~ exquisite corpse

For the first time in a very long time, I've sat down, picked up a guitar and written a song. I'm not sure what to blame it on. Perhaps a reduction in some of my medications ... More likely the gig I attended Saturday night at Ding Dong. I really enjoyed the simple, straight ahead style of SK and Ricky Maymi from the Brian Jonestown Massacre. And this after spending ninety minutes entirely inert on stage imitating a corpse in a show called The Real Inspector Hound. (I suffered some exquisite torture during that seemingly endless play, and learned some very dark secrets about myself.)

Since the Crystal Ballroom show, The Ears have been rehearsing fortnightly at our drummer Carl's place, and enjoying it mightily - though I expect we'd get more achieved if alcohol consumption levels were reduced just a tad.

We're generating new songs too. About four or five since our recohesion. I was a little leery about this at first, thinking of the Ears as some ancient artefact which audiences wouldn't want to see change. But I've altered my thinking. Against the odds we've become a living band again, and living bands produce new material. Also, in these latter days, wonderfully, it doesn't seem to matter what inestimable age you might reach - you just keep going till you drop.

So about this song I've written. Those creatures of the upper air, who pass through my dreams, leaving clues for plots and dialogue and melodies, have intimated strongly that its title should be Basking Shark ...

We'll breed a Basking Shark for you.

A last! A Basking Shark for you

I do worry that it might seem obscure, inaccessible, even meaningless. I know I have a tendency to alienate potential listeners, readers, what have you, with my love for the arcane, but trust me, I have integrated the basking shark into the lyrics in a way that makes good and proper sense, that may even, ultimately, tug on your heart strings.

Anyway here's a photo of Donald, Nurin and I at Ding Dong last Saturday night

~ the eve of the ballroom reunion

When the Ears played at The Corner last year, I spent the majority of the time either on my knees or flat on my back. The gig after that I resorted to an on-stage oxygen bottle. Tomorrow evening, which I am looking forward to exceedingly, I hope to vastly increase the time I spend on my feet. I’ve gotten into some sort of routine with my swimming, so my wind is better, my voice is louder and my legs are strong. Relatively speaking.

The vibe on this thing is extraordinary. Every man and his dog seems to know about it. And it’s a truly novel experience watching the discussions unfold ahead of time on the facebook events page ... and perhaps elsewhere, for all I know. Issues left unresolved a quarter of a century ago have resurfaced. There’s been bitterness, vitriol and sweet love. Old wounds have been reopened and cruelly salted.

Sociologically, it’s just so interesting.

A loose clique of friends and associates with similar interests, beholden to a similar fashion sense [mostly involving the colour black] and drawn to certain venues where its needs were most adequately served, dissolves over the decades into the greater cloud of humanity and is gone.

Then, much much later - like a male salmon releasing his milt into the stream - a package of memetic signals is released into society.

These signals are clues - gestural, semantic, mnemonic, perhaps even pheremonal - and intuitively, instinctively, the former members of the clique take note and respond - with the massive assistance of the tool that is facebook.

At once they precipitate from the population. From the suburbs they come, from colonies in the bush, from renovated terrace houses in places that used to be cool, and gather for a few precious hours,

Briefly, the old scene - wearier, less pert, less lissom, less nubile, more sluggish, flabbier, the heroin in their blood superseded by prescription medications - is born anew and briefly blossoms, before once again - like a shooting star in the heavens - it fades away.

How’s that for an analysis? I defy you for a better one!

I know it’ll make it a long evening, but I do advise getting there reasonably early for tickets. Our manager Dolores suspects that it may be a sellout and from the extent of interest I’m inclined to agree. I’ve even learnt that the person who heard mention of the Ears on Gold 104 was not, in fact, hallucinating.

The Ears rehearsed last night, by the way, and are champing at the bit. Cathy is down from Sydney with at least two outfits from which to choose. Nothing’s gone wrong with my voice. Mick is damn serious about it. Ross is just a fantastic bass player and is fundamentally conjoined with Carl. There’s something satisfying about watching experienced old ones do it just right. Our keyboardist, Andrew ‘Terence’ Park, is being tracked by the Parkes Observatory as he passes through the Kuiper Belt.

We don’t play often these days, so it feels like we’ve got to make it count. Strangely, we’re going to attempt a new song. It’s provisionally called ‘energumen'. Here are some of the lyrics ...

“I ate a golden egg! I ate a golden egg!”

Oh and the name-tag idea ... functional, ironic, stupid and monumentally off key, just my kettle of fish. Surrender your vanities at the door, my dark haughty emaciated brooding beloved.