~ killer zombies

On facebook, my old colleague Robert Chuter recently posted some images from a short film of the mid 80’s called ‘Killer Zombies’ made by Zlatco Kasumovic. The prosthetic work, done largely by Vivienne MacGillycuddy, was first class, but for the zombies themselves it was a test of endurance. These are polaroids of a mould of my head being taken.





The process resulted in this souvenir - my old head, wrought in plaster, which I think I’ve shown on this blog before. It still sits in a corner of my office. Like a death mask. Like – as it gathers dust, chips and scrapes – the image of Dorian Grey.



One of the hardest things to throw out ... one’s own head ...

Onto this cast the makeup artists layered up prosthetic devices of ... latex, I think, then painted, textured them etc. Ultimately they wound up looking thus:




Activity on our set, I think in the decaying Herald-Sun building on Flinders St, was curious enough to attract the attention of the press. The following clipping appeared in the early edition of the now defunct Herald. Despite the mistaken spelling, one of my favoured appearances in the written media.

* 10 February 1981, 11.10pm

Generally, I don’t have much truck with censorship, but I have to be careful with this ancient diary [and, indeed, the current one] – especially when names are mentioned. Basically, I don’t want to hurt or abhor relatives and friends who nurture sweet memories, nor do I necessarily want to freak out any net readership.

Upshot is, I’m going to blank out some ‘sensitive’ passages. Use your imagination…

I’ve also corrected some uses of uncouth US spelling.

This second diary entry was made late on the same day as the first.

*

And so I rush to the kitchen and frantically paint, feverishly adding to my film jungle, not daring to stop and think what else I could be doing – what other constructions I could be involved in – forever thinking of phrases to supplement this diary.

I don't think this cataloguing of myself is self-indulgent. I take far too little time, of late, to examine my actions. The diary will hopefully help me keep an eye on myself – rejuvenate my hold on myself, my vision of myself.

Or is that all passed now, with my adolescence? I suspect it may be, though I cannot be sure.

My memory for instance. Once, when I fashioned a sentence... I cannot remember having the trouble I have now of forgetting how the terrible thing began as I came to its conclusion…

Grammer! There must be something wrong...

As my group [The Ears] becomes more recognised, so do I. And in this way I learn to recognise myself... Again, after first I lost my dignity... my self-esteem... when I bared my naivety to those naïve faces... But only music. Not even that, I suppose…

[? The above paragraph may refer to some event my earlier self was so embarrassed by he could not bear to put it into words.]

I am tired and I am confusing myself.

Today we practised without [bassist] Cathy. It was not a fulfilling rehearsal. We drank in The Office afterwards, frustrated. We played some pool and I left, determined to achieve something – I don’t know what. Christine and I tried to buy some heroin, but it seems at this stage that we’ve failed. She ___ ___ as we watched TV with Troy.

I completed a crossword, but faked two words.

I’m considering using the World Series Cricket theme in the group. The melody, though, is hard to figure out …

*

What a marvellous idea …

At least it seemed to be at the time and, who knows, maybe it was? Gus, the best technical musician in the band, sorted out the notes and, for at least a year, the Ears opened their set with a highly orchestrated cover of Channel Nine’s theme for the Wide World of Sport. It did seem cool, somehow.

In this period, I had cultivated at least half the kitchen with a ‘film jungle’. Strips of 35mm film hung thickly from the ceiling like vines. It was a good effect, if I remember correctly. You could sit at the kitchen table and examine frames by staring through them at the light …

George - my best friend in secret craziness – was always my partner in projects like this. He was, at that stage, a photographer, and his maxim was – if you get enough of a thing, it’s going to always look good. We collected a lot of a lot of things. Cats, kitchen chairs, roast chickens… In crimson, we painted the word ‘photo’ on the ceiling in Milton St so many times, it did, indeed, look good. But I’ll talk about George in a later post …

The Office was a pub across the road from Gus Till’s house, in the basement of which we rehearsed. Gus's was a double storey terrace that has long since disappeared under a widening Punt Rd. The Office has transmuted into a Seven-Eleven.

One last note. Though there’s much mention of heroin, it was still a recreational thing for most of us. We were innocents. The real slaughter was yet to come.

Diary of 1981 - index