A weekend that swept the cobwebs from my system, leaving me with the grim realisation that the cobwebs themselves had been holding me together.
I went with Lynne and Polly to see a character called Dan Zanes at the Meat Market. He fronts a band that plays a simple kind of blues/country mix designed particularly for children. Lots of catchy choruses and danceable rhythms. The venue was crawling with kids and, by the end, the whole audience, young and old, was on its feet dancing. [Save for the council of grey sentinels seated high at the back, consulting their wrist watches.] Zanes himself is a tall scruffy grey haired guy with a broad smile and a loose attitude. As I was walking through the crowd a woman pointed out that we could be relatives. Naturally, I was flattered.
I thought of the Wiggles, Hi-5 and all those trivial, prefabricated kids' acts. They seem so shamelessly commercial in comparison to Zanes. Actually, they seem evil, certainly greedy, and isn't the world just a big bloated repository for greed? Sure, Zanes had his CDs for sale at the gig, but not the bewildering array of merchandise pushed by these other bands: clothing labels, toothbrushes, canned spaghetti, yoghurt, breakfast cereal, yo-yos, stickers... this list could stretch to the end of the universe and it's all gomi. They are profit-making entities, [brands, as Naomi Klein would define it,] managing their images in high towers white the plastic gewgaws are manufactured in Chinese special taxation zones - angling themselves at kids' vulnerabilities, even at their budding sexuality, using colours, lights, action and canned cute.
Once, I saw an interview with the Wiggles in which they were asked about the reason for their success. Their answer? "We think it's the skivvies."
Dan Zanes' was just a band playing good, thoughtful music, and everyone had a superior time. It was refreshing to be free of all that other drivel.
I do what I can to expose Polly to materials with some degree of artistic merit, [of course, it's impossible to completely shield her from crap]. I think the films from Studio Ghibli in Japan are a good example of worthy kids' entertainment: Spirited Away, My Neighbour Tottoro, Princess Mononoke etc. - these are all favourites and hopefully stuff like this will help her develop some taste as she grows. Burn all Bratz, I command! Li'l Bratz & Baby Bratz too! Slash the plastic flesh of Barbie's impassive pink face! Force all Wiggles over the cliff at gunpoint!
After Zanes, I ditched Polly at her Grandmother's and drove to Mick Lewis's house, [For the benefit of ancient historians, he was the guitarist with The Ears]. With his partner, Donna, and the lunatic painter Pasquale we proceeded to the Nick Cave concert at the Forum.
And it was much as you'd expect - save for three things: [a] aside from Nick, the band, including Warren Ellis, sported bushy beards that reached their navels, - making them look like hoopleheads from Deadwood, [b] Nick stood and played a guitar - maybe he's done it before, but I've never seen it and he did it with style - and [c] his hairline was rapidly receding. People tell me it's been happening for a while, but now, in concert with his moustache, he has at last achieved the porn star look to which I believe he has always aspired. Funny thing, his jet black hair does not seem to have greyed, as one would expect, under the winds of Quinquagesima. But that's a topic for another day...
Be certain, I mean none of these comments to be malicious. I deeply admire Nick Cave. He's provided an ongoing soundtrack to my life and has always been a deep inspiration. The concert, naturally, was great - but, well, perhaps I've just seen him too many times over the course of time. A few songs stood out. Tupelo, for one... In my mind's eye, I saw that squalid room at the Bondi Cosmopolitan in the early eighties... My imprisonment at Propaganda at the hands of Mr Australia... The ride I took in the white Mercedes convertible with one of Sydney's more notorious crime figures...
A woman in the crowd gave me these words: "Fear is false evidence appearing real". She said it came from Oscar Wilde. I have been mulling over it ever since. Who can tell me what it means?
I went with Lynne and Polly to see a character called Dan Zanes at the Meat Market. He fronts a band that plays a simple kind of blues/country mix designed particularly for children. Lots of catchy choruses and danceable rhythms. The venue was crawling with kids and, by the end, the whole audience, young and old, was on its feet dancing. [Save for the council of grey sentinels seated high at the back, consulting their wrist watches.] Zanes himself is a tall scruffy grey haired guy with a broad smile and a loose attitude. As I was walking through the crowd a woman pointed out that we could be relatives. Naturally, I was flattered.
I thought of the Wiggles, Hi-5 and all those trivial, prefabricated kids' acts. They seem so shamelessly commercial in comparison to Zanes. Actually, they seem evil, certainly greedy, and isn't the world just a big bloated repository for greed? Sure, Zanes had his CDs for sale at the gig, but not the bewildering array of merchandise pushed by these other bands: clothing labels, toothbrushes, canned spaghetti, yoghurt, breakfast cereal, yo-yos, stickers... this list could stretch to the end of the universe and it's all gomi. They are profit-making entities, [brands, as Naomi Klein would define it,] managing their images in high towers white the plastic gewgaws are manufactured in Chinese special taxation zones - angling themselves at kids' vulnerabilities, even at their budding sexuality, using colours, lights, action and canned cute.
Once, I saw an interview with the Wiggles in which they were asked about the reason for their success. Their answer? "We think it's the skivvies."
Dan Zanes' was just a band playing good, thoughtful music, and everyone had a superior time. It was refreshing to be free of all that other drivel.
I do what I can to expose Polly to materials with some degree of artistic merit, [of course, it's impossible to completely shield her from crap]. I think the films from Studio Ghibli in Japan are a good example of worthy kids' entertainment: Spirited Away, My Neighbour Tottoro, Princess Mononoke etc. - these are all favourites and hopefully stuff like this will help her develop some taste as she grows. Burn all Bratz, I command! Li'l Bratz & Baby Bratz too! Slash the plastic flesh of Barbie's impassive pink face! Force all Wiggles over the cliff at gunpoint!
After Zanes, I ditched Polly at her Grandmother's and drove to Mick Lewis's house, [For the benefit of ancient historians, he was the guitarist with The Ears]. With his partner, Donna, and the lunatic painter Pasquale we proceeded to the Nick Cave concert at the Forum.
And it was much as you'd expect - save for three things: [a] aside from Nick, the band, including Warren Ellis, sported bushy beards that reached their navels, - making them look like hoopleheads from Deadwood, [b] Nick stood and played a guitar - maybe he's done it before, but I've never seen it and he did it with style - and [c] his hairline was rapidly receding. People tell me it's been happening for a while, but now, in concert with his moustache, he has at last achieved the porn star look to which I believe he has always aspired. Funny thing, his jet black hair does not seem to have greyed, as one would expect, under the winds of Quinquagesima. But that's a topic for another day...
Be certain, I mean none of these comments to be malicious. I deeply admire Nick Cave. He's provided an ongoing soundtrack to my life and has always been a deep inspiration. The concert, naturally, was great - but, well, perhaps I've just seen him too many times over the course of time. A few songs stood out. Tupelo, for one... In my mind's eye, I saw that squalid room at the Bondi Cosmopolitan in the early eighties... My imprisonment at Propaganda at the hands of Mr Australia... The ride I took in the white Mercedes convertible with one of Sydney's more notorious crime figures...
A woman in the crowd gave me these words: "Fear is false evidence appearing real". She said it came from Oscar Wilde. I have been mulling over it ever since. Who can tell me what it means?
