melbourne's most beautiful theatres.

Despite this, 2011 passed me by somewhat. Bereft of cash, busy at work and lacking real insight into who were the must-sees of a relatively superstar-free roster I only got to six shows this year, which is pitiful really. Comedians of the world, I'm sorry. I promise to do better next year. That said, the six shows I did see only reinforced how lucky we are to have MICF on our door step, starting with...

Josh Earl's Love Songs and Dedications. For a man who did his entire run at the Trades Hall in the knowledge that that his heavily pregnant wife could deliver their first child at any second, Josh Earl's seventh year at MICF was remarkably entertaining. Loosely themed around late night radio sensation the Love God's Love Song Dedications - in which slightly deranged callers try and impress/win back the loves of their lives by requesting Mariah Carey songs and Bon Jovi ballads - the source material alone was a comedy gold mine.

Thankfully there is much more to Josh Earl than easy parody and the Love God's show was just a springboard to a dissection of some of the less celebrated aspects of modern romance. If I tell you these include digital prostate stimulation or toilet tag-teaming during a bout of mutual gastro, you'll know what i mean. As he proved with last year's highly popular Josh Earl versus the Australian Women's Weekly Childrens Birthday Cake Book part of Josh's appeal is his every (indie) man personality and boy-next-door charm. Despite some scatological subject matter, songs comparing sex with baking, and admitting to your partner that the pinnacle of romance is to be merely content, everyone I went with still wanted to give him a hug at the end. For more info on Josh check out @mrjoshearl on Tw*tter or http://www.myspace.com/joshearlisalibrarian.

Sanderson Jones - Taking Liberties. After being spruiked in the street I made a solemn promise to Sanderson Jones' face last year that I would attend his show. Then I got sick and didn't go. On that basis alone I was pleased that the English comedian came back this year for another run at the Bull and Bear in Flinders Lane.

Mr Jones is known to some in the UK from a series of IKEA adverts and to others for the controversy about his 2010 Edinburgh show in which he talked about the morals of censorship using a picture of a naked 12 year old Brooke Shields. I'm not sure if we got exactly the same show here - the Shields picture played only a small part in the show - but the themes of freedom of speech were represented in ways that those present will likely never forget. Certainly my innocent eyes were opened to the horrors of the 21st century through exposure to chat roulette, a seemingly consensual peeping tom for online onanists. To reveal more would risk spoiling a shocking yet genuinely funny routine, with Sanderson gleefully egging everyone on like some deranged Gene Wilder; a modern day Willy Wanka.

Constantly juggling being edgy with not alienating the crowd is a difficult ask, and one that wasn't always successful. Still, fair play to him for not playing safe at any point - especially as this was a pay-as-you-leave show. There is intelligence and subtlety to Sanderson Jones' comedy, from the PowerPoint presentations to the small video montages, and whilst some of it was lost in the mania of presentation, there is more than enough to suggest a bright future for Mr Jones.

Lisa Fineberg - Mermaids Can't Ride Bikes. I knew nothing about Lisa Fineberg before her show started other than that she used to be a professional mermaid and that, despite being 29, she can't ride a bike. This seemed like a reasonable premise to me, so I sat in a relatively full Loop Bar back room and waited to hear the tale of her tail.

Sadly Lisa never seemed quite sure what she wanted her 45 minute show to be. It wasn't clear whether her bright and beaming toothpaste smile and giggling into space was part of a carefully constructed ditzy mermaid routine or (as suggested by a PowerPoint presentation of Lisa and family playing dress ups over the years and a proudly displayed collection of turquoise clothes, bedroom, toys, and a rather-too-swish car) if her message was simply 'I'm a bit kooky aren't I?'

Whatever the truth it was hard to get an angle on what was real and what was being played for laughs. There was some genuine laughs when the starstruck Ariel act was dropped to talk about working as a supply teacher, but they were quickly forgotten. It didn't help Lisa's cause that the biggest laughs came from people helping her with her show - including celebrity friend John Safran who was present both in a pre-recorded video and in the audience.

I've since learned that this was Lisa's first MICF show, so due credit for giving something a go. Hopefully there will be a little more of the real Lisa next time around.

Michael Williams - Our Princess is in Another Castle As another relative comedy newcomer, Warrnambool's Michael Williams has no such identity problems. Michael is, unapologetically, a pizza munching, chip crunching couch-dwelling gamer. Not that there's anything wrong with that because his 20 years of console addiction has led to this Pac-Man power-pellet of a show.

Williams' mission for the evening is to show us that if you scratch the surface of life, everything's a game really. He illustrates his point by walking us through his own arcade version of the Life of Michael, detailing his attempts to get a job, score a girlfriend and leave Warrnambool to become a successful comedian. This is all done by - you guessed it - a PowerPoint presentation. Fortunately a combination of personalised Atari and Nintendo-style graphics presented on a huge old television and some dry self-depreciation mean the story is delivered with some genuine down-to-earth charm. It's likely that some more energy in the delivery might have been required without the television to rely on, but for the purposes of tonight's show it's mostly spot on.

I read a criticism online that Our Princess is in Another Castle (a reference to early video game quests to rescus damsels in distress) show wasn't nerdy enough, with too many references to games that are broadly known by the general public. That misses the point somewhat as I suspect a show directed squarely at gamers would have had an audience of three. Williams gift, despite a youth spent behind closed curtains with only a glowing cathode ray and a game controller for company, was to engage gamers and non-gamers alike in a story that everyone could relate to. For that alone he deserves a power-up and an eccy man.

Daniel Kitson - The Interminable Suicide of Gregory Church As subjective as comedy is, there are still some facts out there. Farts are always funny; being unnecessarily mean to people is not; gender does not affect how funny people are; comedians who do it for fame and money should give up now. This last point brings me to my own personal number one comedy fact: no one is better at standing on a stage and making people laugh than Daniel Kitson.

As a man who avoids appearing on television, turns down the majority of interviews and mostly advertises his shows through a mailing list and word of mouth it would be hard to accuse Kitson of being in the comedy game for anything other than love of what he does. He has genuine pride in and affection for each show he does, as displayed by his methodological approach to bringing each new creation around the world for people to see. It may take time (Gregory Church was first aired at Edinburgh in 2009) but better to wait til the show can be performed to its very best than agreeing to a promoter-driven soul-sapping endless run.

It should come as no surprise that the Interminable Suicide of Gregory Church is superb. Although firmly promoted as another of Kitson's one-man-show theatre pieces rather than stand-up, Kitson is now so adept at his craft that the lines are being erased. A five-minute rambling intro piece about the show segues so seamlessly into the show itself that it's hard to remember where fact and fiction became separated.

The story itself revolves around Kitson's (alledged) discovery of several boxes of letters in a loft, all written by the eponymous hero over many years, including a series of suicide notes addressed to various acquaintances. Through these letters and the ones that follow, Kitson takes us on a Time Team-like journey of discovery - digging deeper into Gregory's life. Kitson uses his own absorbtion with the unfolding story that he read to tell the tale in flashbacks, effortlessly weaving real facts, invented facts and Gregory's facts into a perfect picture. It's even more impressive that after performing countless runs of the show he still seems excited when we collectively reach the Poirot-moment of dedection and realisation about the true nature of Gregory Church's fate.

According to a 2009 interview with the ABC's Jon Faine, Daniel has a collection of recorded material from all his shows, including this one. The problem is he can't be arsed sorting through them all to do anything with them, preferring to concentrate his efforts on the here and now. For those who missed this latest masterpiece, start hoping he decides to take some time off to do some editing. And don't let anyone spoil it for you; it's more than worth the wait.

Get On With It...

2011-05-06T12:05:00.005+10:00

This is the last song I will ever sing...

No I've changed my mind again. Goodnight and thank you.

Morrissey, Disappointed - Bona Drag, 1990

Goodness me, has it really been a month? I have been neglectful. A whole month. It's almost enough for me to trot out the Blogger's Apology. You know the one... where Tumblrs and Wordpressers and Bloggerers start their latest offerings with a profound and painfully sincere mea culpa to their apparently distraught readers about why they have had to fend for themselves in the world for the past day/week/month/year(s) without any insight or learned counsel from the oracle that is they. There will then follow a lengthy attempt to justify being MIA, most of which can be summed up by the word 'life.'

I was going to have a look for some choice examples from the internet for you, but I was worried it might seem mean. Fortunately someone with far less scruples has saved me the job, having created the excellent blog 'Sorry I Haven't Posted - Inspiring Apologies from Today's World Wide Web.' Have a look, it's very funny.

That said, being absent for a while has made me think maybe its time to wrap it all up on here. There are no financial rewards, nor are there people queuing up to offer writing jobs in the media (I believe there are things called journalists who do years of training to do that kind of thing, and failing that, celebrities). More dispiritingly, the most popular post on Mint Custard remains what I thought was a cute story about why bears don't wear underpants. I would be happy if this was due to an appreciation of creative writing or a love of bears or somesuch but according to Statcounter the main reason people visit that page is because they have typed 'gay bears' or 'Bear Grylls nude' into Google.

Fortunately I know that my reasons for writing are mostly selfish. Parents and people in the military will be familiar with the concept of sharing information on a 'need to know' basis. I have long suspected that Mint Custard and countless other blogs operate from the opposite, a 'need to tell' basis. Whether people want to know or not, we are not capable of keeping our opinions to ourselves. It churns inside of us and we cannot keep our traps shut. You may cover our typing fingers with over-sized children's mittens, but we will find a way to proffer our tuppenceworths on the interwebs. We must, because that is who we are.

What makes each individual blogger like this will be unique to them. Perhaps they are those loud, opinionated people in the real world; brash, confident, convinced of their innate rightness on any topic before them. Maybe they are the complete opposite; tiny mice whose blogs give them the courage and a voice to talk about things that matter to them, and where someone, anyone, might listen for the first time in their quiet lives.

Whilst I am under no illusions that I am a 'need to share' person, I know I also write because it makes me happy. I'm no great wordsmith - in fact, and though its a painful truth, its still true, I'm not even Miranda Devine - but it still makes me happy to try (try to write, not to be Miranda Devine, though I bet I look better than she does in a skirt suit).

I've spent the past month continuing my Tw*tter experiment (@mintcustard for those who wish to know), connecting with people in different ways, and finding new ways to make pithy remarks in 140 characters. The problem is whilst I quite like using Tw*tter, it does make me feel like a crazy old man shouting through the cracks in the window of an abandoned house at passers-by. Yes I'm still sharing, and the internet still does the same collective shrug it gives blog posts, it's less rewarding because the process of writing is removed.

Clearly those 140 characters are enough for many people, but I've come to realise - or perhaps to affirm - that it's not quite enough for me. I have missed being here, bashing away at the keyboard trying to string sentences together about stuff that excites me and things that I want to talk about. Look over to the right in the subject cloud. There's a lot of them.

To the collective shrug, keep on shrugging. But to those that do listen and respond and comment and contact, thank you - you bring me great happiness. And to those that did notice I was gone so long, a quiet but sincere 'sorry.' Please know that I'm listening when you mutter under your collective breaths, 'get on with it...'

The Bedroom Philosopher: Wit-Bix

2011-04-11T08:17:00.004+10:00

Some 10 days after it started, I finally got to see a Melbourne International Comedy Festival show at the weekend. My plans for another month of dawn to dusk comedy coverage were scuppered by the unexpected and distinctly unpleasant arrival of a $2000 bill from the Australian Taxation Office. Apologies to impoverished comedians and under-attended shows everywhere; blame ‘The Man’.

Fittingly my first 2011 show was Wit-Bix by the Bedroom Philosopher, the person responsible for my favourite MICF moment last year: Songs from the 86 Tram. Whilst that was a poignant snapshot of Melbourne society, brought to life through clever songs and artfully observed characters, Wit-Bix is akin to watching the accompanying bloopers on DVD. If 86 Tram was Smoke, here is its Blue in The Face.

Loose and shambolic where 86 Tram was carefully structured and multi-layered; Wit-Bix has no narrative, no over-riding theme, and regularly makes no sense at all. There are still funny and lovely little songs – including a couple of numbers ably backed by his Awkwardstra – but they have little in common beyond displaying the Philosopher’s knack for musical diversity. If any of this sounds like a bad thing, please be assured that it is not. The change of pace and format reveals a whole lot more about Justin Heazlewood (the man behind the specs) than Songs from the 86 Tram allowed for. Some is a little predictable – mini-rants about bogans and jokes-by-numbers comedians offer nothing new – but the rest is a series of left and right turns, each highlighting a different angle of the Philosopher’s comedy philosophy.

Long term fans of Lime Champions might have expected the cute, semi-tragic interplay between two laptops with male and female Stephen Hawking voices or the big band-esque number about getting a new hairdresser. I suspect they might not have anticipated the creative use of Chris Isaak’s Wicked Game and a tray of kitty litter that is worth the entrance fee alone.

It’s fair to say that a few in the audience found the diversity a bit much. A painfully honest stab at addressing guilty feelings about indigenous Australians was clearly a bit serious for some of the Saturday night crowd who seemed curiously more at ease watching their host almost impale himself on a snare drum when some showing off seemed to go horribly wrong. It’s a sign of the random nature of the night when it’s unclear whether that was some Jackass / Jacques Tati slapstick or just our host being a bit enthusiastic and un-co.

There’s no doubt that ‘Beddy Phil’ (his new P-Diddy-esque street moniker) trades on being an awkward margin-dweller and Wit-Bix certainly highlights the pros and cons of that approach. He may never get to write 'as seen on Good News Week and Spicks n Specks' on his posters, but for those of who see that as a good thing he will always be compulsive viewing.

The Bedroom Philosopher’s Wit-Bix is on at the Melbourne Trades Hall, Corner of Lygon and Victoria Sreets, Carlton until 24 April 2011. Times Tues-Sat 9.30pm, Sun 8.30pm.

Village of the Damned

2011-03-25T08:19:00.001+11:00

It’s 6.30am and the alarm is doing its usual morning beep. A groggy arm swings to turn it off, but instead of tapping snooze and retreating back under the duvet, it keeps going and reaches for an i-Phone. There are some tiny muffled taps on a glass screen then suddenly the sound of chirrups and birdsong can be heard. Moments later the room is alive with the noise of activity; saws sawing, spades digging, workers whistling, giggling and grumbling. It can mean only one thing: the Smurfs are awake.

If three is a crowd, our little house has been like Wembley Stadium of late. Courtesy of Smurfs Village, another pointless but addictive i-Phone time-waster, we are now sharing every waking moment with 40 (and counting) cheeky tiny blue people with a very strong work ethic and no interest in shirts.

For those familiar with the concept, Smurfs Village is like Farmville but with more blue. Players are provided with a large clearing in a forest and requested to create new homestead where itinerant Smurfs can live. By planting and successfully growing crops, players earn cash and power-ups to buy things to make the village more homely – houses that look like mushrooms, flower beds, park benches, lampposts, giant friendly caterpillars and the like.

In theory we are omnipotent super beings helping them rebuild their village somewhere safe from the villainous Gargamel. In practice we are their slaves, responding to the daily chores set out by the bearded Papa Smurf. These range from the reasonable (‘Plant four crops of blackcurrants so we can make some juice for thirsty Smurfs’) to the vaguely surreal (‘Send 5 Smurfs into the woods to placate some angry chipmunks). Such tasks are undertaken in real time, which has led to examples of me receiving texts during work meetings advising that my carrots are ready to harvest and should be collected before they wither.

Smurfs Village isn’t a new concept, combining elements of the SIMS series, Tamagotchi robot pets and several other Farmville derivatives. However one interesting addition is the capacity to spend actual money on improving your village. This allows you to fast track the rebuilding process, giving you access to games, utilities and special characters like Smurfette.

I only know one person who has gone down this route and the result was terrifying. Given free reign over her Smurfdom, she created a nightmarish futuristic high rise agrarian nightmare. Row upon row of Smurf houses sit on top of each other like a mushroom Manhattan whilst almost 100 Smurfs work the soil relentlessly, growing only the highest value crops with no break in sight. Meanwhile, Smurfette’s house sits isolated across a river, ‘for her own good.’

Without this purchase power, my own village has evolved slowly and is (I believe) a much nicer place for it. Stone walls line the paths, all homes have gardens with benches and picnic tables and crop rotation keeps the Smurfs and soil happy. Meanwhile my actual garden has gone to pot. Weeds have taken over, all my herbs have gone to seed and the grass was recently up to my knees, but that’s OK because Papa Smurf doesn’t tell me off about that.

Of course with great power comes responsibility, a burden some people take more seriously than others. Another friend was greatly distressed when the village she and her daughter had lovingly created suddenly vanished into the ether after her phone crashed. Still mourning for her little friends, she diligently restarted, only to see that village disappear and be replaced by her original creation. She now accepts that it is her destiny to tend and nurture whichever village is in front of her and has vowed not to shirk her responsibilities.

As for me, well, I’m ashamed to report that my interest in the Smurfs is already on the wane. I’m sick of being a slave to my crops and I’m bored of waiting 42 hours for Smurfs to come back from the forest after tending to a sick squirrel (unless the glitch in the programming which randomly speeds up Smurf time happens to occur). I’m over Handy Smurf’s dull hammering game and generally fed up of tarting up a village that I was quite happy with several levels ago.

In considering whether to ditch the village I was reminded of the most recent series of Mad Men, in which a spurned lover tells a newly engaged Don Draper ‘I hope she knows you only like the beginning of things.’ I wondered if this might also be true for me and the Smurfs? Could it be that with the novelty over and the interesting work done, simply maintaining my creation and generally making sure that everyone is alright is something that just isn’t in my nature? It’s almost reason to stop someone from having children.

If so, it’s the best argument I’ve heard to date that there is a God, somewhere out there. It’s just that having nicely set everything up here on Earth, leaving a few aardvarks and venus fly traps and manatees and dinosaurs and people about the place, he or she got a bit bored, downloaded a new game called Earth 2.0 and just left us all to look after ourselves.

For now my Smurfs can rest easy and I will continue to tend to their needs. Besides, I only need a few more smurfberries to buy Smurfette’s house - I’ve come too close to give up now. After that though, all bets are off. My little blue friends had better up their game in the entertainment stakes or else, in the words of their bearded leader, their smurf could be smurfed.

Just Another Twit

2011-03-19T18:34:00.004+11:00

Friends, I have a confession to make. I never thought I would say this, and I feel a bit dirty as I do, but I have been dabbling in Tw*tter. I haven't been doing it much. I mean, I don't have a problem or anything. It's under control. I know my limits. I'm not an addict. It's just a friend said 'Go on, have a try. It's fun. Just a little tweet. It won't hurt you. You know you want to. And then another friend said 'I do it and I'm fine, right? I'm not like those people either. Just one tweet. C'mon. Join us.'

So I did. I was on a very long bus journey with no book and the words of my persuavive pals in my head. So I had a peek. And a play. And a poke. And then I typed @mintcustard into the box and it was still available. And I was pleased. So I told people. On Twitter. And people wrote back. Straight away. And it was nice. So I did it again. And they wrote back again. So I did it again. And again. And again. And now I can't write. Sentences. Anymore.

OK, I can, but I must admit that my previous view of Tw*tter as being a waste of breath, time and internet have been challenged of late. That said, my dabblings to date have taught me three semi-interesting facts, which like all unfettered twits I just can't wait to share:

I was right. There are unquestionably people using Tw*tter who should not be allowed to go within 100 metres of a keyboard or mobile phone. People who use Tw*tter a bit like loud mad people use quiet trains. People who don't wait to be asked to tell you how they are feeling, which they report via a series of parentheses, colons, semi colons and acronymns. Some of these people are my friends. They take pictures of every meal, accompanied by the word Yum. Such people, whilst friends, have been 'unfollowed' as quickly as they were 'followed'.
Tw*tter is the new comedy. In my review last year of the Bedroom Philosopher's superlative show Songs from the 86 Tram I carried on a bit about how difficult it must be to make it as a comedian in this world. Television opportunities are rare and mostly require people to change their acts to fit into whatever the show is doing. It's been a bit of a revelation to be able to follow comedians I love and some I've never heard of and see just how genuinely creative and funny people can be. @isysuttie, @serafinowicz, @sarahksilverman and @ivanbrackenbury I already had expectations for but the best find so far has been @meganamram, a Los Angeles based funny lady whose Tweets (and blog) regularly brighten my day. Take a minute to let her do the same to you.
It works. I'll admit that the main reason for my succumbing to Tw*tter was to try and get more people to read Mint Custard. Plain. Simple. Shameless. Like all of us online narcissists I've seen how many people read these words and it's not very many really. Most of the time that's fine, but sometimes you write something you like and you're proud of and you think wouldn't it be nice if someone actually read this. Having seen the number of people who visit Mint Custard increase 1000% after friends with F*cebook and Tw*tter have posted a link, I was forced to question my very 20th century approach to information sharing. The result? Well, it works. People have been here and even better, it's led me to them and their blogs and thoughts and ideas and creativity, which surely is the point.

Of course the challenge now is to write things that merit a visit. It would be sad to be like many of the tw*ts out there who think that the 140 characters they fart into the internets is all that is required.

Anyway, to any new casual visitors, thanks for dropping by. Please stay a while and have a look around. It's not all rubbish. And to all those people who have been here for the past 3 years, you know I still love you the most, right?

Where the Force is Still Strong

2011-03-13T19:20:00.006+11:00

For many years I have had a recurring dream. Locations and players change each time, but the end result is always the same: I gleefully discover and get to keep some rare, old Star Wars toys. Lucasfilm wasn’t up and running when Freud was at his peak, but I suspect even the most casual of cod-psychology would reveal that this goes back to my childhood and a period from 1979 to 1985 when I lived, walked and breathed all things Star Wars. Buying Christmas and birthday presents for young Master Custard was a doddle. As long as there was a Kenner label on it, you were safe. Now it seems those toys, still safely stowed in my parents’ loft, have morphed into some kind of embodiment of youthful happiness.

With this in mind, you can perhaps imagine the hyperventilating that took place when I stumbled upon Lobos Collectables. Packed to the rafters with almost everything that ever tumbled out of Lucas’ mind, and a whole lot more besides, this small corner of Northcote is a shrine to science fiction, fantasy and overactive imaginations. It resembles what you’d imagine the inside of Kevin Smith’s head looks like. Walls and walls of figurines, statues, aliens, robots, superheroes and super villains provide a backdrop to lovingly recreated dioramas, play sets and display cabinets. Spaceships hang suspended from the ceiling, a Star Wars trilogy pinball table pings in the corner whilst a life size Simpsons family watch old sci-fi movies from their sofa. This is no ordinary shop.

At the centre of the Lobos universe is Dennis Kafkis, a thirty something Melbournian who has managed to turn his own childhood escapism into a place where anyone can seek sanctuary from the rigours of what some like to call the real world. I asked Dennis how Lobos came into being and fittingly his story is full of adventure, romance, honour, tragedy, determination and a little bit of magic…

How did you get started in the world of science fiction? You always start with one item. In my case it was a bucket of green army men. I spent many hours in the back yard planning missions. My parents divorced when I was 8 or 9 and I was an only child. I went into a fantasy world of characters from sci-fi films. I could do it well because my parents spoiled me with toys and comic books - most likely their guilt about dissolving their marriage! So toys came into my life at a very important juncture for me.

What was it about Star Wars in particular that appealed to you? I don’t remember much of my childhood but I remember asking my mother for the same outfits Luke and Han wore at the end of Star Wars when they received their medals. She said no and thought I was crazy to want knee high boots and all the gear! I’m sure I had a big cry about it... I remember wondering why Chewie never got a medal as well. He risked his furry ass too! If you ask me he got ripped off.

I found my first Star Wars figure in the street in 1979 – the original Han Solo. Do you remember yours? My first was Luke from Return of the Jedi in his black suit. I still have it. I remember being in grade 2 and was playing with it outside during the lunch break. When we went inside I realized I’d lost his green light sabre. I was distraught and asked the teacher to let me go and look for it during class time. I took a friend with me and we looked for what seemed to be an eternity but with no luck. That sabre is out there somewhere!

When did the toys become a hobby? Well there was myself, Peter Mackay and our close friend Peter ‘Lobos’ Mastroanis. All of us came from the same high school and we kept up our interest in pop culture and sci-fi as we grew up. We loved movies, comics and toys including many things that are now collectable. We got into McFarlane figures, NECA , Bowen statues, Sideshow collectables. We got some of the holy grails that never got released in Australia - limited edition SDCC [San Diego Comic Convention] items. You name it, we bought it. I love the craftsmanship and the technology in making a fantastic looking figure or toy collectable… the imagination of different looks of aliens and the like. It can transport people’s imagination to another place.

How did you go from collector to owning your own store? Lobos and I were always going to open a comic store together. It was our dream so we thought ‘why not try to do it...?’ Then tragically he passed away. He was 31. He had a genetic malfunction in his heart and suffered a sudden heart attack. You hear stories where someone is fine one minute and not with us the next; this is one of them. I talked to him just a few hours earlier and everything was fine. It still haunts me to this day. When his younger brother Luis called me to tell me the news I was trembling like I was holding a jack hammer. Tragic night.

What did Peter mean to you? We were best friends from the age of 12. He was one of the best and kindest of people. He was very creative and taught me more than I ever taught him, that's for sure. We were going to open the shop five years ago, so it’s taken me a few years to get over his death. But I put my mind to it and opened the store and named it after him. Peter loved dogs – that’s how he got the nickname Lobos. It means ‘the Wolf’ in Spanish. His illustrated design is on our business cards – a picture of a wolf. There is a framed photo of myself and Peter in the store with Wolverine in the middle. It’s a great photo, you must see it.

What kind of reactions do you hear from people when they first come in the shop? ‘Oh my God ... I want to live here ... I will save all my dole money and spend it here every fortnight ... Can I work here please...? ... Where do you guys get all this stuff? ... Oh My God’ again... There’s a lot of drooling but mostly it is ‘cool shop, love the shop’ etc

Do you see Lobos as a shop or a museum? I understand what you mean with all the glass cabinets but no, not really a museum. They always have a ring of unapproachable about them and our store is not like that. Lobos is a place for escapism. You can touch, feel, talk to staff, even watch a movie on the TV. We do dioramas and displays of movie scenes. We open most items and take them out of their packaging. If you have time come spend an hour in the store and have a good look at everything. If you’re having a bad day or week you will soon forget about it!

I once found some Star Wars wallpaper for 50 cents at a church fete. What is the luckiest find you've ever made for merchandise? It’s my mother that finds the best stuff – I’ve trained her up! She’s like one of those St Bernard snow dogs. She found some 30” Batman and Superman figures which sell for $100 each. She also found a Star Wars Lego Imperial Shuttle in its box, 100% complete, just on the street. Don’t ask how! The guys in the shop always laugh about her.

My best find was at a garage sale 5 years ago. There was a box full of 1980s toys – Transformers, Star Wars, He Man and others, all in really good condition with all the weapons. The son had left home and his parents were selling all his left overs at a fraction of what they were worth. I gave them what they wanted for it and didn’t haggle!

Back in the 1990s a friend bought me an R5-D4 he found in an op shop because he knew it was the only original figure I didn’t have. Now you can find hundreds of them online and on e-Bay. Does the internet spoil the magic of shops like Lobos? This is my favourite question! Yes the internet mostly destroys the magic. It’s so easy to find things [online] these days, you’re 100% correct. Finding a special gem in a market or op shop has almost become a thing of the past.

We don’t have an internet site and we do not sell on e-Bay. We know you can sell all your really good items quickly and actually get a better price for them than our ticket price because you’re selling to the world and a larger market. But if we did that then the friends of Lobos would never see all the good items we have or have the chance to buy them!

One thing I like to do is place rare figures worth over $20- $30 each on our bargain wall from time to time so that someone finds it for a third of the price and can say they have found their own gems. I do this on purpose. I can sell it for more but let’s have a bit of magic... I had one guy saying ‘you know this figure is worth over $50 dollars but you have it in the $12.95 section?’ I said ‘well, we can’t change the price can we? It’s yours.’ He comes in all the time…

Is it fair to say Lobos is a labour of love? I work full time in a totally unrelated business that allows me to fund Lobos until it can stand on its own two feet (or in the world of Lobos, 12 feet and a tentacle. It is a sci-fi store!) For me this is a hobby and a passion. I do most of the work for Lobos at night. I stay up late and sneak in an hour or two here and there every day.

Most places like ours have closed down or are on the decline. It’s not easy - most weeks we don't even cover the costs of running the store but the feedback we get from our friends of the store is amazing so hopefully it will pick up in time and we can grow and become friends to many more people.

Dennis Kafkis and a few friends

Going back to your first love, what's your favourite Star Wars movie moment? Empire Strikes Back is my favourite movie. I love the Battle of Hoth. Snow and sci-fi: a perfect mix. The Cantina scenes [from Star Wars] with all the aliens are great too. I get the freeze frame out and do the slow mo action on them all. I also enjoy the Bespin City scenes as well. Anytime the heroes get screwed it’s interesting viewing…

Despite what adults think, kids love The Phantom Menace don't they? Yes they do. Trust me we sell lots of Jar Jar Binks figures and dolls. Give the alien a break, he’s okay!

What do you think Lobos would think of the store you made in his name? I am sure he would love it. We were very much about honour and this is a good start. It’s against my will but as time goes by your memories become blurred and not as sharp as they once were. I want to hold all the memories I have of Peter very close to me I hope the store remains open for 50 years so his memory is always there.

Lobos Collectables is at 503 High Street, Northcote. It's open 11-6 on Wednesdays and Fridays, 10-6 on weekends. I recommend you go in.

www.facebook.com/people/Lobos-Collectables/

(with thanks to TK 421 for the photography)

Radio Killed the Video Star

2011-03-12T19:00:00.003+11:00

As Taffy once said, I love my radio. From Viking FM and Radio Humberside’s Top Town Quiz during Sunday dinner at my Grandma's to Simon Mayo’s Breakfast Show and Sunday nights taping the weekly Top 40; through Mark and Lard’s graveyard and Mary Anne Hobbs’ Breezeblock to my own late night ineptitude on Sydney community radio and finally to The Ghost and the Lime Champions on 3RRR I’ve always preferred pottering around with the radio in the background than sticking the telly on.

The history of the radio’s development is long and complicated, with no end of players, patents and claims about who invented what and who nicked which bit from whom. Whether you’re a Marconi man or a Fessenden kinda girl (I’m probably in the latter camp, given he undertook the first music-and-talking type radio broadcast) the truth is there has been a dial-full of folks responsible for spreading the joys of the wireless around the world. Although they are unlikely to be added to this illustrious list by anyone else, I’d like to offer a tip of the hat to the people behind TuneIn Radio for playing their part in revolutionising radio for me all over again.

For anyone with an i-Phone (seemingly every single person on my morning train) or i-Pad (my friend Mark plus one man with a beard on my train) TuneIn Radio is one of many available apps that lets you listen to radio on your Steve-Jobs-endorsed portable device. The others might be good too but to be honest, I don’t care as TuneIn already offers more than I thought possible with its basic premise – the ability to listen to any radio station with a digital stream, in the world, live.

Combine this with an i-Pod dock and you have crystal clear as-if-you-are-there live radio from every continent, country, county, state, borough and city in the world there in your kitchen, toilet or train. And, yes, the world. There’s even a station in Antarctica. You can see it with the handy menu that lets you zoom in and out like Google Maps, showing all the radio stations you might know and plenty you don’t.

I suspect there’s an element of homesick relief about TuneIn that magnifies its importance in my life. I’ve often said that if I could get a decent newspaper, a pint of bitter and access to BBC Radio 6 my expat experience would be a lot easier. TuneIn delivers one third of that and much more besides for the foreigner abroad.

As I sat feeling sorry for myself with my broken arm last Christmas I was surprisingly cheered by the sound of Chris Evans on BBC Radio 2 interviewing the larger than life Archbishop of York. I never listened to Evans when he was on in the mid-nineties every day, but the sound of him making gravy over breakfast whilst I ate my tea brought me a whole lot closer to my folks back home and more Christmassy than I'd felt in years. Even better, when I texted my mum to tell her, she was listening to it too.

In between mainlining 6 Music (Shaun, Jo, Tom, Lauren, Jarvis, Huey, Marc, thank you...) I’ve already revisited all the stations from my youth, as well as some from my travels, both dodgy (ah FUN Radio, still terrible...) and higher quality (no more Pet Sounds but it’s still nice to hear Tom Dunne’s voice on Newstalk). When you have instant access to the voices of people you’ve grown up with, or even just people who have clearly grown up a similar way to you (I’m looking at you Shaun Keaveny) the power of radio to make the world smaller really does hit home.

I hope you’ll forgive me for carrying on like some hanky-on-head wearing ex-pat. In some ways it was inevitable that given this kind of opportunity I would head home in the first instance. If it helps we’ve also been taking random shots at stations the world over, losing hours in incomprehensible languages and music we don’t know. The curious thing is how much radio from Japan to Germany, Morocco to Mexico sounds the same. And how popular the Black Eyed Peas are...

Anyway, thank you TuneIn Radio folks. We may never meet, but you’ve already done me a service that Marconi et al would be proud of. And in the interests of redressing my UK imbalances, I’d encourage anyone outside of Australia to spend some time with 3RRR here in Melbourne. Even with access to every digital dial in the world, some things are worth staying home for.

How the Housemartins Gave Me Back My Mojo

2011-02-27T21:51:00.007+11:00

Back in 2009 I got all excited on these very pages at the news that the original members of the Housemartins (my favourite band, lest we forget) had reunited for the first time in 22 years to do an interview for the UK music magazine, Mojo.

I clearly wasn't alone, as the posts that I wrote on the subject (yes, there was more than one...) remain some of the most well read in Mint Custard's brief and inauspicious history. Many hundreds of people (I know, unlikely but true) have googled the Housemartins mini-reunion and arrived here hoping for either a concert announcement (I've long given up hope) or the chance to read the article online.

Sadly it isn't available anywhere, a fact that made me get off my bony bottom and write to the people at Mojo asking them to post it online or at least give permission for me to reprint it here. Frustratingly, they just ignored my email. I received an automated 'please don't bother us' and nothing more. Then I tried to find the author, David Hutcheon. I Googled and Googled but (apart from finding out he writes lots of articles about world music for The Times which I can't access because they have a paywall) again, nothing.

So now, given that the interview is almost two years old, and given that no one is going to make or lose money from it and also because I would like to improve the lives of the hopeful souls who just want to read an interview with the 4th best band from Hull, I'm going to do what most people on the internet would have done in the first place and just post it anyway.

If you are David Hutcheon or indeed anyone from Mojo and you'd like to send me an angry letter packed with threats then you know where I am. For everyone else (and with apologies for the limitations of my scanner) please enjoy the final reunion of Hugh, Paul, Stan and Norman; the mighty Housemartins.

Radio Days

2011-02-23T20:39:00.003+11:00

O’Brien, Selway, Yorke, Greenwood (yes, both of you), a word in my office if I may. Chop chop. Come in, come in. Sit down all of you. Shut the door will you Yorke. Now… this King of Limbs business. I have to say, I’m a little disappointed in you… all of you….

Now now, don’t start with your ‘it’s too early for reviews, it’s a grower, you need to give it a few listens’ rubbish. I’m not interested. Well actually that’s not fair. I am interested. I’m a fan as you know. I’ve had many a wobbly lipped moment standing on windswept winter beaches with my walkman on listening to you chaps and I still spend quiet moments wondering what the Just video is about. No, I haven’t dragged you in here to tell you that King of Limbs isn’t enough like the Bends or that I’d rather it was a bit more Kid A than Amnesiac. If I’m honest, I haven’t even given it a listen yet. I will, of course, but – and this is why I’m mad at you, I’m a bit busy listening to everything else that got released this week.

Oh yes Mr Greenwood, yes there were other things released this week. Many things. Many good things. Things like the Lovely Eggs' splendid new album Cob Dominos. And the rather marvellous Let England Shake by PJ Harvey in which she imagines herself as a song correspondent from World War One and unexpectedly samples Winston ‘Niney’ Holness’ Blood & Fire amongst other party tricks. And then there’s Hotel Shampoo, Gruff Rhys’ long-awaited follow-up to Candylion. Let us not forget that Mr Rhys been quietly going about his business collecting miniature shampoo bottles from hotels for over 15 years in preparation for the launch of his long player. No spur of the moment look-at-me from him. It’s been planned for months. See it’s there, in my calendar. 14 February. Gruff. Next to “Eggs (Lovely)” and “Peej.” I’ve been waiting, you see.

The thing is gentlemen, you are Radiohead. That’s Ra-di-o-head. Yes that one. You are a band who could record the sound of yourselves farting into a bell jar and send the ‘alternative’ press and the blogosphere – whatever the hell that is – into a tizzy with the promise that you’ll stick it on your website for sort-of-free. Look at the knicker-wetting you caused at the Guardian. They ran a live blog about how excited they were about King of Limbs arriving in their inboxes that got more hits than their live coverage of the uprisings in Libya and Bahrain. Pillocks.

You don’t have a record label. You don’t have companies whose financial future depends on your every utterance. You are critically acclaimed and commercially successful millionaires. You can do what you like, when you like. You could release new music on the day World War 3 is announced and people would still be saying ‘have you heard track three? It’s better than Hail to the Thief but not a patch on In Rainbows. Oh-my-god-we’re-all-going-to-die.’

Anyway, my point is, look around you chaps. Spare a thought for others. Don’t you think maybe it would have been nice to see PJ at number one? Or to have radio stations saying that Hotel Shampoo was their album of the week? Or just to have people talking about how ace the Lovely Eggs are and playing their songs on the telly and the wireless? Couldn’t you have released it on Kate ‘n Wills’ wedding day or how about Good Friday? Nothing nice ever happens on Good Friday…

But no, instead you just couldn’t wait could you? Oh civilisation as we know it would have crumbled if you hadn’t gotten your new mini-album – now, now Greenwood, be honest – 8 tracks is not a full album - out into the world. Anyway, the damage is done now and there’s nothing to be done. Just bear it in mind for next time eh? Sorry Yorke, what? There won’t be any more Radiohead albums? Pull the other one mate. Now, get out of my office, you scallywags.’

Beat the Retreat

2011-02-22T21:22:00.004+11:00

Those with long memories might remember my interview last year with the lovely Rani Cameron. She's an Australian comedy writer and performer now living in Somerset in the UK who spends much of her spare time writing, directing, producing, filming, editing and performing in her own sitcom.

It's called Retreat and if you haven't heard of it until now that's probably due to it's self-proclaimed status as a zero budget sitcom. Funded completely out of her pocket and the goodwill of the people around her Retreat has been a labour of love for Rani. Fortunately it's also rather funny as you can see from the first episode which has been on You Tube since last August.

Filming finishes on another low-stress episode of Retreat

The good news is that she wasn't deterred by the strain of putting together that first episode and a freshly completed 16 minute second episode is now available online. If you'd like to check it out go to vimeo.com and search for 'Retreat Episode 2' or just do the clicky thing with your mouse here. I laughed after 4 seconds so Rani and her crew must still be doing something right... Congrats to the team, and here's to Part 3 sometime soon.

Dan or be Danned

2011-02-20T20:56:00.002+11:00

There was a time, not so long ago, when just about every post on Mint Custard was announcing some Daniel Kitson show or other. In a way it’s been nice not to have to try and keep up, but then again it has now been a whole year since my dark corner of the world was brightened by Kitson’s little miner’s hat lamp of comedy.

Anyway, the good news is that Daniel’s long promised Edinburgh 2009 show The Interminable Suicide of Gregory Church is finally here. In the vein of his C-90 and 66a Church Road, this is a theatre piece rather than stand up. This isn’t to say it won’t be funny but judging by the blurb there will also likely be dollops of poignant, pithy and portentousness:

Gregory had fifty seven letters to write. He’d never written that many letters, not in one go. In fact, he’d never written a single letter and it was taking significantly longer than he’d anticipated. He’d started, full of optimism, curiously enough, at 9 am and now here he was 8 hours later half way through letter twenty four. He glanced at his watch and then at the noose hanging over his head.

Gregory sighed. Had he known how long suicide letters take, he thought, he wouldn’t have cancelled the milk for the morning.

The story of a death postponed by life.

Having already played in New York and certain corners of the UK, The Interminable Suicide of Gregory Church is in Australia and New Zealand from now until April 2011 and will be followed by another jaunt around the UK in May. Dates, details and web-links for tickets are below, assuming I haven’t cocked them up. Which is possible.

AUSTRALIA/NZ

24-25 Feb Darwin, Browns Mart Theatre

28 Feb–2 Mar Brisbane, Powerhouse

4-6 Mar Adelaide, Town Hall

8–12 Mar Auckland, Herald Theatre

15–26 Mar Sydney, Seymour Centre

12-24 April Melbourne, Fairfax Studio, Arts Centre

26-27 April Perth, Octagon Theatre

3–4 May Brighton, Pavillion Theatre

6May Durham, Gala Theatre

7 May Sheffield, Crucible Theatre

10 May Lincoln, Drill Hall

11 May Birmingham, MAC

12 May Bath, Ustinov Studio

16 May Norwich, Arts Centre

18 May Scarborough, Stephen Joseph Theatre

19-20 May Edinburgh, Traverse Theatre

21–23 May Bristol, Tobacco Factory

26 May Newbury, Corn Exchange

28 May Hull, Hull Truck Theatre

30 May Nottingham, Playhouse

31 May Manchester, Royal Exchange

For us Melbourne folk, Kitson’s show is taking place as part of the 2011 Melbourne International Comedy Festival, the program for which is launched this Saturday. A cursory glance through list of shows acts on the website suggests an absence of star names this year, which is a shame in terms of generating casual excitement. Still, given many of my favourite shows in 2010 were by local acts perhaps it just means a cheaper March and April than I’d anticipated.

Stay tuned for reviews and news about the festival, and please please please please - if you have any suggestions for me to go and see or if you’re a local act and want to talk about your show for the benefit of all 3 regular Mint Custard readers feel free to leave a comment, or email me at mintcustard@gmail.com. T’ra.

Hair Apparent

2011-01-29T18:24:00.009+11:00

Australia's national football team take on Japan in the final of the Asian Cup tonight. As we all wait anxiously for kick off the big question on the lips of all Socceroos fans is this: what in the name of Les Murray's accent is happening with Mark Bosnich's hair?

For those that don't know, Bosnich was a decent-enough footballer who used to play in goal for Australia and (amongst others) Manchester United and Aston Villa in the 1990s. Although reasonably successful, he is better known for what are known in the business as 'off-field antics.' Whilst at Villa he managed to upset several thousand Tottenham Hotspur fans (a club with a large Jewish following) by doing a Nazi salute. He ended up at Chelsea where he went the extra mile to fit into West London culture by developing a penchant for cocaine. One drugs test later he was sacked and spent much of the last decade with the honorary title 'disgraced former Socceroo Mark Bosnich.'

After an aborted attempt to revive his career in Australia's A-League, Bosnich is at last on his (legal) uppers after landing a gig as a pundit for Foxtel's football coverage. This basically requires him to know something about football, not be too sexist and maintain a coherent conversation with Robbie Slater.

Given his history you'd think that Bozza would be doing everything he could in this role to present himself in a good light. Sadly, Bosnich seems to have chosen to present himself in this new forum with hair better suited to a serial killer. Imagine Javier Bardem's villain in No Country for Old Men after he's been on an enormous roller coaster. Or a man who is so resigned to going bald that he's taken that last show of pre-'all off' defiance and swept the remnants of his mane back to remind himself of what he'll be missing.

Except, Bosnich isn't bald... His hair may look more like dirty straw or animal fur but there is still lots of it. So much that it falls either side of some imaginary line of longitude on his skull, like Moses and the Red Sea. It reminds me of the haircut my flat mate had in 1994 which we fondly referred to as 'the hyena's bum' after watching a David Attenborough documentary.

The pictures here don't truly do justice to the horror that is Mark's mop. If you're interested have a look at this video or better still tune in to the preamble for the Socceroos' game against the Blue Samurai tonight from 1.30 AEDST to see the horrorshow in motion. Why not stick around to watch the game too? It's the least the Australian team deserve considering they've had bugger-all media coverage outside the usual SBS/Foxtel axis en route to the final.

To the Socceroos, good luck. To Bosnich, here is a link to hairsalons.com.au. Do the decent thing man, you're scaring the children. And me.

Booze Clues

2011-01-26T19:46:00.005+11:00

It’s my birthday next month. It promises to be an inauspicious, milestone-free occasion, to be marked only by me, a few friends and a night in the pub. I slung a few invites around last week for this minor event on the social calendar and whilst most were happy affirmatives, a couple of people mentioned the pub wasn’t a great idea because of febfast.

For those who don’t know, febfast (febfast.org.au) is an Australian charity promotion where participants are sponsored to give up booze for the whole of February to raise money for charities that support young people with drug and alcohol problems. For the less altruistic, febfast also promotes the benefits of giving up the plonk for 28 days – promising abstainers thinner waistlines and fatter wallets.

Now I don’t mind a bit of abstinence. Last year I challenged myself to 365 days without buying a single CD or DVD. Under my own rules (the best kind to bend and/or break) I was still allowed to buy vinyl records, and to download my monthly e-music subscription (3 albums). However, all casual buying was out.

This was more of a big deal than it sounds in this meh-so-what-who-buys-CDs-anymore-anyway-you-old-man era we live in. For one, I don’t really download music and for two, buying CDs is a form of minor therapy. Even a browse in a record shop at lunchtime can calm my jangling nerves so going a whole year was interesting. I managed it though and felt quite good at the end. I have a nice little pile of LPs to my name and hadn’t added anymore little plastic CD boxes to the piles in our spare room. I didn’t raise any money for charity, but then again I didn’t try and make people feel guilty or spoil anyone’s birthday.

I don’t know who is behind febfast but I bet their birthday isn’t in February. You can imagine the meeting that led to this: a few do-gooders with hangovers around a big boardroom table. ‘What about Opt Out October?’ ‘No’, says Alastair, coughing gently, ‘definitely not October.’ ‘Parched in March…?’ says Phoebe, hopefully. ‘Oh no, March isn’t good for me’ says Jacinta, without saying why. ‘Nothing in November? Spitting Feathers Septembers?’ says Rupert, declining to mention his upcoming tour of the Loire valley in June etc... until they all stumble with glee upon the alliteration opportunities of Feb and Fast and the realisation that no-one they knew was an Aquarius/Pisces rising.

The thing is, it’s not even a fast… not boozing is not the same as fasting. If you take away the roasted peanuts, crisps and pork scratchings then you’re getting closer but a fast? Not really. Try getting away with that on Yom Kippur if you’re Jewish. ‘Well yes Rabbi, I suppose I am eating an enormous tasty pie, but at least I'm not washing it down with a carafe of vino tinto.’

Apart from trying to spoil my birthday, it’s also a bit mean to hold febfast in the Australian summer; especially for those of us at the southern end. Seriously, the weather is insane here. The average temperature in Melbourne in February is 26 degrees. That’s only because we have night time, otherwise you could probably add another 10 degrees. Trying to stop people drinking booze in February is actually tantamount to a human rights violation - especially because the weather is crap for the rest of the year.

I understand the need to promote healthy living and appreciate that plenty of folks are susceptible to the lure of fitter, leaner, healthier bods after the excesses of Christmas. This is fine in the northern hemisphere where January and February are shit anyway, but not here. February is when those long lazy summer evenings feel like they will never end. Being shitfaced, or at least a bit merry is a big part of that. Imagine telling Europeans and North Americans not to drink in August. No, I didn't think so.

So, people-who-invented febfast, where does that leave you and me? Well, since your reasons for this are good ones it's difficult for me to tell people to desist from desisting. I don't want to do a Bill Drummond (who, along with KLF partner Jimmy Cauty made a perfect cube out of 6,250 cans of Tennents Super, put it on the back of a truck and then drove around on Christmas Day 1997 handing them out to homeless people. For their troubles they were given a bollocking by a refuge worker for sabotaging the one day of the year when people can't get alcohol, perhaps get sober and maybe decide to go home. But it was still art.)

That said you really should have asked me first before booking this during my birthday month, so I'm still grumpy with you. The thing is, I don't actually drink that much but since you started it, I'd like to propose feb-fest, an alternative where people drink every single day in February, keeping little online tallies of their binge drinking. Get people to sponsor you the same way - using the handily prepared sponsorship forms available at febfast.org.au - and give all the money you raise to them too. Skinny people - put on weight, shy people - have more sex, drunks - enjoy more company and people who will listen to your stories. Everyone's a winner with feb fest. Especially the Birthday Boy... arriba!

Compost Mentalis

2011-01-24T18:50:00.003+11:00

Recycling is - I’m sure we all agree – a good thing. You get rid of stuff you don’t want, someone else benefits. Less crap gets manufactured; fewer things get buried in enormous holes. Win win win win.

The key element here is that you get rid of stuff you don’t want. I emphasise this particular point to the mean sods who stole my compost bin out of our garden on Friday. I may applaud your clandestine commitment to the ecologically sound disposal of organic matter and kitchen scraps, but I was using that, you gits.

Let’s be frank here - who steals a 240 litre compost bin? The last time I had a look in there it was full of worms, ants, woodlice and several species of spider. Oh yes – and about a year’s worth of decomposed stinky mouldy food. This is not a flat screen telly. I know thieves like to wear gloves (I’ve seen The Bill) but seriously, you would need gloves to protect your gloves from that mountain of stink. Because of you that same fetid pile was left out in the 30 degree sun for two days, gathering flies like squirrels collect nuts.

Still, every silver lining and all that and I must say that the enormous mound of muck that I shovelled back into our new compost bin (only $30 from Bunnings, you thieving knackers) was showing the anaerobic benefits of a good turning come Sunday night. That said I hope that wherever you rehouse our really-rather-average compost bin becomes a weed-ridden jungle with potato blight. It’s the least you deserve for putting the mental back in environmental.

The Lovely Eggs, Oeuf Course

2011-01-20T08:42:00.006+11:00

Folks, its been too long. Time to set feeling sorry for myself and my broken arm aside and start 2011 proper. And what better way to start than with a song. Not mine, obviously. I'm a talentless tone deaf lump. Thankfully the Lovely Eggs are none of those things and to prove it they have released the best song of 2011. Already.

It is called Don't Look at Me I don't Like It and it is flipping ace. If you don't believe me (and frankly why would you?) have a listen at their MySpace page. Better still why not watch the equally wondrous video, which features both old lady knickers and living legend John Shuttleworth.

My thanks to Mr Flange - a long time friend of Mint Custard - for introducing me to my new favourite band. They have cheered me immensely during my temporary incapacity and as you can see they even prompted me into some one handed typing. My love only grew when i learned they have also recorded a Twin Peaks tribute EP. One song features the rather brilliant couplet Leland Palmer's invited me for tea, but then I see a denim jacket lying on his settee... which is as close to genius as you need from a husband-wife combo with marvelous haircuts. The Lovely Eggs. Lovely.

Don't Look at Me I Don't Like It is on sale on 31 January, and will be followed by the album Cob Dominos on 14 February. Check out the Lovely Eggs MySpace page for more details. Or don't and live a less sparkly life.

Mostly Armless

2011-01-13T20:49:00.003+11:00

Happy New Year everyone. I have broken my arm.

Before you ask, yes - it's the one I use. My writing arm. My drinking arm. My tooth brushing arm. My hand-shaking arm. My washing the dishes arm. My going to the toilet arm. My bowling arm. My other shoelace tying arm. My cuddling arm. My typing and texting arm. My driving arm. My painting arm. My opening jars arm. My gardening arm. My remote control arm. My putting on deodorant arm. My Shift Key arm. My shaving arm. My riding my bike safely arm. My sleeping comfortably arm. My not needing painkillers arm.

And before you ask again, no I didn't even get a cast for people to sign. Them's the breaks, I guess.

Still, Happy New Year. See you all soon.

Death by Puppy - Christmas Special

2010-12-25T12:46:00.002+11:00

Here to add to the merriness of your christmas is our semi-regular feature, Death by Puppy, in which we pay tribute to soft toys that have fallen to the paws and jaws of our little Jack Russell, Woody. And this particular entry couldn't be more seasonal if you sprayed it with fake snow, wrapped it in tinsel and hollered ho ho ho... for this week's victim is a highly cute and very cuddly red-nosed reindeer.

Although it's likely we were meant to call him Rudolph, this little chap lived his precious few hours with Woody as Mr Tampon Legs; named in tribute to those chunky menstrual blockers he tried to pass off as limbs. Interestingly Woody never tried to eat said feminine hygiene products but he did give the rest of our unfortunate reindeer a good ravaging.

Name: Mr Tampon Legs

Number of Days Survived: 3

Nature of Injuries: dissection leading to squeaker removal;

stuffing disembowelment;

Cause of Death: string unpicking leading to risk of puppy flossing (when aforementioned canine eats long length of cord and has it coming out both ends)

Vale Mr Tampon Legs. Rest in Pieces.

Messy Christmas everyone.

Gorillaz, Rod Laver Arena, Melbourne

2010-12-13T08:00:00.006+11:00

Growing up I used to watch a lot of old music shows on TV with my mum. Whenever artists like David Bowie, Neil Young or the Faces were shown performing in their seventies pomp, she was rather fond of saying the phrase ‘I was there, I was that soldier.’

I’ve had a few such moments of my own in the 20 or so years I’ve been watching live music, but it’s been a while since I had an ‘I was there’ concert. Thanks then to the Gorillaz for providing one of those moments at the Rod Laver Arena on Saturday night.

I think I sufficiently articulated my excitement about the opportunity to see Damon Albarn play live again back in August when this concert was announced. What I hadn’t anticipated was just how much of an ensemble performance Gorillaz were capable of offering. When artists talk about guest collaborators and huge numbers of musicians on stage it’s rarely a precursor to great music – more a sign of big budgets and prog-tastic ostentatiousness.

Then again, most ensemble casts don’t include half of The Clash. There is something indescribably thrilling about the sight of Paul Simonon and Mick Jones prowling the stage wearing matching naval uniforms and handling their guitars like rifles. The vision of them standing like Russian guards, flanking Albarn as he stood poised with his melodica for the intro to Clint Eastwood was worth the entrance fee alone, let alone their incredible musical contribution. The Clash were amongst London’s first celebrity champions of reggae and Simonon’s bass makes a smooth arc from the Clash’s Guns of Brixton to Gorillaz’ first dub-influenced single Tomorrow Comes Today – whose vibrations shook the huge tennis arena.

Those familiar with the Gorillaz albums will know the calibre of their other collaborators, many of whom were present either on screen (Snoop Dogg resplendent in naval gangster chic) or in the flesh. De La Soul’s contribution to the party was far larger than their two recorded offerings suggest. As warm up band they go down in history as the only hip hop act to ever actually make me put my arms in the air (like I did not care) and as part of the show their exuberance and clearly reciprocated affection for Albarn was uplifting.

Turns from Bobby Womack, Little Dragon, the Pharcyde’s Bootie Brown, Bashy and Kano bring the Gorillaz songs to life whilst contributions of a string section (who knew cellos, sailor caps and LBDs was such a sexy get-up?), Chicago’s Hypnotic Brass Ensemble (like the Muppets band but with more energy) and members of the Syrian National Orchestra for Oriental Arabic Music provide the necessary tools to craft the hugely diverse songs Gorillaz have produced in their ten years together. From dub to hip hop, rock to pop, soul to gospel, techno to rap and kiddy choir, there are elements of everything in the show, with Albarn’s enthusiasm and ability unbounding for them all.

The show was so heavy on hits that it seems unfair to highlight individual tracks but Glitter Freeze, Stylo, 19-2000, Feel Good Inc and Dirty Harry nearly blew the roof off, Punk offered a welcome sight of 1992 era Albarn doing his knee-tuck in leap for 90 seconds, On Melancholy Hill made me cry – and finishing with the church-choir singalong of Demon Days was just lush.

Gorillaz are often derided amongst musos for their cartoon origins, as if comic books somehow infantilise and devalue the music. I suspect such critics haven’t seen Gorillaz live, where Jamie Hewlett’s blend of the macabre and the beautiful creates something funny and frequently poignant (the sight of a windmill-powered flying island being attacked and grounded by sinister helicopter gunships during El Mañana a case in point). The graphic evolution of Murdoc, Russel, 2D and Noodle – with a slightly naff but amazingly detailed computer animation of the band in their dressing room punctuating the night – is also fascinating, especially watching the simplicity of the original video to Clint Eastwood.

Regardless of my own predilection towards all things Albarn, it’s hard not to feel pleased for the lad. Tonight’s show is a collaboration – and one that only works when all the players work together - but it is also a testament to the boy from Blur’s talents. From what was presumably a very stoned pre-Millennium night in Hewlett’s flat he has assembled his own version of Dave Chappelle’s Block Party - a globe straddling, multi-headed genre shagging colossus that is too brilliant to ignore and too smart to disappear up its own arse. If, as is rumoured, Gorillaz calls it quite after the end of this tour - and after they release one last album online on Christmas Day – it’ll be the right thing to do. Still at least I’ll be able to tell my mum I was there. For once, I was that soldier.

Time for Heroes

2010-12-03T10:39:00.004+11:00

I love a crap rip off, especially ones that shamelessly try to cash in on cultural phenomena whilst cocking a large snook to intellectual property rights, or indeed any rights. Fortunately Australia has a plentiful supply of $2 shops, packed to the rafters with cheap imported Asian knock offs of everything from Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles to Toy Story and everything in between.

A great example is this 'All Conquering Super Hero' - a car crash of Superman, Spiderman and (although I haven't yet worked out how) Batman. I like how the Super symbol has been printed on a spiderweb top - suggesting some kind of mix up at the factory rather than anything deliberate. It's the plastic equivalent of the Scary Movie franchise, cramming as many references as possible into one entity so people feel they've got their money's worth ($3.95 if you're interested).

His head also seems like a bit of an afterthought. If this super hero is to become all conquering he might need to sort out his boz-eye, get himself a more contemporary haircut and have those collagen lip implants removed. That is unless his super power is to reduce all super villains to hysterics.

I feel sad at the possibility that some unfortunate youngster will receive this gift this christmas. However I must admit I feel even sadder that, despite his alluring boast of being 'completely new to come into the market' poor All Conquering Action Hero will never leave the shop I saw him in. Rest easy villains of Melbourne and beyond. You've had a lucky escape.

Crap Band Photography Day 5: Roisin Toast

2010-11-24T08:29:00.002+11:00

And so to the final day of our celebration of the uselessness of camera phones. This session is dedicated to some of the more theatrical proponents of this business called show. Either that or its an excuse to show pictures of the divine Roisin Murphy (and her incredible wardrobe) who visited these shores in 2008 and sent my heart a flutter...

1. Ms M takes to the stage hidden by a leather hooded overcoat and Bono-sunglasses

2. overcoat removed but anonymity maintained by a Russian military hat. Note take on Wonder Woman cuffs

3. new jacket on and military hat swapped for Escher-like purple foam/felt millenary number

4. time to quit messing now. enormous red woolen pixie slanket? Roisin gotchu...

5. slanket removed to reveal fringed lacy top and cake-stand fascinator

6. return to simplicity with dashing Irish green fez and tassles...

7. and to remind you this is a music show, here's 'the Debbies' - Harry and Gibson

8. for the penultimate number here's Roisin in a sparkly silver frock vogueing through my favourite Moloko number - Forever More. Note Roy Lichtenstein backdrop and small cake tin attached to Ms Murphy's head...

9. to close let's not forget Super Bee: part pop star, part nectar collector with silk S&M mask...

... and wings. Gorgeous. Roisin, come back to us soon.

Roisin's effortless glamour is hard to beat but a special mention to Beck in the theatricality stakes for his 2007 visit to Australia. The shitty picture above is of his touring marionette show, which performed alongside the real thing throughout his show. This was a good thing because Beck seems to be incapable of the James Brown/Prince inspired dancing that made him so unmissable in the 1990's. Sharp distracting Mr Hansen.

What better way to close our little exhibition than a photo that is simultaneously awful and revealing of the grandeur of theatrical pop stage shows? In case you can't tell (you can't) this is the Pet Shop Boys, sitting atop enormous cardboard cut outs of their own heads. Feel the glamour, breathe the excitement, smell the festival BO and sunscreen. Rock photography at it's nadir.

Crap Band Photography Part 4

2010-11-12T20:33:00.001+11:00

Day 4 of the world's worst photography exhibition is a squint-and-you-see-it tribute to some of the icons of indie who have visited these shores in the past couple of years.

First up are Pavement, the Pitchfork generation's equivalent of Pavlov's bell - a band guaranteed to leave the checky shirted hoardes salivating. All I remember from this gig at the Palace in Melbourne was having a sore back and thinking I'd rather be lying down, a point reflected by the artistry employed in this picture.

Part of my really likes this picture but I think it's the part that remembers what I could see with my eyes rather than what the camera was able to capture. For the record this is Stereolab's Laeticia Sadier playing a tambourine in profile at the Billboard in Melbourne (flutter flutter).

An embarrasingly crap photo of one of those gigs: Underground Lovers magnificently reunited at the East Brunswick Club. Review here proves gig was better than picture suggests

The (ahem) Modfather, Paul Weller shows his appreciation with a whistle at the Enmore in Sydney. Note enormous hand in foreground that looks like one of those sponge ones you get at the cricket.

Sweden's Peter, Bjorn and John charm the pants of everybody at the Metro Theatre in Sydney. I promise it is them and not just some mates on a dark school stage.

And to wrap up for today, a rather uninspired picture of the world's most inspiring band - Super Furry Animals. For the record there were many magnificent photo opportunities throughout this gig, not least a space helmetted Gruff Rhys singing Slow Life into a vocoder. Sadly those pictures were so bad they didn't even make it past the bus ride home.

Please come back tomorrow for our final day of bad photography, in which we pay tribute to pop star theatricality and drool a little bit about Roisin Murphy.

Crap Band Photography Part 3 - The Bohemoths

2010-11-10T21:49:00.000+11:00

Day 3 of the Mint Custard Crap Rock Photography exhibition and today we celebrate some of the living legends of the business they call show. When marvelling at the photographic techniques I employed to capture these essential moments in live music history, try not to think so much about what I was doing there in the first place. That's between me and the rock dinosaurs.

The glowing blurred blob above is Mr Neil Young, performing one of his indeterminedly long and painful guitar solos at the Melbourne Big Day Out, 2009. The more observant amongst you will note that is a b flat minor chord he's playing. Maybe.

Whilst it's not immediately obvious, this is the mighty Spandau Ballet performing at the Rod Laver Arena earlier this year (you can read my review here). The figure on the big screen (and bottom left on the stage) is former Eastender Martin Kemp, the ballet's bass player. Be grateful this picture was taken before the encore when both Kemp brothers emerged shirtless and wearing leather waistcoats and I did a little sick in my mouth.

Supporting the Ballet that day were Tears for Fears. This scintillating picture captures band members Roland Orzabol and Kurt Smith seemingly being abducted by aliens.

In late 2008 my friend's mum scored some free front row tickets to see Def Leppard at the Rod Laver Arena. Sadly she didn't have anyone to go with. When it comes to bands from Sheffield I may be more Jarvis than Joe Cocker but I do love the first side of Hysteria enough to recognise a gift horse when I see one. Not wanting to waste this unexpected opportunity, I thrust my enormous lense into the sweaty middle-aged rock action.

Lest we be allowed to forget (for it was enshrined in popular song) the drummer from Def Leppard only has one arm. That doesn't stop Rick Allen (for 'tis he) from bringing the noise, and with this many drums around him you can see why.

Rock lesson # 1. Rock likes black t-shirts.

Rock lesson # 2. No black tshirt = no shirt at all.

Join us again tomorrow for more works unlikely to be hung up in any gallery or museum soon.

Crap Band Photography Part 2

2010-11-10T20:53:00.001+11:00

Welcome back to Day 2 of the Mint Custard Crap Rock Photography exhibition. And before you ask, no, it's just the photography that's crap... All these pictures were taken pushing my Sony Ericsson's enormous 2.0 megapixels to the max so that you, and your descendants, could sample the atmosphere for yourself. Let us dwell no more and get stuck in...

Pop intellectual turned folk troubadour Lloyd Cole strums for the Thornbury Theatre audience in Melbourne. Please be assured that I wasn't actually a kilometre away from the stage - it just seems that way.

And whilst we're at the Thornbury Theatre, let us remember Candle Records heroes the Lucksmiths, captured here for posterity at their last but one ever gig. I attended this concert in my slippers. Which was nice.

A crowd of backpackers chant for an English band at some theatre or other in Sydney. Said band were not as good as said crowd drunkenly believed.

The unmistakably slight silhouette of Mr Jarvis Branson Cocker, erstwhile of Pulp, seen here at the Metro Theatre in Sydney for his first solo tour. Mrs Custard took this, hence the slightly higher than average picture quality.

Mr Cocker again, flanked by Mr Steven Mackey (erstwhile of Pulp) and Mr Martin (M) Craft. Note other person taking photo of same scene. I assume theirs came out better than this.

And last for today, my most favourite picture that I took on my old phone. If you don't know that's Mr Robert Forster, with bassist Adele Pickvance in the background. This was taken in the Studio Theatre, Sydney Opera House during Forster's first post Go-Betweens solo tour. The show was so good this was the only picture I got around to taking.

More from my mixed bag of photographic nuts tomorrow...

Rest Easy Cummins

2010-11-09T20:35:00.006+11:00

So I have a new phone. This is a good thing because this one actually works and isn't several years out of technological date. Still, it's also cause for sadness because I'd become rather attached to the antiquated brick and it's slightly useless ways.

A case in point is the camera. Weighing in at a hefty 2.0 megapixels and with a shutter button that had to be pressed so hard that any picture not taken in bright sunshine adopted a distinctive blur you'd think I wouldn't ever have bothered using it. Yet many was the time I found myself caught up in post-sunset events thinking 'I must capture this moment forever. Unleash the trusty box brownie phone and let us make photographic magic.'

By way of a tribute to my ex-phone I'll like to share some of our finest concert moments together. Over the next few days I intend to blow your mind with scenes that will actually make you feel you are there - providing by there you mean in the very back row of a 100,000-seater stadium and high on ketamine. I'd like to dedicate this exhibition to the great Kevin Cummins, former NME photographic stalwart and whose works adorned my teenage bedroom walls (and beyond). Kevin, if you need me you know where I am...

French electronic pop supremos Air at the Sydney Opera House, 2008.
They really were that fuzzy.

King Monkey himself, Ian Brown, taken from the very front of the stage at the Metro in Sydney. That's about a metre away. And it's still blurred.

The Charlatans' Tim Burgess peaks around the corner at Sydney's Forum.
No really, I promise it is him.

Rick Nielson of rock monsters Cheap Trick - Rod Laver Arena, Melbourne.
Don't let the relative clarity of this shot fool you to believe the
pictures improved over time - every single light in the venue was on when I took it.

The incomparable Cougar Flashy at the Factory in Sydney,
replete with Mexican day of the dead person. He was aces.

One of Daft Punk rocks robots and humans alike at the Sydney showgrounds, 2007.
Before you ask, yes, it is a photograph of a giant TV screen.

If you want to taste the sweat dripping from some of your other favourite rock stars, why not come back tomorrow for a bit more of the same?

Do You Remember the First Time?

2010-11-08T09:20:00.000+11:00

Is there nicer news to wake up to than the fact that Pulp have decided to reform and play some live shows in 2011? Probably, but right now I'm too excited to think about what that might be. Details are only sketchy so far but seem to involve Pulp's line up at their 1995 pomp (i.e. Russell Senior is back) and rumours of gigs in London and Spain.

You can find out more by registering at pulppeople.com which is flashing up phrases like 'Is this a hoax?' and 'Is this really necessary?' and 'Is this nostalgia?' - the answers to which are hopefully not, yes and yes, but who gives a monkeys. Many people won't care (Pulp quietly returned to the obscurity from whence they came after 2001's We Love Life and their 2002 Hits compilation both stalled in the charts) but it's the kind of news that's already making us change our holiday plans for next year. Candida, Nick, Jarvis, Steve, Mark, Russell - ta, you've made my day.

Feed Me Melbourne

2010-10-25T22:09:00.008+11:00

It's been a long dark winter but fortunately I have survived. I can attribute this to central heating, kindly donated downloads of the season 4 of Mad Men and the warmth and comforts of eateries Melbourne wide. I thought it was time to repay the favour, so thank you Ancient Romans for inventing hypocaust, thank you Matthew Weiner for giving us Sterling Cooper et al and thanks to the following fine establishments for keeping my belly full and my tootsies warm.

Felices, 141 Greeves Street (Smith Street end), Fitzroy

We went to Felices the morning after the general election, looking for something to take away the sour taste of the night before. Fortunately this decidedly european cafe (plain timber walls, fussball, large mirrors) with its beautifully uncomplicated menu was able to deliver more than Julia and Tony. We ordered croissants and toast with our coffees, and both came accompanied with generous serves of marscapone cheese, fresh marmalade and one of the nicest strawberry jams I've tasted. Recommended to people who don't want eggs with every breakfast as well as anyone who likes to eat under a giant aeroplane; there's one attached to the roof. If you'd like to see it check out these great pictures at Fitzroyalty, a blog dedicated to all things Fitzroy.

Tabet's Bakery, 607 Sydney Road, Brunswick
There's been a lot of coverage of the hidden delights of Sydney Road in the local press this year, probably as more and more journalists are forced away from the increasingly expensive inner city and head towards the 'burbs. It's true that there are a great many outlets on the main road north out of melbourne, covering a wide range of cuisines and an even broader range of quality. Always reliable however is Tabet's - a lebanese bakery with an exceptionally cheap yet delicious range of bready cheesey products. Both the haloumi pies (essentially a lebanese pastie) and spinach and cheese pies are amazing and for just $2.80 you can eat like royalty even on a budget. Heartily recommended smothered in Masterfoods Hot Chilli sauce.

Salford Lads Club, 1 Fennell Street, Port Melbourne As an indie tragic it's hard to go past a cafe that takes it's name from a place in Greater Manchester made famous by Morrissey and the Smiths. Before you Mozophiles get too excited this isn't a Smiths tribute cafe and there was nothing beyond the name and the This Charming Man ringtone of the owner's phone to link it to Steven, Johnny and the other two.

Having done the pilgrimage to actual SLC and been hassled by actual Salford lads I am pleased to report that this relatively new cafe in Port Melbourne was far more welcoming. The decor inside this industrial setting is an homage to cycling, and there were several old racing bikes and jerseys around the place - as well as a Huddersfield Town banner. Sadly I'm unable to provide much comment on the highly interesting and varied dinner menu as we only went for breakfast. I am happy to report though that the coffee, eggs and homemade baked beans were top drawer and the Northern Breakfast (replete with black pudding) looked good enough to turn Morrissey himself back to meat.

Zingara, 875 High Street, Thornbury

I have double praise for Zingara in Thornbury. Firstly for not making a fuss when our dog started going crazy and almost upended our table when he saw pigeons for the first time. Secondly (and most importantly) for turning out the finest caesar salad I've ever had. Not eating meat makes a good caesar hard to find. Some places do a salmon version but they're few and far between. Thankfully Zingara have thought outside the chicken box and offer a delicious charred king prawns alternative every bit as good if not better as anything I ate back in the meat days. A great choice for these warm spring afternoons, with or without crazy puppy as a dinner guest.

Mamasita, 11 Collins Street, Melbourne

I haven't seen this kind of buzz about a food outlet since Speedy Peppers finally brought take-away pizza to East Yorkshire in the late 80s. Every bloody newspaper and magazine has been crapping on about Mamasita for months now, as if they were serving up Michael Jackson steaks. Sadly the main thing people have to say is 'boo hoo me, I had to queue for hours to get in.' Well here's a couple of suggestions. Firstly don't go the same week as there is a newspaper or magazine feature about it; there's more people can read than just you. Secondly, try avoiding going along at 7pm on a Friday. Everything is busy at 7pm on a Friday cretins. I've been twice, had awesome times, lush modern twists on mexican food (the corn is particularly recommended, as are the soft fish tacos and chilli chocolate), been well looked after by the helpful staff who protected me from the most vicious chillis and hey, never had to queue once. Yay Mamsita.

Nothing to do with your Vorsprung Durch Technik

2010-10-22T15:01:00.005+11:00

The past few months have been a quiet time for the Mint Custard Book Club (membership one and counting, slowly). After ripping through A Streetcar Named Desire I got bogged down in Cloudstreet. This is less a reflection on Tim Winton’s Miles Franklin Award winning masterpiece than on the fact that I scored myself a free iPhone. Instead of bettering myself by diligently sticking to my mission to read at least one piece of literature a month, I’ve been distracted by the gaudy thrills of mobile internet, Angry Birds and pseudo-Scrabble, Words with Friends.

Yes, a mere three years after the launch of the iPhone I’ve finally caught up with technology. I say only because despite assurances from gadget enthusiasts that just six months can be a lifetime when it comes to technology, up til now I have spent my life separated from modernity by a continual seven year buffer of which phones are just a minor detail.

Much of this spans back to childhood and a general lack of gadgetry in our house. We got our first video - a VHS Ferguson Videostar – in 1987. It was my grandparent’s old one, donated to us because even Grandad wouldn’t be seen dead with a top loader by then. We had a hi-fi, one of those housed in an MDF wood-effect cabinet and sealed behind a darkened glass door, but it was a strictly tapes and records affair. 1985 may have seen Dire Straits become first band to sell a million copies of an album on compact disc but it was 1992 before I got around to buying my first CD player. Add another ten years to those two dates for DVDs and you can see a bit of a trend.

Despite their circumstances mum and dad always did their best to get us all what we wanted. Unable to afford the Atari 2600 games console I wanted they got me Astro Wars, a single game table top space shoot-em-up they probably couldn’t afford either and which I clocked several hundred times. I still have it and, in keeping with my temporal techno buffer, I eventually got my 2600 and a sackful of games for my eighteenth birthday in 1993. Mum got it on the cheap from a local second-hand shop inundated with Ataris thanks to Super Mario and Sonic the Hedgehog. Again, still have it and still love it. I bought Raiders of the Lost Ark for it last week.

Games consoles have become a bit of a yardstick for my gadget delay. Despite spending the entire summer of 1996 playing Worms on my friends’ PlayStation, it was 2003 - three years after the launch of PS2 - before someone took pity on us and gave us their old one. Having never seen a PS2 in action our old machine was still a revelation, and even better, the games were ridiculously cheap. A similar thing happened in 2008 when a kindly soul gave us a Nintendo GameCube. Leaping several years into the future in a single bound we were amazed by the graphics and game play – happily ignorant that kids of all ages were in similar thrall to the Nintendo Wii. I look forward to getting one… in 2015.

After slagging off mobile phone users for several years I got my first mobile in 2003. It was (naturally) a hand-me down from Mrs Custard, and even that had been given to her by a friend. I left it at home a lot and got told off for not answering it when people rang, but I did like the primitive version of Snake which kept me busy on the bus. I kept it for three years, updating to yet another pre-loved phone in exchange for a six pack of beer. It had a dodgy joystick and perhaps the worst camera ever made, but it did have a great mini-golf game. I finally signed a proper contract in 2008 and was given a free phone for my troubles. It had a rather pointless Walkman feature which didn’t let you use your own headphones, but the mini-golf had better graphics and the at least the camera worked. I felt modern, even though most of my friends had long since moved on to iPhone.

Anyway so finally, after so long at apogee of technological innovation here I am, at its artificially beating heart. For once in my life I can look people in the eye without shame, without a shrug of ‘ahdunno’ when discussing matters telecommunicational. I may have forgotten how to read a book but I can feel the same sense of smugness and self-satisfaction that I am more cutting edge than the general populous. I speak the language of Gates and Jobs. I - with my iPhone 3G - am of the moment. I am now. I am 2010. I am… sorry... hang on... there’s a what? When? Oh balls…

Death by Puppy - Round 2

2010-10-20T21:31:00.005+11:00

It's time for another round of Death by Puppy, a semi-regular feature dedicated to the memory of anthropomorphised peluches whose tour of duty as companion/punching bag to Woody, our small but tenacious puppy, has come to an end. This time we feature two much loved but short-lived folks from land and sea.

First up we have Kanga Poo. We would like to dedicate this to the memory of not one but two of the Poo family who perished at Woody's tiny jaws. The first friendly yellow marsupial met its maker literally overnight, its back ripped open along what we assumed was a dodgy workshop-sewn seam and Woody triumphant with a plastic squeaker in his mouth. We took the unprecendented move of returning Kanga Poo to the shop on the basis of poor seamstressness, noting that we only had a Jack Russell, not a rottweiler-velociraptor cross.

Sure enough within three days Woody (who it must be said greatly enjoyed playing with Kanga during their short time together) had once again ripped open Kanga Two's spine, removed the squeaker and decorated his bed in white fluff. Rest in Pieces, Kanga.

Second up we have Annabel Crab, a small squeaky crustacean with threaded wool instead of a shell and big googly eyes that lasted about 48 hours. We think Woody ate them. Despite this Annabel fared quite well for a while. That was until Woody realised that he could unpick her shell row by row by standing on her back and yanking with his teeth. By the time the fourth row was gone Woody had enough wool to form a lassoo and Annabel's stuffing was stuffed.

On behalf of ourselves and Woody we'd like to take a moment to thank these two loyal, short-lived servants to the cause. Nice one guys. You (temporarily) rocked.

Name: Kanga Poo

Age: 3 days

Nature of Injuries: Disembowelment through spinal column

Cause of Death: Excessive innard spillage leading to squeaker removal

Name: Annabel

Age: 3 weeks

Nature of Injuries: dual eye detachment, shell unplucking

Cause of Death: progressive woolly shell removal leading to potential

choking hazard and multiple exposure to crabby innards

Vale Annabel and Kanga Poo. Fare thee well in the next life

Rhys's Pieces

2010-10-19T21:51:00.012+11:00

In this hung-parliament world of uncertainty and doubt, it’s nice to know that there are some things you can rely on to get you through another day. For me it’s knowing that Gruff Rhys – the world’s favourite softly spoken, curly-locked Welsh gentleman genius – has a new single out. It is, naturally, fricken awesome and even better it can be yours for free. Simply head off to gruffrhys.com (cannily renamed recently as The Gruffington Post), leave an email address and soon your ears will be swimming in Gruff’s delightful Shark Ridden Waters.

The track is taken from his upcoming (and as yet unnamed) third solo album. It comes at the end of yet another crazy-busy year for Mr Rhys, a man who is starting to make Billy Childish look a bit idle. Lesser folks might still be resting on the rather spectacular laurels of Super Furry Animals’ 2009 epic masterpiece Dark Days/Light Years. Other folks however are not Gruff Rhys who has been involved in a plethora of projects in a year he also marked his 40^th birthday.

After collaborating with Gorillaz on their Plastic Beach album (including the as-yet unreleased Leviathan, described by Gruff as a ‘three o'clock in the morning, speeding down the autobahn evading West German police-type track.’) he teamed up with Tony Da Gatorra, ‘a Brazilian TV and VCR repairman and musical freedom fighter.’ Together they produced The Terror of Cosmic Loneliness, an experimental, mostly live album built around the sound of the gatorra, a homemade drum machine/guitar invented by its namesake. It’s about as far from Gruff’s harmonic style as it’s possible to get so won’t make everyone happy, but it does sound like they’re having a lot of fun. The duo did a few small gigs in the UK this year to promote the album, clips of which you can see on Gruff’s website here...

Gruff met Da Gatorra whilst in South America as part of his other big project for the year, the documentary movie Separado! Described by the blurb as ‘Star Trek meets Buena Vista Social Club in a psychedelic western musical’ the film follows Gruff on ‘a pan continental road trip in search of his long lost Patagonian uncle’.

In an apparently true series of events that sound like the plot of Back to the Future III, a controversial horse race in 1880 led to an unresolved death and a split amongst Gruff’s ancestors, some of whom joined the wave of Welsh expatriates to Patagonia. Gruff undertakes a tour of ‘theatres, nightclubs and desert teahouses of Wales, Brazil and the Argentine Andes as he discovers what became of his family, the Welsh Diaspora and its musical legacy.’ There's unlikely to be an Australian release anytime soon which is a shame as having and watched the trailer with a robot helmeted Guff singing into a vocoder to a crowd of bemused families and scenes of the gatorra in action it looks like it'd be right up my alley.

Whilst we all wait for the DVD, watch the trailer for yourself and find out more about possible cinema screenings in your area at separado.co.uk. For everything else Gruff, including your free copy of his new single, get yourself over to www.gruffrhys.com. Believe me, Shark Ridden Waters is everything you’re hoping it will be. For other reliable (and up to date) Gruff and Super Furry news, remember to check out SFA Goodness (http://sfagoodness.blogspot.com/) or www.superfurry.org. That should be enough to keep you going until the next SFA album which knowing them will probably arrive as a triple album before Christmas. Maybe. Hwyl!

Return of the Robots

2010-10-17T19:07:00.004+11:00

It's been a while since we had a report back on the ongoing war between war and machine, oft reported on these pages as Robots are Going to Kill Us All. I'm not sure if this is because they've upped their camouflage game or I've just not been paying attention. Thankfully our international reporter Mr Flange is still on the case. Over to him for this report from London Village...

After taking the tube for years I was horrified to discover I have been being watched this whole time by robot koalas. I hope you appreciate that I missed my stop and added 20 minutes on to my journey home in order to capture this picture for you. Apologies for low quality.

Mr Flange, it may be low quality resolution but that's high quality evil-robot-cute-furry animal spy hybrid spotting. Your diligence may have just saved mankind one more day in charge before the inevitable techno-apocalypse. Mint Custard salutes you.

Twee are the World

2010-10-11T09:51:00.013+11:00

Please understand. We don't want no trouble.

We just want the right to be different. That's all.

Liner notes to Pulp’s Different Class, 1995

Melbourne played host to its inaugural Finders Keepers markets this weekend, with hundreds of people descending on a Docklands pier to check out stalls crammed with homemade clothes, jewellery, cards, home decorations and other kooky knick-knacks. In a celebration of the craft of craft, shoppers milled the converted warehouse to the sounds of angelic voiced singer-songwriters with acoustic guitars and xylophones.

Despite what I’m about to say, I think the Finders Keepers markets are a great thing. Set up to showcase the work of emerging designers and artists from around Australia and New Zealand, they bring together creative people who care about art and design, who seek more than financial reward from their craft, who value the handmade over the mass produced, and being an individual over blending into the crowd. My problem (and I will state categorically, it is my problem) is why did everything seem so, well, samey?

Crafty folks have been happily knitting one and pearling one in contented nerdy obscurity for decades. A ragtag mob of (mostly female) cross-stitch enthusiasts, sewing machine owners, Fimo manipulators and people who make those odd stuffed knitted dolls that always show up at school fetes and op shops. I come from a family of such people, their walls adorned with framed cross-stitch creations of their own hand depicting (for example) the alphabet alongside a cute woodland cottage. There is not a child born to this family that has not been clad in hand-knitted swaddling clothes. I myself have enjoyed many a pair of delightfully impractical woollen socks. It kept Grandma happy, it keeps my aunty happy and it keeps my cousins happy.

The craft scene as represented at Finders Keepers is a little different. It is post-modern and knowingly retro. It is two parts Anne Taintor, one part Fanny Craddock, a dash of Alice from the United States of Tara and (this is where I come in I guess) a spoonful of Morrissey. It takes the skills honed at nanna’s knee and seeks to cutesy them up. Gone are the useless woollen dolls, replaced by… useless woollen cupcakes. Goodbye cross-stitch pictures of doe-eyed Huckleberry Finn type children, hello woollen recreations of the cover of Belle and Sebastian’s Tigermilk.

This nu-craft was thrust into the limelight almost as soon as the global financial wobble became a full-blown crisis. The future was homemade. Recycle. Grow Your Own. Make Your Own. Craft (as I was reminded by a badge I saw yesterday) is the new black. Knitters (I was told by another) ain’t quitters… This is all well and good really. Rampant mass commercialism is evil. People should think for themselves. Using your brain and your hands is wonderful. Recycling is the future. Vegetables are rock and roll. What isn’t clear is why, when you have so many clever, interesting and artistic people all beavering away, do so many of them make the same thing? Here’s a quick run down of the totems of nu-craft on display several times over at Finders Keepers…

Buttons as badges and brooches and earrings and basically anything. Especially buttons with material on
Birds – predominantly of the owl variety (which is a shame because I do like an owl, despite the fact that they are not what they seem) though equally popular were birds in cages with variations on door open/door closed. Oh the symbolism.
Fonts – WORDS. And LETTERS. In DIFFERENT FONTS. In FRAMES.
Impractical Jewellery – especially earrings made out of found objects that look nice on a table on a velvet cushion but are not conducive to hanging comfortably from your lobes
Things made out of old children's books – ‘Fanny and Dick were amazed to see how many things they could be exploited for.’
Rabbits - cuwte lickle snuffle bunnies. On adults.
Butterflies – oh yes. Butterflies. Fly my pretties. Next stop, unicorns.
BIG patterns – their name is prints. And they is funky. And they is everywhere.
Big Glasses – I expressed my angst about this alarming trend for enormous glasses last year. Did anyone listen? No. Many gigantic pairs spotted wandering around Docklands with little tiny people in cardigans underneath them.
Antlers – mostly deer related (lots of fake hunting trophy heads) though a few creative souls had gotten all Island of Dr Moreau and started welding antlers to anything in sight
Silhouettes – see most of the items in this list but without the filly-in middle bits
Laser Cut everything – literally anything on earth that a laser can cut a shape into or cut something out of. See silhouettes. I did. Several times.
Big things on chains - assorted random large items hung between two ends of a chain to be worn like an ineffectual breastplate
Old Cameras - a shame this one, because I quite like the aesthetic and the symbolism of an old camera. Still that doesn’t mean I want to see t-shirts, jewellery, purses, cushions and wallpaper of old Pentaxes and Polaroids everywhere I go. Stop. You’re spoiling it now.

In case you think I’m being mean, I’ll reiterate that lots of the items on offer were splendid. Beautifully made, intricately detailed, lovingly imagined. I also get that all tribes have their trends. Punks, Goths, Mods, Emo Kids, Rude Boys (and Girls), football fans, bikers – there’s always something gangs build their identity around. The difference with this kind of art is that the unifying point is philosophical. It’s not based on a look or a person or a thing, but an idea - an appreciation of the personal.

Of course I can craft precisely nothing (though I am good at growing potatoes) so really have no right to criticise what people choose to make and sell. Perhaps I’d be less bothered if Finders Keepers had been billed as a celebration of (and place to buy) all things cute and mid-20^th century retro, but as a ‘showcase for emerging designers and artists’ I don’t think that was the point. In the end I came away from Finders Keepers with the distinct feeling that too much of a good thing is still too much. In the art world nothing kills an original and personal idea like a backdrop of sameness, which - unless it’s just about the money - surely defeats the purpose.

For more about the Finders Keepers markets click here or visit thefinderskeepers.com

Gone to the Birds

2010-10-08T08:28:00.011+11:00

Once, very long ago, I did something bad. Something very bad, for which I am highly ashamed, and feel the need to confess to you here and now. It was early 1990, just a few weeks after I saw my first ever gig; the Beautiful South at Bridlington Spa. I was staying at my Grandma and Grandad’s house in Hull. With them both safely tucked up in bed, I decided to entertain myself by looking up members of the newly famous Beautiful South in the phone book.

With Paul Heaton already famous for a good few years he was always going to be ex-directory. However, clearly unprepared for the perils of fame was Mr Dave Rotheray, the South’s lead guitarist and co-song writer (and improbably one of three Daves in a band with just five full time members). Sure enough, there he was - in pre-internet black and white – Rotheray, D.

I’m not sure what possessed the teenage me to ring Dave’s house that night. I am still horrified at the thought. However, ring I did. A male voice answered with a friendly enough ‘hello.’ ‘Can I speak to Dave, please?’ I squeaked. As the voice at the other end of the line changed tone and politely told me that Dave was not in (despite clearly being he) I realised I probably wasn’t the first East Yorkshire-based miscreant to call chez Rotheray. To his credit Dave didn’t use any rude words but it was clear that he wasn’t up for a chat with an inarticulate pimply youth. I hung up quickly, grateful that caller return and 1471 was a few years away.

Dave, I’d like to apologise for this invasion of your privacy two decades ago. I’ve lived many embarrassed moments since thinking about it and am slightly flushed now as I type. I’m sorry Mr Rotheray. Perhaps I could make it up to you by encouraging people to buy your new album The Life of Birds. I mean people should, and no doubt will anyway, whether you forgive me or not, but I thought it might help a little and assuage some of my guilt.

After all, the Life of Birds is a wonderful album. Less a solo album than a collection of collaborations with some of Dave’s favourite folks artists, the result is beautiful, moving and highly diverse. Fans of the Beautiful South - especially songs that put their various leading ladies in the spotlight - will be sated by Eleanor McEvoy’s Almost Beautiful and Nat Johnson’s Flying Lessons but there is more on offer here than the South with new singers.

Draughty Old Fortress features the striking vocal talents of Alasdair Roberts and sounds like the soundtrack to The Wicker Man re-recorded by the Fence Collective. There are hints of the Divine Comedy in Jim Causley’s The Sparrow, The Rush and the Nightingale and Jack L’s The Best Excuse in the World, whilst the slide guitar on Jim Causley’s too-brief The Hummingbird and Camille O’Sullivan’s Sweet Forgetfulness reminded me of listening to Radio Humberside’s weekly Country by Request as a lad. Elsewhere there are few voices as lovely as Kathryn Williams and her Crows, Ravens and Rooks is an album highlight.

As you may have picked up from the title and song names, The Life of Birds is also something of a concept album about our fine feathered friends. The theme hangs in the air well with some clever imagery and metaphors, but that said all the songs sit comfortably on their own and the bird references are not overdone. I’d challenge anyone to listen to Draughty Old Fortress out of context and know what it’s about, but knowing just adds an extra dimension to an already powerful moment.

Reviews have been very positive for the Rotheray and the album, which is nice considering all the shit the media hung on the Beautiful South over the years. Coinciding with former partner Paul Heaton’s own creative renaissance, it proves that they really are national treasures that we took for granted, but also that they were right to go their separate ways in 2008. Oh and by the way Dave, if you’d like to call me, uninvited in the middle of the night then please, feel free. I think I probably owe you one.

Watch this YouTube interview with Dave to hear him talking about Life of Birds. You can also watch live performances of songs from the album by visiting propertv on YouTube including Crows, Ravens and Rooks with the gorgeous Kathryn Williams. You should you know.

Sing When You're Winning

2010-10-05T20:44:00.008+11:00

There were rare scenes of joy in our house this past weekend with the unexpected breaking of a longstanding drought; a sporting team I support actually won something. Despite over 25 years regularly watching all manner of teams playing a fair few different sports, I've never ever seen any of them win anything of note.

The team in question was St George Illawarra - the Dragons. Some of you may have heard of them. Most of you will not. They won the NRL Telstra Premiership, Australia's top rugby league club championship. They are the toppermost of their particular poppermost. Look, here's a picture of them... winning things... yay!

My long wait for the Dragons' win (11 years in my case, 31 in theirs) was just one part of what could be called the Custard Curse. At its most basic this means whoever I want to win, will not. In all my years watching Sunderland, they have won only the Coca Cola Championship - twice. I won't pretend I wasn't pleased at the time, but since one needs to be relegated to win this second tier trophy it's one I'd rather never win again.

Similarly with my oldest team Hull Kingston Rovers, the rugby league team everyone in my family was born into the misery of supporting. Their last moment on top was 1984, tantalisingly out of my adult memory's reach. Thankfully I do remember sitting in the hotel bar at my aunty's wedding two years later watching Rovers lose by 1 point at Wembley in the Challenge Cup final; the moment my sporting path was set.

Of course I have experienced the distinct pleasure of watching Ricky Ponting's face contort with rage and frustration at the hands of the English Cricket Team - twice. I've also had many happy moments watching South African, Indian, Sri Lankan and Kiwi players slap the Aussies around the park a bit, especially in the past few years. That said a few weeks in summer following national sides are not enough to wipe out the pain of following the fortunes (or unfortunes) of your own useless team.

So thank you Dragons for bucking the trend. I'm more grateful than you know. However, whilst I'm at it I should apologise to the newly formed A-League team Melbourne Heart. You see, you play in red and white and well, I need a football team to support over here, and I refuse to go for Melbourne Victory and I never really cared much for Sydney FC. So, well, I figure since you need fans and I need a team well... you know... how about it? After all you're only as good as your last game right, and tonight, for one night I am a champion...

Tales from the Compost Bin

2010-10-02T10:15:00.004+10:00

True tales from the Mint Custard compost bin...

Greg: So the waiter says "Hanz that does dishes is as soft as Gervais, about the mild green hairy lip squid." Ha ha ha!

Peg: He he he! Classic!

Spud: Eh...?

Greg: anyway, so the waiter turns to him and says "Hanz that does the dishes is as soft as Gervais for the mild green hairy lip squid!"

Avon: Ha ha ha! That's freakin' awesome!

Peg: Classic. Just classic

Spud: Erm...

Peg: ...so her mum says to her

"you can't marry him, he's a common-tator!"

Spud: Hihihhihihihihi! Hihihihihihi! Hihihhihihihihi!!!

Avon: Freakin' awesome...

Greg: Classic...

Pimp My Ride to Work Day

2010-10-01T12:22:00.014+10:00

Next Wednesday 13th October is national Ride to Work Day in Australia. As good an idea as this seems, in reality it means that those people who do actually ride to work will just find themselves sharing their journey with unco people in bad clothes who haven't actually ridden a bike in years. Expect crashes and some foul mouthed exchanges about cycle lane etiquette between the lycra-clad peletonistas and Geoff from accounts.

For those of you taking part on Wednesday but looking for some extra thrills on your journey, why not try these variations on Ride to Work day....

Guide to Work Day – for people who need help remembering where their place of employment
Fried to Work Day – for people riding their bikes in hot climates with no shirts or sunblock
Cried to Work Day – for those who don’t want to go to work
Died to Work Day – I told you I didn't want to go to work
Bride to Work Day- in which we see how difficult it is to ride a bike in a big white taffeta dress
Tried to Work Day- ‘well at least I tried…’
Tie-Dyed to Work Day – hippies on bikes
Slide to Work day – “Wheeeeee! Wheeeeeeeeeee! Wheeeeeeeeeee!!! Oh. I’m at work…”
Hide to Work Day – invisible people on invisible bikes
Ride to Ride to Work Day - in which cyclists listen to Oxford-based early 90s shoegazer bands as they (ahem) ride
Lied to Work Day – for those who “would have done ride to work day but my bike had a flat tyre, what a shame, would you believe it etc”
Mide to Work Day – when South Africans are forced to do things
Tide to Work Day - for people who'd rather surf to work
Pide to Work Day – bring a loaf of Turkish bread to work

Apologies in advance to anyone who I take out on my bike on the day. That means you Geoff.

Get Well Soon

2010-09-24T19:06:00.006+10:00

Best wishes to Charlatans drummer Jon Brookes who is in hospital this week after collapsing during a gig in Philadelphia, US. He is now back in the UK being treated for a brain tumour but doctors say he should be OK.

I've met Jon on a couple of occasions and he is a very obliging and humble chap, not to mention someone who gives everything every gig he plays. As I've noted a few times, the Charlatans are as tight and powerful a band as you can see in 2010 and this is due in no small part to Brookes' skills and his mutual understanding with bassist Martin Blunt.

Jon will obviously play no part in the forthcoming Charlatans world tour, with Pete Salisbury from the Verve covering his duties. This is a great shame but at least it appears he'll be OK in the long run, which is all that really counts.

Jon Brookes, Lyon 2008 (courtesy thecharlatans.net)

The band have of course faced similar crises in the past and have faced every challenge like prize fighters on the ropes. It may sound crass out of its 1996 context but their 'we've lost our mate. there will be no change. we are rock' statement on the death of keyboard player Rob Collins galvanised them and led to some of the best music of their career. Here's hoping they find some of that spirit to get them through this time and inspire Jon to a speedy recovery.

For more details visit thecharlatans.net/news