I’m sitting around at work. I’ve spent most of the day ‘networking’ or trying to figure out my current madcap research task, which involves a lot of foraging through the internet and putting stuff into Endnote.
Anyway. Last week at band practice we were discussing going into the studio on January 2nd to do demos of our supposed new album. There was a lot of debate. We’ve been practicing the songs, making up new songs, Matt was getting feisty about trying to book a date and the rest of us were all being elusive. But it sorted itself out. Then we started arguing over what the album is going to be called.
Those of you who know one or more of us will, of course, be familiar with our last album, which was originally released featuring a picture of Matt’s huge, fat head on the front cover. We asked him if he thinking of going in the same direction this time. He was elusive. Later, after he’d passed out, I found a ‘design brief’ he’d drawn up. From what I can tell his idea for the album cover is a picture of him dressed as a clown. He had a list of the potential album names he’d like to use:
The Sad Clown Frowns
Frowning with the Sad Clown
Revenge of the Sad Clown
Turn that Frown Upside Down
Confessions of a Sad Clown
Clowning Around with the Sad Clown
The list goes on. I can’t be bothered typing it all out. I’m going to confront him about it tonight. Updates to follow.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Sunday, December 2, 2007
Rocket Bar and a history of Hipsters
We played a show Friday night with Wagons and Skeletons. Both of whom were far, far better than we were. Damn. We were terrible. Partly I blame this on Rocket Bar. I hate Rocket bar with a passion. It reminds me of The Picture of Dorian Grey. Incidentally, did you know the expression 'Hipster' (descriptive of Rocket Bar's clientele) originates from the phrase 'On the Hip', which relates to the practice, when smoking opium, of laying on one's side, thus being literally 'on the hip'. It's been around since at least the 1890s, and took on today's meaning during the 1950s with the Beat Generation.
At band practice the week before Nic also confirmed that he named his daughter 'Charli' specifically so he could use the nickname 'Chip'. He spent most of the pregnancy boasting about how he was going to call his firstborn 'Chip' but he faced strong opposition from so many quarters he had to find a more covert way of going about it.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Cockney Slang
We have band practice tonight. Last week before band practice Marcin read up on Cockney slang, thus punctuating our evening with rhythmical banter. Except he'd only learnt the slang terms for taking a piss and getting drunk, so unfortunately we tended to get stuck on those two topics.
Good times. Good times.
We also started demo'ing our new album, using Dexter's eight track. One of the nuances of a new album is we actually need to write new songs, rather than playing the old ones over and over and over and over again. Every time I'm forced to play Matt's hideous reinforcement of gender binaries, 'Girls are the Devil', I feel like screaming in frustration.
Good times. Good times.
We also started demo'ing our new album, using Dexter's eight track. One of the nuances of a new album is we actually need to write new songs, rather than playing the old ones over and over and over and over again. Every time I'm forced to play Matt's hideous reinforcement of gender binaries, 'Girls are the Devil', I feel like screaming in frustration.
Monday, November 12, 2007
Playing with Mere Theory at Fowlers
So we played with Mere Theory, who are some sort of Emo band. And damn they were nice guys. Unfortunately, Fowler’s is like a pox on the earth. Maybe its good to see bands there, but my primary experience with it has been, to use the colloquial, ‘treading the boards’. They give shitty riders, the backstage has novelty value but there’s only one men’s toilet and it doesn’t have a lock and the staff always seem like they’re kind of angry you’re there. They yell at you to get on stage, they yell at you to get off stage, they yell at you to get a wrist band, they yell at you to pack your stuff up and get out. They’re just all really angry. By contrast, the mixers are always friendly, and there’s desks for both the PA and the foldback, but either they don’t work or they can’t deal with the hideous acoustics of the room or something. I’ve played some shitty venues in my time, but you can always mash out a decent set. Fowlers just seems to have some hideously wrong ‘vibe’ about it; it’s like someone put a curse on it that makes any chord you play sound like a big, pointless mass of noise. Over the years I’ve come to the conclusion that there’s some sort of voodoo hex on the place.
I was talking to someone a while ago who remembered before UniSA’s City West campus was built and the old Lion factory – of which Fowlers is the last remaining part - was still there. The Fringe used it back in the mid-nineties to house some sort of huge techno party. She was 17 and loaded up on LSD. She walked up to the top story and there were all these crazy techno hippies sitting in the shape of a huge pentagram humming. She accidentally wandered into the middle of it and her brother had to pull her out. Then she found this massive sort of well thing, dropping three stories straight down through the core of the building, so she peered over the edge and right down the bottom there was this one lone hippy screaming their head off. She said she went down stairs wondering if the whole thing was an LSD induced vision, so she sent her friend up to check it out. The friend came back with the same experience and they both freaked out.
Like I said, the place must have some sort of weird hex on it.
Also, when I was on stage and Matt was blabbering about his ‘Girls Are The Devil’ song (which is my least favourite NTR song because of its outrageously clichéd analysis of gender), there were these boys in the crowd right in front of me tittering to themselves and trying to make rude jokes, most of which were about their lack of the kind of knowledge required to make rude jokes. There’s nothing grosser than teenage boys.
I was talking to someone a while ago who remembered before UniSA’s City West campus was built and the old Lion factory – of which Fowlers is the last remaining part - was still there. The Fringe used it back in the mid-nineties to house some sort of huge techno party. She was 17 and loaded up on LSD. She walked up to the top story and there were all these crazy techno hippies sitting in the shape of a huge pentagram humming. She accidentally wandered into the middle of it and her brother had to pull her out. Then she found this massive sort of well thing, dropping three stories straight down through the core of the building, so she peered over the edge and right down the bottom there was this one lone hippy screaming their head off. She said she went down stairs wondering if the whole thing was an LSD induced vision, so she sent her friend up to check it out. The friend came back with the same experience and they both freaked out.
Like I said, the place must have some sort of weird hex on it.
Also, when I was on stage and Matt was blabbering about his ‘Girls Are The Devil’ song (which is my least favourite NTR song because of its outrageously clichéd analysis of gender), there were these boys in the crowd right in front of me tittering to themselves and trying to make rude jokes, most of which were about their lack of the kind of knowledge required to make rude jokes. There’s nothing grosser than teenage boys.
Thursday, November 8, 2007
Wagons CD Launch, Northcote Social Club
Here's a brief run down of our recent show in Melbourne supporting Wagons at their CD launch.
Melbourne
Northcote Hotel
Tuesday, 5th of November 2007
Wagons CD Launch
For once we did an interstate trip that didn’t start with a 6 AM flight, which was nice. Unfortunately we flew Jetstar. I’ve flown so much this year that I can pick the good and bad take offs and landings, and this time I saw nothing but bad. The landing in Melbourne felt like we touched down on one wheel and bounced. The landing in Adelaide was too fast, and the pilot had to use the air brakes and reverse the engines or something, causing the plane to shudder like it was going to fall apart. People on board giggled nervously. During the take offs the plane kept making a noise like an electronic dog barking wildly. It sounded like something was caught in the wheel. I was watching the flight attendants to see if they looked concerned, but they seemed calm enough. Of course, they were all about nineteen and wearing orange uniforms, which didn’t exactly inspire trust.
On the upside, Steph and I had a very engaging conversations about physics and the nuances of a bee flying within a train, including an experiment in which she threw her bottle of water in the air and we noted the nature of gravity.
The show itself wasn’t so crash hot, except for when Dan Murphy turned up and yelled abuse.
People kept thrusting drinks at me, and after working my arse off for the last month my usual teetotaling status was a little off kilter. So I started drinking and things followed a pre-established formula for playing in Melbourne. I get drunk, we go to the worst pub in Melbourne and then I sleep with one of the Banham brothers.
So we were all hanging around the Northcote Social Club talking shit. Then I was in the back of a car with a probably drunk driver, and everyone around me was singing ‘Afternoon Delight’, except they couldn’t remember the lyrics so they were making it up and they all had potty mouths. And then we were at the Tankerville mixing twisties and beer. The bouncer was getting antsy at us but we didn’t get kicked out, unlike last time.
The Tankerville is repulsive. It’s not even repulsive in a sort of run down, faded glory, kind of way. It’s brightly lit, open twenty four hours a day, has a large room full of pokies and serves two primary clientele: gambling addicts who need to play pokies all night, and drunken fools who are looking for some place to go at 5 AM. I fit into the second category.
So we were at the Tankerville and everyone sort of disappeared after a while so we went back to Henry’s house, waking up his house guest from Sydney, who he knew only as ‘The Chad’. Shit talk was engaged in for a while. Then Henry folded out the sofa bed for us and it became apparent I was expected to sleep with Matt Banham on a sofa bed with a single, flimsy rug. The Chad was on the couch less than a foot away from us, pretending to be asleep. I decided to sleep clothed. Matt took off his pants. I told him to leave them on. We argued this point for several minutes. He turned off the light, rolled over towards me, lowered his voice an octave and begun crooning his smoothest lines at me. It was horrible. It was like sleeping with an octopus intent on feigning a deep, silky baritone voice and trying to slide a tentacle down your pants. He argued with me for a half hour or so over why we should engage in hideous physical love. Matt claimed it’d been so long since he’d been with a woman and that I was ‘wiry like a woman’. I responded that he is physically horrible. The last thing I remember before falling asleep was Matt saying, “Don’t worry baby. It’s gonna feel soo good” and me telling him he made me wish I could die a virgin. I did my belt up a notch tighter (I was sleeping fully clothed) and eventually he fell asleep. Periodically I woke up because he kept these weird gasping noises in his sleep.
Melbourne
Northcote Hotel
Tuesday, 5th of November 2007
Wagons CD Launch
For once we did an interstate trip that didn’t start with a 6 AM flight, which was nice. Unfortunately we flew Jetstar. I’ve flown so much this year that I can pick the good and bad take offs and landings, and this time I saw nothing but bad. The landing in Melbourne felt like we touched down on one wheel and bounced. The landing in Adelaide was too fast, and the pilot had to use the air brakes and reverse the engines or something, causing the plane to shudder like it was going to fall apart. People on board giggled nervously. During the take offs the plane kept making a noise like an electronic dog barking wildly. It sounded like something was caught in the wheel. I was watching the flight attendants to see if they looked concerned, but they seemed calm enough. Of course, they were all about nineteen and wearing orange uniforms, which didn’t exactly inspire trust.
On the upside, Steph and I had a very engaging conversations about physics and the nuances of a bee flying within a train, including an experiment in which she threw her bottle of water in the air and we noted the nature of gravity.
The show itself wasn’t so crash hot, except for when Dan Murphy turned up and yelled abuse.
People kept thrusting drinks at me, and after working my arse off for the last month my usual teetotaling status was a little off kilter. So I started drinking and things followed a pre-established formula for playing in Melbourne. I get drunk, we go to the worst pub in Melbourne and then I sleep with one of the Banham brothers.
So we were all hanging around the Northcote Social Club talking shit. Then I was in the back of a car with a probably drunk driver, and everyone around me was singing ‘Afternoon Delight’, except they couldn’t remember the lyrics so they were making it up and they all had potty mouths. And then we were at the Tankerville mixing twisties and beer. The bouncer was getting antsy at us but we didn’t get kicked out, unlike last time.
The Tankerville is repulsive. It’s not even repulsive in a sort of run down, faded glory, kind of way. It’s brightly lit, open twenty four hours a day, has a large room full of pokies and serves two primary clientele: gambling addicts who need to play pokies all night, and drunken fools who are looking for some place to go at 5 AM. I fit into the second category.
So we were at the Tankerville and everyone sort of disappeared after a while so we went back to Henry’s house, waking up his house guest from Sydney, who he knew only as ‘The Chad’. Shit talk was engaged in for a while. Then Henry folded out the sofa bed for us and it became apparent I was expected to sleep with Matt Banham on a sofa bed with a single, flimsy rug. The Chad was on the couch less than a foot away from us, pretending to be asleep. I decided to sleep clothed. Matt took off his pants. I told him to leave them on. We argued this point for several minutes. He turned off the light, rolled over towards me, lowered his voice an octave and begun crooning his smoothest lines at me. It was horrible. It was like sleeping with an octopus intent on feigning a deep, silky baritone voice and trying to slide a tentacle down your pants. He argued with me for a half hour or so over why we should engage in hideous physical love. Matt claimed it’d been so long since he’d been with a woman and that I was ‘wiry like a woman’. I responded that he is physically horrible. The last thing I remember before falling asleep was Matt saying, “Don’t worry baby. It’s gonna feel soo good” and me telling him he made me wish I could die a virgin. I did my belt up a notch tighter (I was sleeping fully clothed) and eventually he fell asleep. Periodically I woke up because he kept these weird gasping noises in his sleep.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
No Through Road in Blog Form
Hello,
The other day I read that book by Andrew Keen, "The Cult of the Amateur", in which he claims blogging is making Disney go broke. Accordingly I have started this brand new blog, which will serve the double purpose of driving Disney into the ground and, further to that, providing an accurate, up to date news resource on the activities of my lesser known Pavement rip off band, No Through Road.
Devoted fans may remember there was an earlier NTR blog, which no one ever updated. Clowney, our lead singer, was the only one with the password and tended to use it as a site for self glorification. This blog, being written by myself - Ianto, the bass player - is far less biased. I am far better educated than Clowney and I do not harbour dreams of being a professional children's performer.
Of course, I don't actually have anything to write about right now, other than this introduction. So please enjoy the following video featuring footage of us playing in Perth and being interviewed.
yours,
Ianto Ware
The other day I read that book by Andrew Keen, "The Cult of the Amateur", in which he claims blogging is making Disney go broke. Accordingly I have started this brand new blog, which will serve the double purpose of driving Disney into the ground and, further to that, providing an accurate, up to date news resource on the activities of my lesser known Pavement rip off band, No Through Road.
Devoted fans may remember there was an earlier NTR blog, which no one ever updated. Clowney, our lead singer, was the only one with the password and tended to use it as a site for self glorification. This blog, being written by myself - Ianto, the bass player - is far less biased. I am far better educated than Clowney and I do not harbour dreams of being a professional children's performer.
Of course, I don't actually have anything to write about right now, other than this introduction. So please enjoy the following video featuring footage of us playing in Perth and being interviewed.
yours,
Ianto Ware
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