~ wry

I’ve had a good week. My grant proposal for Ambergris (the play I’ve been battling with for a few years now) was accepted by the Victorian Arts Ministry. It’s been a long time since I’ve attempted one of these and, towards the end of the tram-ride to Brunswick for the announcements, I’d more or less convinced myself there was no way I was going to get it. As a result, when I found my name on the list (coupled with the descriptor 'Mt Waverley') I practically fainted. I couldn’t have been more excited if I’d won a Nobel Prize.

Speaking of prizes, if you’re in need of some comprehensive entertainment, watch Steve Kilbey’s acceptance speech for The Church’s induction into the Aria Hall of Fame. Quel raconteur! (I could only find it on facebook, but it must exist elsewhere)

Speaking of Mt Waverley, it’s the time of bleating baby magpies. A family of these birds has staked a place in the peppermint gum outside my study window, and their child is incorrigible. Three times I had to go out there today with a broomstick. There is also a nest of brown thornbills, smaller than sparrows, whose trills and tweets are completely charming.

I had what amounted to a panic attack in a crowded Vic Roads office today. I think I was experiencing flashbacks of jail. The guy behind the counter looked like a screw - thick-set and crewcut - and he had me utterly flustered trying to explain the identity of the person from whom I was trying to transfer ownership of my new car... It was horrible. But Polly wants to marry a mango-tree when she grows up, and I suppose that’s positive. Also, there is at least one kid at her school who is allergic to band-aids. Go figure. Additionally, on the radio, I believe I heard an advertisement for a model of car called an Autobiography. If I wasn’t dreaming, that’s got to be strong indicator of the social climate.

On Saturday night, accompanied by my exotic Japanese friend M, I went to The Old Bar to see Harry Howard and The Near Death Experience. It was raining torrentially and the atmosphere in the place was a little wanting, but they were far from. They were kind of... curious, intriguing, definitively offbeat. I couldn’t possibly think of anything with which to compare them. They were far more rhythm than melody, with a kind of weird, elusive 60’s pop influence, or something ... and though their songs were concerned with death, sickness, hate and so forth, the prevailing mood was, well, wry. But then, I guess, any band containing Harry Howard could not fail to be wry. It was also good to watch Claire Moore’s drumming. I haven’t seen her do that for an aeon.

By the way, here's the cover art for the forthcoming CD from The Ears. And yes, after a strictly commercial decision, it's called Dogs in Space.

* June 18 1981 Thursday 11.45pm

I did rather well at the advertising agency. It feels like I’ll get work of some sort, hopefully lucrative. I might get Martin Kantor to do a folio for me.

With the hundred dollars given me by The Ears, I have organised all the finances for the flat. I’m just am waiting for Carol and her gay friends to move out.

I have an appalling case of diarrhoea.

Been staying at Phillipa W----‘s a great deal. I like her. She has very soft skin. After Inflation on Monday was where it (probably) really began. We’ll see …

The new group is sounding good, like it will be a success. Again, we’ll see … We may call it ‘The Hat’, and I may dress as a vicious Mongolian from the Dark Ages.

Went to the Philosophy Club tonight and had coffee with Cathy Denny.

*

Why, oh why, didn’t we call it ‘The Hat’?

I think ‘faggot’ is more of a pejorative term now than then. Whenever I come across it in these diaries, I feel obliged to change it to gay or queer. Back then it was much more endearing.

The subject of Martin Kantor actually came up the other day, by way of my friend Tanya. It seems that they've moved to Byron Bay and spawned a small daughter. I went to uni with Martin and he used to take some great band photos. I was always particularly impressed by the fact he worked for The Truth. Remember The Truth?

I recall listening to one of The Church’s early singles on the cassette player by the bed in Phillipa’s room and having a good long think about it. From their discography, it had to be Unguarded Moment, as its follow up, according to Wikipedia, hadn’t been released.

The Philosophy Club is a subject in itself. It wasn’t really a club, it was The School of Philosophy and I went there at the behest of my crazy friend George.

Remember those ads in Saturday’s Age? Back when there were two parts, instead of thirteen? On the front page of the second half, there was always an ad simply titled ‘Philosophy’ with a block of text beneath. It may still be appearing, for all I know, and the School of Philosophy may still be with us.

Not unsurprisingly, given George’s involvement, it turned out to be sinister cult. They appeared almost normal. They held public introductory meetings ran six week courses, but the men were required to wear dark suits and the women long skirts. The chairs at these meetings were wooden and hard because, George told me, it helped concentrate the attention. They sourced texts like The Gita, The Upanishads, The Bible, all the great wisdom of the world regardless of creed, but once you started going to their weekend retreats they would practise sleep deprivation and other mind control techniques, and would encourage you to expand your intellectual horizons by deeding them your house.

Diaries - 1981

And lastly, a picture from The Ears' rehearsal last Sunday.

~ bared beneath the ruthless neon

Before all else, I must tell you that we saw a sundog. For me, it was the first time. Something about the notion of sundogs, and the name. I’ve always loved them.

Now, experiencing The Church as a support band is a rare thing, but on this occasion – opening for The Divinyls at The Forum– they truly compensated for their lesser billing with an outstanding performance. Actually, I think it was one of the better Church gigs I’ve seen, at least in recent memory. Mr Wilson-Piper was impressive, cultivating the persona of a hunted bushranger, while Mr Kilbey was sufficiently limber to goad the audience with a yoga position, or two.

I’ve never really been a Divinyls fan, though one has to respect Chrissie Amphlett. Last night, I gave up after a few songs - too many strange Eighties overtones. The Divinyls used to be one of the scariest Australian pub-rock bands of their time. Meaner, possibly, than Cold Chisel. Yet not as dire as Midnight Oil. I’m speaking from the vantage of a lowly support band, of course, recalling the surly, lumpen, violently-inclined road crews with who we used to have to deal. Divinyls had the worst reputation for limiting volume, pulling channels and lights etc… I wonder if those nasty customs have endured into the current day? I’d like to think not.

The Church invited their friends down to a suite in the bowels of the Forum, where the chairs collapsed whenever I made a sudden move. It was there I met Sacha, my supposed doppelganger, of whom I spoke way back when I first began The Sails of Oblivion. Yes, there is a resemblance, but it’s more an overall impression rather than anything specific. His facial features, for instance, are quite different to mine, while the manner in which he lurches around is possibly quite similar. A nice guy too, by the way.

steve, me, donald, lynne

There’s a group of people, friends, who seem to only get together when Steve is in town; Donald, Simon. Bruce, Lynne, Sarah, Danny – and in the short period before I had to catch the last train - and despite my ordinary mood – I relaxed and enjoyed their company, without speaking very much at all.

I was astonished to encounter my long lost friend, Keisha. It was completely unexpected - she was there because she was a friend of the promoter. I have not seen her for years. Strange, because she’s been on my mind recently. I’d been worried for her, as the last time I saw her she was teetering on a precipitous brink – and could have gone either way.

Well, she toppled over, naturally, but claims to have crept back up. Judging from how healthy she looked, I had to believe her. And it seems as if circumstances are working for her, as usual … money, property, share portfolios; all dropping in her lap for the most bizarre [and unrecountable] of reasons. It’s hard to explain Keisha. She is unique. She has a certain beauty that attracts certain kinds of men [like ants to canned pineapple] – and on these men she happily thrives. But there are many other facets to her that defy description. We originally met via an obsession she was having with Michael Hutchence, which extended to the movie Dogs in Space and thence to me…

Oh, one more thing. I’ve been back in the petting zoo with Polly [and my briefcase]. A different one this time, classier birds and beasts, many with unusual growths on their heads. It was in Jells Park, during the hours immediately prior to Carols by Candlelight. J G Ballard has spoken of suburbia as the future psychic battleground of humanity and on this afternoon we caught a terrifying glimpse of his meaning. Pictured beneath are denizens of the marginal zones - four hours out from the carols and already in complete readiness.

Also in a state of preparedness was this mobile excrement pit or Faecal Utility Vehicle. It loomed with monstrous potential over the digestive systems of a steadily swelling crowd.

~ tinselled excruciations, baubled spores

Weariness and worry – keywords of the holiday season.

Polly’s crèche held its Christmas do on Friday afternoon and we were obliged to attend – not least because Santa was arriving on a fire-engine. Polly has seen a lot of Santas lately and there has been much private churning in that growing head. For now, she has decided that all Santas but for the crèche Santa are false, particularly if they charge money for photographs.

We collapsed on some dry yellowing grass and swatted flies as we waited for our child to get satisfaction, which in time she did. Then we were away, by train, with Polly’s sweet little friend Mia, to the ‘Gala’ performance of Roald Dahl’s The Witches at Kaleide [RMIT]. This is Lynne Ellis’s kid’s show for 2007/08 and as usual it was hilarious, but I wasn’t quite in the mood. Neither was Mia; unlike Polly she hasn’t had much exposure to theatre and within seconds she was bawling with fear. A half hour of gentle cajoling resulted in her sitting up front with the other kids and loving it.

There was a celebration afterwards, but I didn’t enjoy it. I’m too worried about my partner. She’s too worried about money, and Christmas. I’m worried about money too – I think I’m the most penurious I’ve been in recent times and for some stupid reason it shames me. And – big surprise – the Spores are out, bedecked in Christmas regalia, revelling in the dark reaches of the soul, and sucking the will from my other half.

During the week, I had a meeting with a Romanian. I gave him some ‘quarantined’ money and explained that some of his business methods were destroying my family and would he cool off just a little. He said, sure, and then let me know that he’d found god. And that I should clean up my garage. Right. Sadly, some one has let him know where we live, against some very explicit instructions …

It just goes on and on. Horror without end. I wonder if I might obtain results by assuming the role of father, not only to my daughter, but to my wife? There are real trust issues in play here. There are lies being told. Things being stolen. Lines crossed which have not been crossed before… But before I can take any moral high ground, I must curtail are my own occasional lapses… I have to become without fault, and walk like a Jesus upon this Earth … if only …

Yesterday, Polly and I watched a choir recital. Her grandmother Di is one of the singers and it was pleasant to close my eyes and listen to those sweet voices. It had been my plan to join this choir next year, but now I am in two minds. The leader made the audience wait almost twenty minutes for her family to arrive. There’s something strange about that, isn’t there? Something a little, well … selfish? You see, I thought it was a community choir type thing, but the leader kept referring to it as her ‘job’ and later I learned that the members pay $15 a week to participate … If it’s her ‘work’ and everyone’s paying, isn’t it just a little much to hold a [paying] audience that long because her husband was waiting for their two year old to wake up?

See the mood I’m in? To make matters worse, when Di introduced me to this choir leader as a possible future member, she – crime of all crimes – briskly nodded, didn’t even turn to look at me and resumed a conversation with someone else. But if not this choir, then another. I really need to start singing again – I think I’ll be better for it, all round. Music is the universal panacea.

Tonight, I’m going with Lynne to see The Church and The Divinyls. I may be in a better mood by then