The Wellington Jazz Festival usually pulls together a great line-up, we’re talking over 100 gigs in just a few days. A real showcase for local talent – and of course some international headliners.
The full reveal is a week or so away – but the international headliners have been confirmed.
And it’s one of the best sets of talent the Jazz Festival has ever offered. Read More
first it was the news that
the guy from The Prodigy
had died.
and just as you were wondering if all
those people filling the timelines with
much-loves and R.I.P.s and look-after-yourselves
would have posted about The Prodigy
on that day if he had not died
it was suddenly in – news to hand – that
‘Dylan’ from Beverly Hills 90210 was
toast too.
people toasted him too. Luke Perry.
They mentioned Riverdale as well.
but no one called out about the bull-riding
film.
that was his best thing. It showed up that he was
a thoroughly fucking mediocre actor. Get the job
done, just and not much more.
and here you were thinking that suddenly there’d
be no more fires getting started, more importantly
there’d be no more bitches getting smacked up – because
that’s really an ugly sight (and a stupid-shit song)
but none of that mattered today. There were call-outs
to give, shout-outs to make. Stay safe. And look after
yourself. And take care. And make the most of it. And
be kind. (Rewind – and tape over – those times when
you never cared about Dylan and The Firestarter). This is
about now. And now you all care. And: so there.
guy at the desk over from you leans across, says, rule
of three – who’s going to be next?
well it turns out it’s King Kong Bundy. The wrestler that
Bobby ‘The Brain’ Heenan called Shmoo.
Bundy – weird amalgam of the big ape and the serial
killer, no really – was born Christopher Alan Pallies.
he squashed some dude in the
ring in the first Wrestlemania
8 Seconds!
flat.
he fought Hulk Hogan in a cage match
at Wrestlemania 2. He lost. But it was
a launching pad.
he’d done the work – up to that point
and bigger things were to come.
or maybe they weren’t.
but I reckon King Kong Bundy
did as much good work – maybe
more – than fucking Dylan and bloody
Keith.
Flint was, ahem, the firestarter – as
if there’s any other way – and Dylan
snagged Brenda, which is a bit
like being handed a bag
of deadly snakes instead of the
nice steak you thought you had
ordered.
but King Kong Bundy
squashed a dude in the ring
in a few seconds.
fought Hogan. And many more.
and had a cameo on
the TV show
Married…with Children
because they named Al and Peg and
Kelly and Bud after the wrestler
who took his in-ring name
from a mass murderer.
they say wrestling’s fake.
well that’s more real to me
than Luke Perry or the
dude from The Prodigy.
but it’s time to celebrate
the 90s. And to commiserate
over what once seemed cool.
rule of three came in late
today.
and what are the odds.
would you have picked
The Prodigy, King Kong
Bundy and Dylan from 90210
if asked to choose three dated,
pointless, stretching-thin
pop-culture references for
some madlib, mash-up
charade game?
fuck no. No one
would.
but today two of
the three of them
got their column
inches.
a bunch of people
celebrated them.
reduced them right
down to footnotes, photos
and desperate ‘personal
connection’ stories.
“I was, er, 15 and I had
just masturbated to Kelly
from 90210 but Dylan
walked in right on
my money-shot
so I put on The Prodigy’s
Smack My Bitch Up
and punched a photo of
Brenda…”
or, you know, something
like that…
they’re dead now.
all is forgiven.
King Kong Bundy, though
he was a fat shit. Expect
him to get no more
mentions than what he got
right here.
his life must have been stupid
since he is ugly and wrestling
is fake.
it’s nowhere near as real as
melodrama for teens and
singing violent fantasies
back when life was a whole
lot easier and you could just
like what you liked.
I rate Ice Cube – big time. Made it work for him in acting (wasn’t/isn’t great, yet isn’t flat out terrible, etc…) but really his true strength, apart from building a business empire, a brand, is his rapping, or even – actually – his writing. Dude is one of the great lyricists in hip-hop. A pioneer even. Influential, certainly. He spits well. But it’s down to the fact he has something to say. Not just a point of view but deadly execution. As it were. Read More
Something’s happening
in the culture,
and it’s reminding us there’s
almost no culture.
There’s actually only a
bubble that protects
a minority so sure
there’s culture.
And a far bigger
bubble filled with
morons and monstrosities
and far worse than that,
monotonies.
It’s distressing. And
deeply depressing.
It’s absurd to see it
as it’s unfolding, to receive
a scolding for not
agreeing that
success = good. That
acceptance means talent. That
runs on the board just simply
cannot be ignored. That any
question of fluke, or hype
or taste is a snob’s errand,
delivered on the highest
of horses.
And that it takes all sorts
for all courses, of course we
all have to like what we’re
told. From mushed veges to
crap music. The only time off
is the day job that takes your
soul and reminds you of all
that you owe.
It’s a fucking dumb world.
We’re just borrowing a tiny
corner of it for a bit.
The wonders that will never
cease are mostly the ones in
the creases we barely
even get to know.
But you must congratulate
the local lads who sold all
the tickets to their
giant shit-show.
Don’t walk out of
line, don’t speak out of
line, don’t challenge the
status quo.
And if a really bad film
wins five oscars, it’d be
nice if you could at least
fucking smile, even better
if you could at the least
fucking go.
There’s a wince of nostalgia at the title track and though I know a few more songs on here and by Stereo MC’s this is my first time hearing the Connected album. And I definitely didn’t need to hear this.
It’s a bit like – I imagine – recommending something by Ronny Jordan or The Seahorses or Ocean Colour Scene.
Just dated shit from a time when you had to be there to care.
Not for me. And that is possibly an over-simplistic reading – but yeah. I didn’t feel this. At all.
One of the rare failures in this challenge.
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Soon we won’t
need conversations
at all.
They currently
exist
so that one person
can tell another
what they know and
won’t budge on.
They’ll talk
and talk and wait
and hope to be told
they’re right. (But they
already know that – even
if they don’t know
much else).
We are cutting down on
conversations – thanks to
social media. We get to be
antisocial and left to our
own devices.
But there’s still the
odd baby-boomer out to
prove it’s not their fault
that they’ve kicked-on and
achieved more by virtue of
the house they purchased in 1968
being worth an absurd amount
right now.
They worked. They saved.
They won the money game.
If you wanted to be taken seriously
you’d be good at money too.
For it’s the fastest-growing New Zealand
sport.
And we do love a winner. We do
love to be winning.
Conversations are gradually
thinning.
People are not interested in taking
on any new information – unless part
of it gives them chance for a humble-brag
or allows them to show what they already
know: They are right. Most-right. The best
right there’s ever been.
Maybe I’m that very rare thing…a “casual” Spiritualized fan…
Look, I know about Spacemen 3 (and Jason Pierce) but I really only know the great trilogy (to me at least, and who am I kidding, it won’t just be me) of Spiritualized albums: Ladies and Gentlemen We Are Floating in Space, Let It Come Down and Amazing Grace. And it’s only here, now, seeing them written up in order (1997, 2001, 2003) that I realise they soundtracked my years working in record stores. That’s why I know and love these. And yet for some reason I wasn’t curious. Read More
A lot of people
seem to think
that Paul McCartney and John Lennon
hated each other – were competitive, and
the band broke up, and that Yoko was a pesky
nuisance as well.
The Yoko thing? That’s mostly racism. And sexism too.
Paul and John are on the record as having had
a bit of hang time through the 70s, a spectacularly
awful drunken jam – a night where they watched SNL
together, thought about going to the studio to
claim the joke-cheque ($3000 or whatever it was) that
Lorne Michaels held aloft
but just got high instead.
John and Paul would fire some barbs at
one another, or get the press to
do it on their behalf.
But they also visited and talked and thought – often
– about recording together again…
John heard “McCartney II” – or at least heard
‘Coming Up’. He pulled to the side of the road.
Loved it. Said something like “Paul’s Back!”
John would be back too. Soon. He’d be ‘Starting
Over’ – the sadness of course was that was number
one with a bullet…
But the real thing no one talks about is how
George and Ringo kinda grew to hate Paul the
most.
And I know why.
And here’s the theory.
They were the ones that Paul could do without. He
could replace them. He could at the least approximate them.
They knew it. Kinda. He knew it. Certainly.
He played drums on some Beatles tracks – Dear Prudence
and Back in The USSR are good starters. He played some
killer lead guitar too – fucking Taxman mate. Fucking owning
it!
He had, more than once, told George and Ringo how to
play their parts. He came up with suggestions, arrangements,
and it drove them crazy.
And then when they were all cast as Professional Beatles in the
docos you could sometimes see they were seething.
Paul struts in like David Brent or Noel Edmonds, doing a dance with
the camera. Says ‘allo Georgey-boy, ma love. And toussles his hair to
remind him – even in his 50s, he’s still and always two years younger.
George grimaces through the hug, shrugs,
says, “I didn’t know they
made vegetarian leather jackets”.
In another scene, Ringo is tapping on his knees as Paul and George
mug it up on the ukes. Ringo says that he just likes hanging out. He’s
got his pals. Prior to this he was not-doing-coke-anymore with the Fat
Controller Man.
He’s heartfelt, he fucking means it.
Paul talks over him. Makes a gag.
(Makes Geroge gag).
Now Lennon was a rough-as-shit guitarist, but he had something
when he’d hit at those strings. The baggage. The grit. A cynicisim.
And such wit. He was a wife-beater, he even hid that inside a song.
He tried a few mea culpas. And far too many magaritas. He was
a drunk. He was hurting. He was a child for far too long.
But he was punk-as-fuck. And he was – when it suited – the leader
of the band.
Paul never forgot that.
Just as Ringo and George never forgot that Paul,
bless him – bless him, a genius, the greatest melodicist,
a jobbing writer to put all others to shame –
had told them they were not only nothing, they
were something he could do himself.
The smiled for the photos, threw peace
signs – Ringo’s doing it still. But I reckon
there’s more than one reason he always
wears sunglasses.
And George went to his grave never
appearing on a McCartney album.
Alejandro Escovedo is a songwriter’s songwriter – people like Elvis Costello, Lucinda Williams and Bob Dylan reference him among their favourites – not only that, he has backstory that would make you want to get on board anyway. Maybe even if his own music wasn’t super-great, which it is and has been across the last quarter-century. His enviable talent was nurtured early. The son of Mexican migrants to Texas, he is part of a musical dynasty that includes his brothers Coke and Pete (percussionists for Santana) and niece Sheila E. He played in a punk band that opened for The Sex Pistols. And in 2003, having lived with Hepatitis C for many years already, he collapsed on stage. An all-star tribute album (featuring John Cale, Son Volt, Steve Earle, The Jayhawks, Jennifer Warnes and many others) helped raise awareness and money – when Alejandro returned to the stage and to the recording studio it was with, perhaps miraculously, a renewed focus. A sharper pen. Even better songs. He already had a fearsome catalogue of albums. In recent years he’s newly married and has finally got his health back in check, working hard once again and feeling great. Read More
Probably couldn’t have picked a worse time to ‘discover’ Koffi Olomide. I’d never heard his music, not sure I’d even heard of the Congolese singer and musician, if I’m honest. But in a routine-Googling to find the cover image and any background guff to add to this – I found out he’s accused of multiple sexual assaults and is generally in the shit. And rightly so. Awful stuff.
Saves me from saying anything else about this – which felt like ‘garden-variety world music’ to me; a possibly awful thing to say under any other circumstances. But in this case: fuck him! Read More
recently, someone was
telling me that the tuatara
in the playground in Cuba Mall
(I call it a playground, it’s a slide
and this fucking tuatara-thing) is
the most pointless playground-thing
around. Read More
It wasn’t that I was desperate to see the Foo Fighters again – although I was curious (call it a perverse ‘professional curiosity’ if you like…) I saw the Foos when they had only just formed and were rather good. I saw them again, two albums later, as part of a Big Day Out. And they were quite shit. They got way worse, albums-wise anyway…
I was probably more into the idea of seeing Weezer, they were jerkin’ the curtain – and I’d never seen them. I stumbled onto the idea that Weezer should just tour the world now as an opening act for anyone and nearly everyone. They were great fun. Mostly. 
And the Foos? Well the baffled me, lost me completely and kinda won me over – then sorta lost me again.
It was a friend that had a free ticket. That’s really why I was there.
That’s what got me along.
And I enjoyed the experience of it all really.
Seeing a stadium show in another country. Catching up with friends. Heading along to something you’re not exactly invested in – you’re into the idea of catching the spectacle. But you don’t care if it’s good or bad.
It was a bit long, quite a bit too long. And many of the songs were fucking awful.
But I liked it far more than I thought I might.
And found something to admire in the experience.
You get a free train ride out and then back in again as part of your ticket-price.
I thought that was kinda cool…
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