Booze Clues

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Crap Band Photography Day 5: Roisin Toast

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.