I See You Baby... online

I really should learn to follow my own advice. Truly.

I previously counselled against gleaning information via the www about current, potential or former partners. Those cold hard facts, or even unsubstantiated allusions bite like little bullets at our hearts.

It can be a change in ‘relationship status’ on Facebook, incriminating photos posted of your man with new women or indeed finding his own cyber contributions to (far less noteworthy) blogs.

I have two particular incidents of information gathering (a far more flattering term than plain old stalking) which stand out in my mind.

The first was soon after meeting a gentleman who would come to occupy a not-insignificant portion of my formative years. After a period of courtship, I did what any self-respecting Generation Y member does: visits Google for some sneaky research.

After the standard Facebook references, Number 1 result after a name search was a contribution made to an online study forum for the Higher School Certificate from many, many years ago. This individual had posted an essay used for an English assessment, complete with abbreviations “u” in place of “you” and “2” in place of “to”.

Before I even began contemplating whether it was ever acceptable to use personal pronouns in formal literature assessments, I was overwhelmed with absolute humiliation that something so abhorrent to me (poor grammar) had apparently crept into my list of acceptable qualities in a partner.

However I was smitten, and rather than contemplate a future of monotonous conversations devoid of witty language manipulations, substituted instead with grunts and moans, I forgave such a crime.

This momentary omission in good judgement caused me months in relationship pain an anguish, resulting in an ultimate demise. Whilst the death of the affair is more than likely not connected to his absolute language rape, in future I shall certainly be more critical of the vocabulary faculties of potential partners.

The second occasion of ill-advised stalking happened just minutes ago, and prompted me to write this post as a form of therapy.

I was happily doing ‘research’ on a certain gentlemen I have a sweet spot for, when I happened upon information regarding his previous girlfriend.

You may wonder where I found such information…. Facebook? Twitter? A blog? Godforbid Myspace?

None of these.

No, it was Wikipedia.

She is so accomplished in her field of creativity she has a freaking Wikipedia posting.

Besides my HSC results, this blog forms the peak of documentation of my online success (fml much?).

So now, I’m feeling quite unworthy and pathetic,

Why? Am I pathetic? Yes, quite possibly. I googled. I stalked. Rather than watch re-runs of Harry Potter on Channel 9 like every other normal (?) person, I sit in my study, blasting Cream and brushing up my Private Eye skills.

Unworthy? Perhaps not. Considerations as to the suitability of creative folks for non-creative people is subject for further blog fodder, however needless to say, I was perfectly happy in my own skin until I began comparing myself to a person who not only no longer features in this man’s life, but now lives overseas and is dating a member of a rather famous band.

Moral of the story: Stop stalking! Back away from the computer. Go for a run, go to a café, write some lyrics, have a double gin.

Or even better, write a blog post telling the cyber world detailing just how pathetic you are.

Face The Music: A response

Reading this weekends’ Spectrum supplement of the Saturday Sydney Morning Herald, I was struck by the seemingly erroneous juxtaposition of Ruth Ritchie’s delightful musings upon her love of the television show which has not only captured the hearts of all, but also single-handedly revived the cravat as accessory du jour, Masterchef, against John Harris’ essay investigating the progression and place of music journalism.

Ritchie begins her piece by stating “Fans don’t make good critics”, finishing with the assertion that as fans we “simply love too deeply, too blindly, too boringly to be true…(and hence it is a) good thing so few fans type”.

Conversely, Harris contends that as accessibility to music has shifted from communal experiences of the latest Stones LP to late night downloads and ipod playlists “liberated from context”, the style of musical journalism has similarly changed. Gone are the Almost Famous experiences of the journalist living the experience and context of production, replaced by bit-part reviews to satisfy puff box requirements. In this way, the ‘writerly flourishes of yesteryear” have been lost, replaced by market awareness, record company contractual relationship awareness and branding.

In this sense, it seems the passion has largely disappeared from music writing. Is Ruth Ritchie in this case wrong? Is there a place for fans as critics and reporters?

Much has been written of the symbiotic relationship between emerging artists and forums which engage fans in new media. Despite its death as the choice of social networks, Myspace remains an integral and respected method by which both new and established artists can publish works, communicate directly with fans and other musicians, and most importantly, manage their own image with the pages often serving as first point of contact.

Similarly, Twitter has recently become a focus of commercial entities as a means of freely advertising and informing of happenings within the music industry. Locally, record label Ivy League Records has wholeheartedly embraced the concept of the ‘tweet’ update of the activities of their artists, most notably Red Riders, whose recently released album Drown In Colour has benefited significantly from a ground level buzz campaign.

Both of these forums provide a means where fans and music enthusiasts can directly interact with musicians in live time, and this in turn facilitates a community of sharing whereby social networking tools become mediums for review. Album releases, gigs and any artist activity is the subject of appraisal by those most acutely aware of the position the group occupies within the musical sphere.

Contrast this with a comment made by the oft-mentioned Jack Ladder, who criticised the tendency of professional music journalists to attempt to too easily typecast and categorise musicians. In doing so, the writer allows the reader to instantly identify, and henceforth subjectify the music emerging to personal critique within this framework.

Ladder bemoaned this lazy journalism as tantamount to misrepresentation, citing the comparisons made of him as example. Often described as a reimagining of Nick Cave, Ladder sees such a supposed resemblance as a disservice to both Cave and himself which serves only to leave potential fans dissatisfied. Compare this instead to the no doubt well-meaning, intensely passionate however somewhat derivative praise given by one fan for new single The Barber’s Son: “Jack Ladder could make reading the phonebook sound sexual.”


You won’t find passion like that in the pages of Sydney Morning Herald.

Similarly, music editors are quick to latch onto the latest perceived ‘hot thing’ which results in disproportionate coverage of certain artists to the detriment of others. In a listener-driven forum, there is a democratisation of participation. Most recent case in point: the onslaught of media attention devoted to Melbourne band The Temper Trap. The band is undoubtedly highly skilled, and I am admittedly a fan having seen them in their final show before leaving for London and SXSW. However since their inclusion in the BBC list of 2009 bands to watch list, the group have been lauded across every media channel imaginable despite having only released initial single Sweet Disposition at the time. Similarly, recently released Grizzly Bear album Veckatimist has been feted as the must have album of the year. Whilst brilliant, immediately and so blindly placing a work on a pedestal just because every other outlet is doing the same reeks of journalistic apathy.

The major difference which separates the fan from the professional is distance. Distance in two senses: namely distance from the music, and distance from the artist.

Distance from music in that the fan has actively sought out, (somewhat) independently appraised and chosen to include the music within their personal rotation. As Lester Bangs states, “You got to get beneath the surface: If these people turned up on your doorstep, would you invite them in? And if not, why are you listening to their music?”.

The fan makes a personal, long standing commitment to the sound as a partial reflection of their identity. The journalist reviews in order to tick off their to-do list of tasks to qualify for salary. Whilst enjoyment may occur, it is secondary to the professional demand.

Distance from the artist is seen in terms of accessibility. The artist is (and in some ways, should be) physically distant from the fan. The professional has access in an interview capacity, able to directly question and understand motivations.

This is inherently advantageous, as the average writer is left to pick up quotes and fact scraps from professional writing (as clearly evident here!).

Is there a solution? Possibly not… and I have neither the energy nor wordspace to ponder one. This is nearly 1000 words of pondering… quite enough for one day… now off to pad it out with pretty pictures.

Music Makes You Lose Control...

I have often criticised fashion blogs for the tendency to blindly reproduce catwalk shots in list format and pass this off as avant guarde.

Anyone empowered with Google power can present a vertical slideshow of the latest Balmain campaign, or this seasons' Balenciaga accessories range.

However.... (massive hypocrisy alert).... I am committing a similar sin, however in musical form.

I am the kind of person who could quite happily be stuck alone on a desert island, provided of course, with sufficient gin and a very well stocked ipod. As I write this, I am cocooned in my study, radio blasting the Triple J Hottest 100 of all time. I am having quite the animated discussion with Richard Kingsmill as to what I think of the chart listing (Hating the high position of Hilltop Hoods... appalling). Strangely enough, the conversation is somewhat one way, as evidently I cannot convey my opinions through my powers of telepathy.

Nonetheless I am thoroughly enjoying my Sunday afternoon, and hence feel inclined to share some of my favourite new tunes in the hope that I can spread the love, and perhaps someone will reciprocate this joy.

So here are my favourite musical tidbits I am currently obsessing over:

Kid Sam

A two-piece band from Melbourne, I was introduced to this group as part of the support for the Jack Ladder tour earlier this month. Quite simply, they are sublime. Their debut self-titled EP has been receiving high (cyber) rotation on my playlist and the songs grow on you with each subsequent listen.

Well worth checking out at myspace.com/kidsam or you can do a sneaky free download of a few tracks at the Triple J unearthed page (I highly recommend 'We're Mostly Made of Water')

Red Riders

A cheeky four piece from Sydney, Red Riders have released their second feature album, Drown in Colour this week. When not digesting the Hottest 100, I have been enjoying little samples of this record, and it really is hard to go past the delightful second single, 'Ordinary'.

Check the film clip- it's positively Mighty Boosh inspired






Finally (for today)...

We Say Bamboulee

A charming three-piece electro-pop group from the Blue Mountains just outside Sydney. This eclectic bunch of little hipsters have emerged through the vibrant Sydney University music community and have been playing regular shows around Sydney for some time now, including support slots for Art vs Science, and soon Philadelphia Grand Jury.

Live, the group has the feel of an electric garage band, where audience members are invited to form an intimate formation of friends. The almost deliberately haphazard approach to shows (including a Popular Penguin propping up a synth in a gig in Glebe not so long ago) is positively charming, and tracks such as 'Funeral Social' are so poppy and infectious, its almost impossible not to smile.

www.myspace.com/wesaybamboulee

Hope this music gives you the same happy times it delivers me... please help me out with some equally delightful tunes

xx

(Not) Worth Waiting For?

Over dinner last night, Miss L, our friend N and I were discussing another friend and his blossoming friendship with a female new to his friendship circle. N pointed out our friends’ romantic intentions towards this girl, and cautioned he was getting dangerously close to being stuck in the “Friendzone”.

I nearly choked on my Merlot in surprise at such a term, whilst Miss L nodded, apparently completely understanding what N was attempting to express.

I sought definitional clarification. Rolling his eyes, N explained the Friendzone was the awkward position one can be stuck in when they have so firmly engrained the foundations of friendship, that the other party cannot envision anything beyond this type of relationship and is therefore oblivious to the burning fire held for them in another’s heart.

In short, it’s relationship limbo. A failure to christen and define spells a lifetime in platonic purgatory.

I must admit, this is a problem I have never faced. My relationships do not spring from long established friendly bonds. Rather, passionate intensity paves for a connection where it is passion first, and friendship an evolutionary, developmental step in the relationship.

As could be expected however, this fervour is not always sustained when the relationship must move beyond the transcendental honeymoon period and must weather the mundane.

On occasion it has been successful, and this has resulted in long term involvements based not only on intensely close bonds, but sustained zeal.

More often than not, ardour sizzles and dies spectacularly.

Is it a case of too much, too soon? Perhaps.

But in reverse, can there be such a thing as too slow? Is there a time period by which one must act, or risk losing the opportunity forever?

It’s a complicated issue, and I suppose from my perspective, whilst the abrupt end to a relationship coinciding with an end of ease and transition into an effort situation is desperately painful, I would prefer this to the waning and waiting for someone to recognise my true feelings veiled by an engagement couched in friendship.

Either way, it’s a pretty messy situation, so here'sa completely gratuitous shot of lovely Versailles band Phoenix. Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix makes the bad go away.

Late Night Musings #3401

I like to think I'm quite profound in the dead of night.

Tonight is one such example.

I see multiple bottles of rather horrid cheap red wine (Cold Chisel?) as no impediment to my literary genius.

So I give you this piece of wisdom kiddoes:

There is a limit to how much pot one can smoke, before you become a bit of a fuckwit.

Don't harm the genetic potential of my future progeny.

Ta.

Love Games

*blog title entirely devoted to Miss L’s new-found obsession with Lady Gaga, as well as of course the most famous Mighty Boosh song, sung by my favourite little downstairs mix-up, Old Gregg*

After my post a few days ago regarding types of men I have been attracted to over the years, Miss L followed up with her assessment of the same issue with great humour and an almost gratuitous photo homage to Zac Efron….

And it struck me that according to her flipbook of sexual desires, Miss L appears quite content with a man who can rock a pair of Ray-bans with attitude (indeed she even accessorised Mr Potter!).

So if she were to compose a list of desirable attributes in a future partner, his ability to rock the glasses would come top?

Or would this be trumped by a deeper desire, more befitting of a meaningful relationship, where accessorising skills came a distant second?

In my case, I have found that whilst my surface desires are often apparently indeed that (bloody shallow), the substance of my actual relationship is deeply different from anything I would write on a list cataloguing my desired attributes.

I am not as skilled as Miss L in creating pictorial representations of dreamboat men in Paint, so instead I shall refer to a list I wrote at age 12, kept in a diary for posterity (and giggles) which describes ad nauseum, my dream boy:
-blonde hair
-blue eyes
-tall and tanned
-preferably in a boy band

Aka I saw myself marrying Taylor Hanson. I’m fairly certain I had planned the wedding and everything… with matching shoulder length blonde hair we would have quite the fetching wedding album *ugh*.

Needless to say, I never actually dated anyone remotely similar to the list I had devised in my mind (thank god!).

Similarly, if I was to compose a list of my present day desires, they would certainly not paint an image of the men I have dated in the not-so distant past. The previously depicted representation of the dirty, indie rocker is far removed from the actual man, who have all been fairly straight, university attending, high achieving individuals who would look horribly out of place pacing the stage of Spectrum.

Similarly, that swagger and arrogance intrinsically linked with guitar virtuosity would be horribly suited to a functional relationship. My relationships are big enough for my ego only.

Apparently relationship books encourage the desperate and dateless to write a checklist of what they want in a potential partner.

I wouldn’t know as I have never read one… apart from ‘The Game’. I read this after spotting it on the bookshelf of a man I was involved in next to more worthy tomes such as his Environmental Management, Physics and Australian History textbooks.
This horrified me: Did his strategic bookshelfing indicate its worth in his life? Did he religiously study this in the same way one would rote learn Einstein's theories before a final exam? Was I an assignment? Some form of assessment as to the level of his skills learnt from such studious application?


Needless to say, after leaving his apartment, I hurried across to Borders to get a Chamomile Tea to calm my shattered nerves, and a copy of Neil Strauss’s step by step guide to transform the ‘average frustrated chump’ to ‘master pick-up artist”.

I shuddered as I flicked through the pages and realised just how many of these ‘techniques’ had been trialled upon me by various men throughout my young adulthood.

And I began thinking: Is ‘The Game’ mandatory reading in boys’ high schools? Young women read Pride and Prejudice in gaining an understanding of Austen’s representations of society and relationships, whilst young men learn that ‘negging’ is the way into a woman’s pants?

So now, I compose a new checklist of desirable attributes, devastatingly effective in its simplicity:
Does not have ‘The Game’ as a seminal influence in his understanding of relationships.
See Number 1.

Hopefully then I shall avoid the awful gameplaying (pun entirely intended) experienced in the declining stages of this particular dalliance.

Back to Black

My friend G and I were having a little chat on good old facebook the other day regarding the ‘type’ of man we are attracted to, and whether we can actually and truthfully define our personal preferences.

She was of the opinion that my predilections were quite clearly identifiable, and provided a neat, and somewhat dashing appraisal of my so-called ‘taste’:

“A, you appear to have a vile obsession with men who look like they stink”.

She then proceeded to list men I have expressed lusty desire towards which filled her criteria of potential aroma offenders:
-Russell Brand
-Noel Fielding
-Richard Ayoade
-and just about any member of any Indie band wearing black skinny jeans

However, I have not always displayed such an inclination for the scruffy, STI-carrying types. In fact, my early partialities were of a far safer, less drug-abusing type.

So now it is time for an embarrassing confession (aka moment I lose any shred of dignity remaining)…

My early childhood crushes included none other than Jonathan Taylor Thomas…. And Taylor Hanson. I am the poster child of TV Hits poster devotion.

Retrospective psychological analysis (performed by myself…. I mean, its certainly deserving after such a traumatic sexual attraction) reveals such appeal was more than likely linked to their apparent femininity, lack of threatening masculinity and squeak clean image. Let’s call it the Zac Efron effect.

Phew… off the hook with that one.


On to the next stage of life.

From the age of about fourteen onwards, my choice in man was clear. Like the cheerleader in any clichéd American teen flick, I loved the jock. From the GPS swimmer, to the NSW rugby union representative, to the Australian rower, these were my men. Minimum 190cm, strong and intensely masculine.

So much so that their Adonis physique was supplemented with a less than godly personality, and I learnt the hard way that the brutish competitive mentality so desired on the sporting field unfortunately carried on into the relationship (and no, not in a good way you kinky minded folk!).

Freudian dissection of such a desire? Well in this instance I quote a drunken song composed by Miss L after a night of gin-induced hijinks:

“m-m-m muscles, drive me crazy
You’re in trouble with the ladies…”

It went on, but got a little dirty. Whilst this blog is in no way G rated, perhaps we will save subsequent stanzas for an in person performance (with wine bottle as microphone of course).

Thankfully, this phase of Alpha Male dating has passed. However, I am just as troubled by my attraction to the filthy virility of thew aforementioned ‘stinkers’. Whilst I defy any woman to deny the attractiveness of rock star attitude, in truth the combination of skinny jeans, leather and androgyny really aren’t a winning package.

What does this fascination say about me? Am I subconsciously drawn to a live of heroin hovels, poverty and rancid dwellings? I really jolly well hope not.

Let’s in fact hope that my type continues to develop past this devolution in subliminal genetic screening to someone who at the very minimum, is not a walking disease factory.

Finally… my lovely friend G’s thoughts on the latest gent to tickle my fancy (the lovely Mr Ladder of course):

“well A, at least he looks as if he showers. Good work”.