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@thisishowmyheartbeats-blog
I've recently posted this video but here is a question to ponder.
You know you've watched this video too many times when:
(a) you notice the hole in the evil dwarf's pants;
(b) you can only focus on the hole in the evil dwarf's pants;
(c) you can only focus on the dwarf in the evil dwarf's pants; or
(d) all of the above
I can’t bear to live in a world that has qualified Mall Emo as a sub genre but has blatantly disregarded Japanese Math Rock. What kind of motherfucker doesn’t like arithmetic?
I struggle to determine why I am so enamoured of this particular performance. I suspect it is in some part due to the fact that the evil dwarf’s vocals tend to sound guttural when he's singing live but here his sonorous baritone is clear and mellifluous. I think it’s mostly due to those muscular thighs in those tight, tight jeans. As you were.
The day’s travails have taken their toll, my head is racked by an unceasing discord and now sleep just won’t come. It all comes to naught in the end. I have Matisyahu on repeat and all is well in the world. For now.
The band is called You Slut! and the track is titled Elton Chong. Seriously, what more do you want from me? Don’t be so goddamn demanding.
Sigh. Freddie Mercury was the coolest cunt in the history of cool cunts.
Ponderosa are a remarkable band and 'Pool Party' is fast becoming my favourite album*.
Lead singer, Kalen Nash is also remarkable purely because I am quite partial to hairy chunks of men who possess the ability to woo me with a simple song. Can anyone deliver a more mellifluous vocal than Nash? That warm timbre, that tone - as thick and viscous as honey. I have a lady boner. If (a) it were physically feasible and (b) I had a sense of misadventure then I would totally be making love to Nash's voice right now.
Ponderosa are having a pool party in my pants and you are more than welcome to join.
* until something far more remarkable monopolises my attention.
Rocket Science @ the Annandale Hotel
Rocket Science have always held a lofty rank on the local music scene’s pecking order but surprisingly their ‘60s-influenced, swaggering garage rock has managed to hold just a tenuous grip on the public’s consciousness – and only just. It’s unfortunate that The Vines got to the finish line first.
You see, they’re the Terry Molloy of Australian rock. They coulda been contenders but somehow the only spoils which awaited them was a one way ticket to Palooka-ville. Therein lies the conundrum. They’re perhaps one of the best live acts this country has seen and yet they’ve faded into a virtual obscurity, eliciting queries of “what ever happened to Rocket Science?”
Well a lot has happened – and perhaps nothing at all. Of course, Roman Tucker’s much publicised fall has proven to me more of a setback than initially expected. Cranial swelling, an induced coma and post traumatic amnesia are not something one can readily bounce back from.
All this counts for naught when the band finally takes to the stage. Tucker struts and preens from the get go. Full of bravado, screaming amidst the fuzz and distortion and bashing his keyboard to within an inch of its life. The boys are finally back and it ain’t gonna be pretty.
They launch into a much punchier rendition of Run Like a Gun and whilst Paul Maybury and Dave Gray steadily bookend Tucker, he plays like a man possessed. “I went to the funeral parlour, to see if I could get in”, he sings and as he shakes his head a spray of sweat envelops his lithe form and onto the front row who are eagerly lapping up his shtick.
They preview a new song Alive and the crowd whoops and yells but something tells me that no matter what Tucker sings it would still be heartily received. They’re not here to celebrate this particular moment, nor this particular song. The crowd is here to lionise a band for whom such an honour is well overdue.
Tucker marchers like a cheerleader, his hands flailing like a windmill. He is a snake hipped rock rockette bringing his filtered garage punk to this motley crew which consists of equal parts hipsters, dilettantes and social miscreants. The crowd is thick but there are not enough numbers for a city that likes to vociferously declare its penchant for live music. Sydney has once again failed to come to the party. Maybe we’re deluding ourselves if this is the best reception we can offer one of this countries better live acts.
If truth be told, the performance is characterised by a cloying sense of muchness. There is no ebb. There is no flow. Their songs meld into each other, an endless barrage of distortion and shrieking vocals and it’s not until Being Followed that the band hit their stride. Everyone’s been waiting for this song. For the familiar tone of the organ and that killer bassline. The crowd is receptive, the bartender is playing air guitar and my companion is spilling precious beer on those within close proximity to him.
Kit Warhurst proves his mettle on drums and is an intriguing presence on stage. It’s hard to be noticed when your frontman is preening like a peacock but Warhurst is a consummate musician and manages to do so with aplomb.
Tucker jerks and flails, a paroxysm of tics and twitches that have come to be his trademark. The assembled crowd is transfixed. He’s like an epileptic pied piper. He waves his hand around the theremin, fixing an intense gaze on the antenna for protracted intervals. He engages in a studious display of aerial fingering that casts an ethereal pall over the room. At times I think he’s catatonic. Or under the influence. Probably both.
When he’s not engaging in carnal relations with his theremin, Tucker disappears under his keyboard, a disjointed hand still working the keys. He finally jumps up and emits a screeching yawl amid the discord of the guitars. The insurrection ends as quickly as it began.
We quickly step out into the rain soaked street and wear the thin spray of rain drops like a familiar overcoat. The night is deathly still. We open our mouths to speak but neither of us hears a single sound. The tinnitus impairs our hearing; the din swallows the murmur of our voices. Rocket Science have quite literally assailed our senses in a way that no band has ever done before and we like it.
If there was any justice in this unforgiving world, I would wake up tomorrow 5 kilos lighter, the Tim Tam genie would be at my constant beck and call and Rocket Science would receive the recognition they so rightly deserve. Sadly, such chimerical designs have no place in this world. These love handles are here for the long haul and the man I’ve been pining for is nothing but a clever advertising ploy.
Yes, it’s a cruel and heartless world and it looks like it just might be the express back to Palooka-ville for these boys. Or, maybe not. At least this one, my friends, is entirely up to you.
Jesus died for somebody's sins, but not mine. My sins my own, they belong to me. - Patti Smith
I still love your leather face.
Dear Tapes ‘n Tapes,
Excuse me please! I don’t know what an up-stock cowboy is but now you’ve made me yearn for one. And a taco. And a clandestine homoerotic liaison. Godammit! Why do you have to complicate my life? I just wanted to listen to some jaunty tunes.
Kind regards,
tihmhb
Heavy metal band names which make me feel a bit sad #2
Satan’s Awkward Gropings.
A groping should never, ever be awkward. This makes me sad.
I think I’m the cat’s pyjamas. However, if I was forced against my will to be someone else, like if someone twisted my arm behind my back and inflicted a rather nasty chinese burn (which left an unattractive red mark and curled all my arm hairs) and said, ‘You have to be someone else’, then I would like to be Jenny Hval. She’s my type of awesome. No-one else can sing in the key of caterwaul like she does and, like Jenny, I am also of the opinion that there are too many Neils and Emmas. There should be more Chrissies though. We’re good people, goddammit.
There is no salve more comforting to this wearied heart than Nick Cave’s plaintive yawl and his unreservedly melancholic tunes. If I were to ever have a human baby thing I would sacrifice it in a heartbeat just to be the sweetheart Cave sings of.
If you ask me what I came to do in this world, I, an artist, I will answer you: "I am here to live out loud" - Emile Zola
Behold the most rock and roll cunt your eyes will ever gaze upon. Forget your vacuous rock stars and Justin Beavers. Although I did hear that the Beaver’s favourite book is Therese Raquin.
Emile Zola: waking up humanity since 1840.
Heavy metal band names which make me feel a bit sad #1
Lawnmower Deth
Surely there are worse fates than being killed by a piece of gardening equipment? The misspelling doesn’t make it sound more grisly either. It’s a lawnmower, dudes. At least if it was a whippersnipper then groupies would be more inclined to sit on your face.
Here's a rather droll story about the minutiae of my daily life. I have the Dahlback remix of Romantic Rights as my ringtone. In the midst of shopping earlier this afternoon, I absentmindedly placed my phone on the counter whilst making a transaction. My phone proceeded to ring and consequently scared the pants off the unsuspecting sales assistant. It managed to put a smile in my heart unlike anything else. thisishowmyheartbeats: scaring minimum wage sales employees since 2005.
