More mulch for the memoirs

Skinny dipping at sun-rise, Hoffman's Pool, Kauaeranga Valley, Coromandel

Granted, sunrise was about 8.30 am given that we were in the lee of some fairly monumental landscape, but the water was like ice. With shoulders under, you couldn't speak, let alone breathe... communication was limited to short noisy expulsions. Crown jewels disappeared in the direction of the centrally-heated abdominal cavity, much to the amusement of the Jarman. It was a foolish and excruciating - yet invigorating - way to start the day.

Wildlife, Kauaeranga Valley, Coromandel

Yep, that's a cow licking it's arse. Another one of those things we'd all do, if we could. Apparently.

Cows are quite good. If I may be allowed to anthropomorphise for a moment here, they have very wise faces. They will also happily look you in the eye - with their large, souful brown eyes - for minutes, and let you quite close to photograph and admire them. But they're not all work and no fun; the angle their ears describe to the sides of their faces is quite jaunty, and the attitude of their heads often verging on the rakish.

I also quite like how they talk. Very sombre... the lowing of the cattle and all that.

What you don't ever want to do is to think about sausages; specifically in the context of the lips, udders, and anuses of cows.

Quite often, if you spend long enough hanging around on the edge of the highway checking out the cattle in the field, a farmer will come and zoom anxiously up and down the road in his car or on a quad-bike, a bit like a jealous girlfriend.

Horses, a more recent enthusiasm, are also quite good.

Crime-spree in Gisborne

Hmmmm. Long story short... Small commercial book-shop in Gisborne (popn. 43,000). Discovered 5 copies of new edition of Ray Bradbury's classic Fahrenheit 451 - the 50th anniversary edition - on the shelf. Immediately postulated theory that store clerk mistook same for book-of-movie of Michael Moore's Fahrenheit 9-11 and ordered 5 copies, thinking "these'll sell like the proverbial". Chuckling. Delighted with compound irony of situation given theme of Bradbury novel. Delighted with self at inventing 'compound irony'. So delighted, in fact, was compelled to celebrate and liberated one of the copies by putting it in my pocket and walking out of the shop.

Now, let me say at this point I did feel a bit guilty. Also, I did not attempt theft without first checking that there wasn't a security tag on the book, that the staff were busy, and reminding self that we would be driving to another part of the country in a few minutes.

It's a good book. I also have the DVD of the Francios Truffaut film adaptation from 1965.

If it wasn't 0258 in the AM and if I wasn't exhausted and starting to think - and write - like Bridget Jones, I'd link up this post... look back later after I've had a chance to do it, 'k? Edit: Done!

You'll also notice, if you look closely enough, that that is - of course - not the security camera picture of me liberating new edition of classic Ray Bradbury novel. Of course it's not - unless you think I'm writing this from jail. I just stole the picture off the internet. God bless Google Image Search.

Goodness me I'm bad-ass.

Most blatent song quotations ever...

Elastica, for butchering Wire's Three Girl Rhumba [Pink Flag] in their hit Connection. They settled out of court.

Closely followed by Devo's Uncontrollable Urge [Q: Are we not men? A: We Are Devo!] which liberally lifts from Led Zeppelin's Misty Mountain Hop [Led Zeppelin IV] in its intro.

NOTE: Least blatent song quotation ever - Neil Young's Borrowed Tune [Tonight's the Night] which he 'borrowed' from the Rolling Stones' Lady Jane [Aftermath]. Sing to the tune of Lady Jane:

I'm singin' this borrowed tune / I took from the Rolling Stones
Alone in this empty room / Too wasted to write my own

The implications of this lyric are massive and bleak. Massively bleak, even, possibly.

Others, perhaps?

EDIT: Allmusic.com's Stephen Thomas Erlewine comes up with some bullshit argument in support of Elastica's 'song-writing' practices. I also overhauled the post, re-doing all the links that mysteriously vanished from the published version.

The Futureheads in revisionist revivalist copyist shocker

As soon as I heard them I thought The Futureheads were a great band, but right now I'm listening to their album The Futureheads, with a view to deciding which track to play on my radio show tomorrow night... and suddenly they just sound like lame-ass retro-fitted copyists of the worst sort. This is hard to swallow - all at once they sound like The Jam's [particularly In the City], Devo, the Cars, XTC, Psychedelic Furs and Gang of Four. And that's just for starters.

Of course this shouldn't be a problem for me 'cos I love all these bands... and this shouldn't be a problem for me because I think that people who dis' bands for sounding like their influences are unrealistic idiots and, well... wankers; but basically I always have a hard job endorsing such bands when the timing is so utterly propitious to their fortunes.

What am I saying? Great band, but... well, put it like this - there could never have been a better time in the last 20 years for a band sounding like The Jam, Devo, The Cars, XTC, Psychedelic Furs and Gang of Four to put out a record. Know what I mean? [And get fucked, I actually came up with some of those comparisons myself. You think I'd link to sites which make the same comparisons if I hadn't?]

So anyway, what am I going to play in my set? Robot of course:

"I am a robot.. living like a robot.. talk like a robot.. in the habititting way / In the future we all die.. (robot!) Machines will last forever.. (robot!) / Metal things just turn to rust.. when you're a robot / The best thing is our life span (i don't mind).. We last nigh on hundred years (i don't mind).. / If that mean's we'll be together (i don't mind).. I have no mind, i have no mind...

Anyone who knows me will understand. I'm slowly regressing into fantasies from an imaginary childhood of space-travel and robots and shit and... and here's looking forward to some new material from The Futureheads. [Although some of the remixes on singles like First Day and Decent Days and Nights are right-up-to-the-minute and pretty damn hot].

If you haven't heard The Futureheads and you like Franz Ferdinand or Bloc Party - or indeed any or all of the above-mentioned groups - then you owe it to yourself to check them out. Dammit fool, whatchoo waiting for?

Everything is Wrong With Me guy

Folks, allow me to direct your attention to Jason Mulgrew. Jason is the best, the funniest, the plain ole good-god-damn baddest blogger on the planet. In fact, as he tends to keep reminding you with only just enough irony, he's a fully-carded Internet Quasi-Celebrity.

Jason used to blog as Everything Is Wrong With Me but now he's gone legit and got his own site. But don't let that put you off checking out his archives.

There's no-one's musings I would rather waste my precious time reading.

[Jason, if you are reading this, I hope this puff-piece is sufficiently fluff to earn me a blow-job].

EDIT: Someone asked, so here's the answer to the question: He's actually a bloody good writer. Somehow he manages to convey a combination of self-conscious sensitivity and devil-may-care ebullience... which captures something really new and vital in the 'zeitgeist' as well as allowing his readers a hilarious and thrillingly voyeuristic 'schadenfreud'.

Legless in Devonport

At The Depot art space in Devonport, both the coordinator and the coordinator's dog were - in what must be some sort of first - missing limbs. The coordinator had one of those coloured-oxidised-aluminium stick-with-foot-on-end contraptions, while the dog wasn't nearly so lucky.

They both also seemed to be reasonably good-humoured about the whole thing, which is why I trust they will be the first to forgive me for the appalling pun in the title.

We were there on an urgent fact-finding recce for my bruvva, who is showing some work there next week and needed to know gallery configuration and floor-plan and so forth. Nice space... however the stuff on the wall was fairly wretched [when we were there, anyway]. Hopefully Andy will do me proud, especially with the interactive installation piece I helped him build [more soon...].

More travelogue

101 Croations

What we found really strange, as we bowled into Kaitaia from the north, was that the Welcome To Kaitaia sign said it in Croation too. Big letters. Dobro Dosli. I wish I had a photo - it also has weird Croatian-lookin' accent marks over a couple of characters, which helpfully won't show up in this font. [how do I know it was Croation? Lemme just say that it helps sometimes that the Jarman is from East Jarmany.]

The good thing about Croation - or any of those Slavic languages - is that you can pull off a passable imitation/parody of them by talking in strange, gruff, oddly-metred low register monotones. If I was to phonically represent our attempts at pronunciation it'd look something like:

dob-o-roh dozzsh-lee

Try it. It's fun!

So anyway we spent the next few days running round laughing stupidly at cows in fields and saying "Welcome" to them in Croation.

Apparently there is a large Dalmation population in Northland. They used to be gum-diggers.

Look who's back...

I've just gotten back from a two-week touring holiday around the North Island of New Zealand, with the Jarman. Previously I'd never been further north than Auckland City - yep that's right, never even crossed the Harbour Bridge - so the trip's been packed with new sights and sounds.

3,500 km later and it's good to be back. Thirteen days of not being able to properly clean the wax out of my ears has certainly taken it's toll on my mental state.

Cape Reinga in a pea-souper

I've never been to the Cape before and we picked a fantastic day to go - a low front had just moved in off the Tasman Sea bringing with it a depression resulting in cloud, rain and fog all over Northland. Visiting one of New Zealand's premier scenic attractions without being able to see more than a few feet in front of your face gave new meaning to the term "fucken waste of time" but what the hell - I've seen it on calendars and postcards my whole life and the Jarman wanted to go regardless. So go we went. It also gave me an opportunity to piss about with the manual settings on my new digicam to try to get some images for use in artworks.



The lighthouse experience was weird. You could hear the two oceans smashing into each other and the rocks below - the water-heavy atmosphere carried the sound and whirled it around and made it seem as if the waves were crashing just behind you; similarly, you could see only a couple of metres down the cliffs, and I have no idea how far I was from the sea-level.

This was the view from the carpark, looking back up the approach road, and from inside the car. Perhaps it was some sort of act of disappointed rebellion as - despite the presence of two cops strolling around the carpark telling tourists off for doing the same - we sat and ate our sandwiches, well inside the area designated as sacred and so food and drink free. To no avail I tried to spot spirits as they zoomed overhead, making for the afterlife.



An abundance of bauxite or some similar mineral gives the soil a freakish red colouration, and in the weather conditions that afternoon the landscape was distinctly alien.



Then we left and drove to Kaitaia.



Coffee to go in Kaitaia

Looking for a quick fix upon reaching Kaitaia we settled upon the rather charmingly-titled "Flix-Mix". Entering it appeared as if they were closing up; machines were being cleaned, floors mopped, and jokes told. Not wanting to waste any time I chose quickly from the menu-board and advanced to the counter.
"Hi, what would you like" sez proprietor.
"Macchiato to takeaway, pls" sez I.
Incredulous look follows. "You wha'??"
"Macchiato to takeaway, pls."
"What the hell's a macchiato?"
"Um, it's a long black served with steamed milk."
"Are you serious? I've never heard of one of those before."
Pointing... "Um it's up there on your board."
Look of bewilderment replaced with look of amusement. "Ooohhh. When my cousin painted that up for me he looked up some extra coffee names on the internet. Nobody's ever ordered that one before."
Me "Ahhh.." etc.
"Where you from then?"
"Wellington" I say, knowing what's coming next.
Merriment, jokes about city vs. country culture follow. "Ok how did you say you make it again?"
Me looking at ristretto, macchiato, thinking fast "Nah better not. What do you recommend eh?"
"Large flavoured latte."

Mine was Irish cream flavour, and utterly delicious.

Red-Light/Vorortromantik/Architecture/Death

I'm exhibiting new work in a four-man show which opens soon, at One Eye Gallery in Paekakariki. I'd like to extend a warm invitation to y'all to attend the opening on Saturday afternoon from 3 'til 5 pm.

Participating in the show are Jo Russ, Sandra Schmidt, Matt Couper and myself. It promises to be a great show.

If you can't make the opening, please feel free to pop up to Paekak of a sunny afternoon and check out the show for some spiritual and intellectual edification. You can, of course, spend the rest of the day in the fine second-hand bookstore, on the beach or in the pub.

The show runs from Saturday 20 November until Sunday 19 December. Gallery hours are Wednesday - Sunday 11 am 'til 5 pm. You can contact the gallery on 04 292 7044, or check out their site.

Now pray for Yassir Arafat

Yassir "The Moderator" Arafat, probably at the prospect of having to deal with - on top of Ariel Sharon - four more years of the Bush govt's policies of lunacy in the Middle East, has gone into a coma.

Hunter S. Thompson on Arafat:

Yassir has never been well-liked or popular in the Arab League nations. He is ugly and loud, and spittle flies off his lips when he talks. His beard is unclean and his eyes are like bags of dirty water. The starch in his uniforms gets rancid after two or three days of soaking up fatty acids, and even good friends avoid him in private. -13 October 1986 [Generation of Swine, p170]

"There were times when I could Have strangled him
There were times when I could Have murdered him
(But you know, I would hate Anything to happen to him)..."

[or something]

Don't get me wrong, I am not anti-Semitic or even anti-Zionist by any stretch of the imagination. However, as probably the only thing standing in the way of full-on jihad against Israel - and by [almost-]logical extension, nuclear conflict in the Middle-East, Arafat has his uses, so to speak. I hope he pulls through.

EDIT: In the interests of clarity I have slightly reworded some of this post.

Well... piss up a rope... again

Anyone who's ever lived here - Wellington, New Zealand - will know what I mean when I say that yesterday, Wednesday November the 3rd 2004, was a sublime Wellington day. The wind died away mid-morning and we basked in sun from heaven all the rest of the live-long day. God was clearly softening us up for the blow.

Looks like the Top Gun shit did the trick, goddammit.

So the Dorking Labs crew and miscellaneous hangers-on assembled at a pub and - drinking fast and hard - watched the live CNN broadcast of the unfolding results in the US elections a bit like it was a rugby-match. And like most rugby-matches, I lost interest when it became clear at around the 55-minute mark that the result was a given. Then it all got a bit silly for a while - our taunting of the CNN presenters' unwillingness to 'call' this state or that state [obviously wanting to avoid scandalous premature announcements a la 2000] turned surreal as we loudly suggested that they cross live to (the recently deceased) Hunter S. Thompson, a random blogger, the Symbionese Liberation Front, Mumia Abu-Jamal, the exhumed corpse of Jefferey Dahmer, the Una-Bomber and so on, anyone, anyone, and get them to call the result in Delaware or some shit. We also started revising the American electoral system, mooting for example that only Hollywood stars ever be allowed to become the Governor of a state, and that anyone who's ever released a good album be allowed 20 votes - in perpituity - rather than the standard one. Then No Offense, But... bit my hand for reasons that are still a bit unclear - possibly trying to express the collective mood in some sort of regressive act of savagery - if I had a digital camera I'd post a little snap of his teeth-marks some 12 hours later - and after a little while we drifted away into the night.

Today the weather did the only decent thing again, and packed it in.

Everything Is Wrong With Me-guy writes - as per usual - some really funny shit about god, George Bush, and his America.

Elsewhere on this site Blog-In-Mouth presents the unexpurgated version of his 'mourning'-after cartoon. You also gotta check this one, if you haven't seen it yet.

A chocolate fish for the first person that can find me a link to a good blogger who is celebrating the result. Fuck it, I might as well stake a blowjob, it's not gonna happen.

Ex-pat journo in "Flores man" shocker

On Thursday, Australian and Indonesian scientists announced the discovery of the Homo floresiensis, who stood about one metre tall and walked the earth about 13,000 years ago. "Flores man" is thought to be a descendant of Homo erectus, who had a large brain, was full-sized and spread out from Africa to Asia about 2 million years ago. Local folk tales suggest the hominids may have still been living on the Indonesian island of Flores until the Dutch arrived in the 1500s.

Exclusive

But in a Drinks-After-Work exclusive, we can reveal that "Flores man" is alive and well and getting on rather well with the locals. The little fellas, locally known as "Flossies", are said to be the life and soul of the party, have a predilection for expensive cocktails and like to have their heads scratched. They also love to ride around on humans and can get quite amorous, as our reporter Chris Holm demonstrates in a recent photograph from the jungles of Flores. While they don't speak English, or any of the local dialects, it's reported that they have no difficulty understanding and communicating in the international "language of love".

R.I.P. John Peel OBE

John Peel is dead, so I spent some hours in the middle of the night listening to all the Peel Session LPs I could lay me hands on - distressingly only the Damned and the Syd Barret were able to be located - and the CD reissue of the Siren albums on Peel's label Dandelion.

I've already read several carelessly-hurried obituaries wailing "how will we ever replace him". Fer chrissakes the man's barely cold... what kinduva half-witted thing to say is that? I think I'm gonna start issuing contracts for hits on the offenders...

Peel's motto regarding the music he presented on his legendary radio show was "A balance between things that you know people will like and things that you think people will like". Reading it now it may seem a little obvious but it's a hard balance to find; it's also one I've always strived for in my modest efforts on the radio.

Courtesy of the BBC:

• John Peel's bullet point biog.
• If you would like to remember John, or to offer your words of condolence click here.
• For advice on how to cope with bereavement go to One Life's help pages.

Jen-Smacked-Face met the man - more than once - and she stole his taxi. Here she eulogises eloquently about him.

3PM Edit: Lord-only knows why I put "Sir Robert Peel" in the title of this entry. Please accept humble apologies. It was the middle of the night - perhaps I was google-fatigued. Title adjusted accordingly.

He takes my breath away

So-called "President" Bush is on the campaign trail in Florida, and helicopter-hopping all over the state. In Fort Myers on Saturday morning, he emerged from his chopper Marine One to the Top Gun theme blaring from the stadium PA. After the rally he presumably left to have a fist-fight with Iceman, a dog-fight with a few Russki Migs, and sex with Kelly McGillis. Or something.

I was intending to cook up some devastatingly witty and/or sarcastic appraisal of this blatantly ridiculous conceit, combine it with some fantastically thoughtful insight, and retire, satisfied in a job well done. It'd be a blogger's duty at the very least. But I really only want to cuss his stoopid chimp-faced hick ass all the way back to the stump out from under which he crawled and... etc. etc.

Has Been..

William Shatner has a new album out; Has Been, the long-awaited follow-up to 1968's The Transformed Man has just been released. Actually if he'd waited 18 months or so, he'd probably hold the title for Most Delayed Follow-Up Album in History of Rock. [I believe Brian Wilson would currently take that honour for Smile, released last month.] But that's not what I want to talk about.

John Russell reviewed Shatner's new album in Sunday's Herald. It wasn't a bad review, all things considered, but one thing made my hair stand on end. In his review, Russell alerts us to the fact that Mr. Shatner apparently prefers to be known as The Shat.

This is beyond comprehension. The only - and this is stretching it - reason I can think of to explain why Shatner would like us to affectionately refer to him - in the past participle of to shit - as recently excreted feculence, is that he's the dom. in some sort of S+M relationship with a coprophagiast.

Some googling later, and it would appear that Shatner has been colloquially known as The Shat for some time. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em and all that, I guess, but if a bunch of people started calling me 'piss-o' or something similar I'm pretty sure that rather than resign myself to it, I would draw some sort of line in the sand and tell them to fuck off. [Darling aquaintances, this isn't an invitation to test my resolve. Cunts].

John Russell's review isn't available online; here's one at, somewhat appropriately, Crud Magazine. [Happily, Crud Magazine is worksafe!].

Belated thoughts on the late Christopher Reeve

After I saw Chris Reeve's post-accident remake of Hitchcock's Rear Window, starring himself playing the wheelchair-bound voyeuer-guy, I held some hope that the intrepid dude'd be able to forge a whole new career for himself... a second-wind, if you like, as the most utterly perfectly-awfully typecast actor of his generation, y'know...

also starring Christopher Reeve as the guy in the wheelchair...

Or if not, at least the actor appearing the most in god-awful remakes of reasonably-daft-but-classic movies. [Cf. Village of the Damned.] [Also, if you follow the link to IMDB for the Rear-Window remake, check the Trivia entry... "The scene where Jason's breathing tube comes loose and he has to chatter his teeth to get the nurse's attention really happened to Christopher Reeve shortly after his accident". Uh, for fuck's sake!]

Everything Is Wrong With Me riffs pretty-amusingly on Reeve's demise... gotta say right-on about the fucking NY Post and that Metropolis bullshit, too.

I can't believe it's not butter...

Umm, I can. Perhaps a more accurate product name might be I Can't Believe It Causes Cell Damage!.

Some notes about smoking-in-bars...

[Weird.. TV3 news is b'casting live from Fashion Week and the show is over for the night and Dimmer's Crystalator is blaring out, being used as room-clearing music...]


...Anyway... an Irishman walked into a pub... and had a beer with me. Really. With reference to the impending ban on smoking in bars in NZ, here's some snippets of things he told me about the aftermath of similar legislation coming into effect in Ireland.

• Attendance or custom or whatever went down by 70%
• Result of this drop was that the breweries and the bars drop [oh the heavenly punning] the price of beer, conceivably to entice the punters back
• One bar spent over a million quid building a rooftop outdoors area where people could drink and smoke
• Said bar cleaned up, attracting smoking punters away from other bars from miles around [this apparently no mean feat, in the legendarily-parochial Irish pub scene]
• Another bar has built a guillotine-style contraption on its outer wall where a punter can stick his head out into the street and smoke a ciggy. Queues ensued.

The only thing I really had to contribute is that I know that one reasonably well-established bar here in Wellington is building a secret "smoke-easy" beneath its regular bar.

Go Prohibition-styles... Elliot Ness... Al Capone... Untouchables. etc.

Bad dream or...

I just awoke from a nightmare. I was an All Black, and we had just lost the 2003 Rugby World Cup Semi-Final to Australia. George Gregan was there, except his face looked like Kerry Prendergast. He/she was very excited, getting right up in our faces, yelling "Three more years, boys, three more years". Smug bitch. Eventually he to be restrained and hauled away by some of his team-mates, who may or may not have looked like Rex Nicholls and Alick Shaw.

I'm not really sure what happened next but shortly later a microphone was lowered from the roof of the stadium to where Brian Tamaki was waiting in a pink spandex jumpsuit to sing a medley of WHAM hits.

Gone postal

It's not all bad news. I will be appeased - somewhat, but not utterly - if after special votes are counted, we get to wave ta-ta to that bastard Alick Shaw. The turncoat Shaw, former Labour candidate for Wellington Central [before being trounced by Richard Prebble in '96], latterly Deputy lap-dog for Kerry Prendergast, hangs on to his seat on council by the very slim margin of 260 votes; coming quickly up his rear is Green Party candidate [and anti-Bypass group Campaign for a Better City stalwart] Iona Pannet. My sources tell me there are about 1200 special votes to count.

It's already been rather pleasing to have witnessed the ditching of Prendergast 'lieutenants' Ngaire Best, Sue Piper, Ian Hutchings, Judy Siers, and David Zwartz from council. If Shaw exits stage-left after specials are processed, her already-waning support takes another major body-blow. [Though in a cruel twist Hutchings will likely wrench the Northern Ward back from 18-year old newcomer Hayley Wain.] And, rather pleasantly, Bryan Pepperell, Jack Ruben and Helene Ritchie remain to kick Prendergast's ass around, as well as Mr. Ray Ahipene-Mercer who not only can set up my guitar any day, but is not averse to a bit of idiot ass-kicking himself.

And in other news, there were also encouraging signs after votes were counted for the Regional council. Fran Wilde, Chris Laidlaw and Margaret Shields, all former Labour MPs in Wellington or outlying districts [Kapiti], and generally bloody top blokes, are all now Regional councillors. Wilde, who of course had a decent hand in the Homosexual Law Reform Bill in the mid-80's and was also Mayor of Wellington for one term in the 90's, has her sights set on transport issues; said issues would surely have to include the looming inner-city bypass.

Watch this space, as they say.

Well... piss up a rope

As the provisional results began to point overwhelmingly to Kerry Prendergast having been returned for a second term as Mayor of Wellington, the weather did the decent thing and packed it in. In fact, as any sensible-thinking person spent today in mourning for Wellington's well-being, it's continued to comprehensively piss down.

Unfortunately, technical difficulties have apparently prevented other important information from coming to the fore at this point, including the make-up of the City and Regional councils. But we do know that voter turn-out was appallingly low, the lowest for many a year. Big ups apathy and indifference.

O well, at least I probably don't feel as bad as the supporters of the Australian Labour Party. Wow. John Howard. Again?

There's something wrong with my robot

Mailbag time. Jen-Smacked-Face wrote:

Patels Superette!! How long has it been since I last heard those words? (Seven years exactly, since you ask.)

Far be it from me to ruin someone's nostaglic reverie, but Patel's Superette is the same in name only, I'm afraid. In them good old days, the staff/owners were your friend, and weird dissaffected young whiteys worked out the back [I bought some CDs off one of them at some point]. Plus they had Lotto. About 3 years ago, they changed hands and that was the end of the golden weather, as they say. These days it's owned and staffed by a strange breed of extremely brusque folk, who speak another language, watch TV a lot and don't always look at you, even when taking your money. O, and no more Lotto. Sorry.

Kellie Wilson, Sales Administrator, Hutchinsons (NZ) Limited, writes:

Thank you for your letter informing us of the problem you had with our Chopped Italian tomatoes with chilli and garlic 400g. We pride ourselves on marketing quality products and were very concerned when we received your comments.

The processing equipment used is very effective and the problem you have experienced is thank fully [sic] very rare. We have however informed our supplier and requested to discuss the incident with Quality Control and the Production Team.

Please find enclosed a $10 grocery voucher for you to use how you wish, we are deeply sorry or [sic] any inconvenience this may have caused you and hope that you will be able to resume your relationship!

Why shucks, thanks Kellie. I'm a bit disappointed though - I was rather hoping that you'd demand the instant resignation of the entire Quality Control and Production Team, and send me a million bucks. I'll guess I'll have to settle for the voucher, then. Maybe next time I'll have to find a black fat-tailed scorpion instead. Thanks for the mandate to use the voucher how I wish though - if I remember I'll send you a photo of me and the lady hoovering drugs with it.

Muffy writes:

Steve, your literary shenanigans never fail to amuse... Heaps of hot lovings, muffy

Muffy, are you my mother? No, just kidding. But I've got a strange, nagging feeling I know you. Did we meet at the first Lord of the Rings wrap-party? Or was that you up amongst the pine trees on school sports day, 1990. You've got my interest, now, you enigma, you. Wanna leave me a clue?

Roger Kerr to Deborah Coddington

... Would you like to *hrmpph* come up to my *hrmpph* apartment and *hrmpph*... look at my *hrmpph* bond certificates? *hrmpph* *fst fst fst fst Tweet* I can assure you my uhh *hrmpph* intentions are honourable *fst fst*... I've got a big *fst* round *hrmpph* table, don't you know...

The Untold Stories

Erotic Novella I Haven't Found Time To Write, Yet #2: Me, John Banks and the Giant Sausage Roll from Patel's Superette.

Also, must get around to finishing off #1 How I Lost My Anal Virginity To Pastor Brian Tamaki... I want to work his hair oil into it, somehow.

A funny thing happened on the way here tonight...

Product / Quality Manager
Hutchinsons (NZ) Ltd.
Level 4, ASB Building
136 Broadway
Newmarket
Auckland

Dear Sir / Madam:

RE: Trident Chopped Italian tomatoes with chilli and garlic 400g

Please find enclosed the debris I discovered [it shall henceforth be known as 'It'] in a can of the abovementioned product. I had purchased the can [from Patels Superette in Aro Street, Te Aro, Wellington] in order to cook a lovely romantic Italian meal for the lady I am wooing. Somehow It managed to remain undetected throughout the entire process of cooking the meal. However, you can imagine the hilarity [mine, short-lived] that ensued when, upon serving the meal, It appeared on the top of the food on my date's plate, looking so much like some sort of large weird green spider. She, predictably, shrieked and made for the hinterland [well, the bathroom] from which it took some coaxing to entice her. Sadly and needless to say, dinner was a write-off.

I have an assurance from the lady in question that, after an appropriate period, she will consider returning for another meal. Unfortunately she has suggested that we see other people in the interim. Apparently it's for the best.

I hope this story of woe brings you some light-relief.

Best wishes,

Stephen Clover.

...

Postscript: If you needed to know, It was a not-insubstantial fleshy eight-fingered tomato stalk. My date's reaction was not unreasonable, either; according to the London Mail a green-grocer recently found a black fat-tailed scorpion in a shipment of bananas and mangoes from Pakistan. The man mistook the creature, said to be the third most deadly animal on Earth, to be a tomato stalk before realising what it was. He proceeded promptly to terrorise several passing children with it, before losing it on the No. 7 bus.

If anyone can help with comprehension as to why a pet-store is selling black fat-tailed scorpions on-line and providing breeding, propogation and care instructions for them, please do not hesitate to contact me.

...

UPDATE: reply here.

The Datsuns came to town...

While I'm on a The Datsuns tip, they played here in Wellington last Friday night at Vic Student Union. Here's the review I wrote of the show for The Package:

The Datsuns are touring their new album and in the two years since I seen 'em they've gotten even greater. The new material is more mature - more melodic, more dynamically complex. The old songs sound even somewhat souped-up. Their honed-lean stage show is utterly convincing - in the hour-or-so set they don't miss one carefully orchestrated cue or one visual rock-cliche or one chance at an audience-participation gag. They rocked and we bounced; drunkards violently flailed and wind-milled and teenagers were violently ill and the unruly were violently ejected, dragged off by their lug-'oles by packs of snarling security-thugs.

But what to write about The Datsuns when so much type s'been expended already? Here's what... The Datsuns don't just play rock'n'roll - they ARE rock'n'roll. They's white and they's skinny and they got hair in abundance. They live their rock'n'shuffle and their heroic anthems with all them insanely-inane sing-along catchy choruses. They smack us down with their hard-rock-boogie and we hit the floor and snap back for more and more. Us? We're drunk little girls and air-guitar-wielding bogans and shaggy torn-shirted under-grads gasping for air and water and Dolf plays us like the ho's we are for his sweaty bug-eyed lovin'.

The show climaxes in a chaotic epic finale involving simultaneous crowd-surfing by both guitarists and the still-singing Dolf while, weirdly, a Dolf-doppelganger appears and takes over on bass. That was worth stickin' aroun' for. The Datsuns're the best fucken rock'n'roll band since Bon Scott died. End of story.

[Apologies to The Accelerants and the other support act [erm... who where they again?]; I missed both of 'em. How rock'n'roll is THAT?]

This is one of two reviews I wrote of the show; inspired to a not-insignificant degree by the enthusings of Matt Hunt, who attended the gig with me, I decided to run with the plaudits first. I'll post the other one soon.

Ongoing memoirs of a crate-digger

Or, how the Datsuns saved my life in Hamilton

It's a cool early-November Saturday afternoon, 2001... I'm in the main street of Hamilton waiting to meet a guy called "Spud". I play bass in a Wgtn avant-pop band and we're touring with a psych-post-rock duo from Dunedin. Tonight's the last gig and our manager has organised a live interview on "Hamilton's Rock Alternative!" The Generator FM.

Spud lets us into the studio. It's plain he doesn't want anything to do with this. He's never heard of either band and can't be fucked talking to a bunch of pussies from the city. Partway through I start to wonder if we're even going to get out alive.

The interview is appalling but we battle through and Spud finally winds up, asking us if we like any bands from Hamilton. The guys are looking at each other blankly... you can sense panic as they desperately rack their minds for a name, any name, anything with which to appease Spud and his hordes of slobbering Cro-Magnon listeners... meanwhile I'm wanting to claim "Hitler's Kock" [Bryce Galloway's old art-punk outfit] but play it safe... "I quite like The Datsuns". Spud regards me sceptically. "Cool... what's your favourite song, dude?" [read: "Bullshit, dude"] Me: "Uh, Fink for the Man, on the b-side of the Transistor seven-inch. It's the fucken best rock'n'roll I've heard since Bon Scott died".

It was like just then the sun rose in Spud's eyes. He's a changed man. As he wraps up the interview, he hypes our gig twice, and plays something from our CD which he manages to segue nicely into a track from the latest Korn album.

Of course it was all for nothing; no slobbering Cro-Mags came to the gig and no shouted requests for Slipknot songs were received. [Actually, that makes it sound like it was all worth-while!] It was a really good gig though. You can see pictures by reknowned H-town rock-groupie Petra Jane here.

I am not an animal! I am a human being! I...am...a man!

I've made it my business lately to see The Elephant Men, a new-ish Wgtn rock trio, as often as possible. Predictably my inner-sloth caused me to miss them at their biggest gig, supporting Trinity Roots at the Town Hall last month, but let's not dwell on that...

Of course the Elephant Man was John Merrick, a 19th-century Englishman afflicted with a disfiguring congenital disease - Proteous Syndrome - who with the help of a certain kindly Dr. Frederick Treves, was able to regain the dignity he lost after years spent as a catastrophically deformed side-show freak. David Lynch, that notorious arbiter of the aberrant, made a movie called The Elephant Man in 1980, starring the very great John Hurt as the E-man. The similarly great David Bowie starred as the Elephant Man in the 1980 stage production of the story. A silent movie called Her Elephant Man was also made in 1920 by Scott R. Dunlap but this is actually a love story about a man who looks after elephants. A documentary called Curse of the Elephant Man was made in 2003 in which 'a distinguished cast of experts from three continents try to solve the mystery of his disease and answer two intriguing questions: what was the awful affliction, and could it happen again?'

The band features Chris Palmer on guitar, Craig Taylor on bass and Rick Cranson on drums. None of them are particularly disfigured but it's encouraging to see these poor creatures able to take a much more active part in today's progressive society. All have been seen in other outfits too, demonstrating again the truly eclectic nature of so many of these local talents.

This is a short piece on the band that I wrote for Secret City - a monthly broadsheet put out jointly by Enjoy Public Art Gallery and Happy...

The Elephant Men are no ordinary band. They out there in the hinterland... lurking roun' the fringes of rock and jazz; and they def'nittly gone a bit feral. They're hairy but they're top musicians; they can play the shit outta their axes and they got no shortage of chops. But don't be afraid - this ain't no lame fusion thing. These boys play with all the fire of post-rock's extreme-noise-terror, the angular sonic ebullience of the greatest New-York-1978 No Wave outfits, and the funk of a broke-ass steamroller... and to this melange add the vocals of Chris Palmer, who sings like a fallen angel half the way through a bottle of tequila. But crucially, they's doin' it with the improvising grace of three guys talkin' their very peculiar language. If you gonna start me namecheckin' then I gotta say equal parts Captain Beefheart's Trout Mask Replica and Jeff Buckley or sommat or even Tim Buckley and then some freakish No Wave ensemble like DNA or the first Golden Palominos LP. For my pick this is easily the best live band around at the moment and you don't want to pass up a chance to see them hollerin' live... I did and I'm still cursing my lazy ass about it.

Postscript: The Fingers, another band with Chris Palmer on guitar and ostensibly featuring journeyman percussionist Chris O'Conner on drums, performed on Thursday night at Happy as part of the line-up of Meatwaters'04. Kieren Monaghan filled in on the night for the stranded-in-Christchurch O'Connor. I'm not sure if the band-name is a reference to any films about infamous side-show-freak attractions or not - possibly the Beast with Five Fingers ["It walks like a spider... it stalks like a cobra!"]? They were frenetic, entirely improvised and more abrasive than The Elephant Men and really, really, good as well...

Seven Last Words from the Cross

Scottish composer James McMillan's work Seven Last Words from the Cross is a stunning piece of contemporary music. It's a droning, shuddering atonal drift which is performed with strings and voices, but somehow seems to invoke the timbres of electronics and humming machinery as well.. perhaps what you'd get if you crossed Surface of the Earth with Mahler's 8th, or something.

My attempts to buy a recording of this work have always been stymied; I still have the cassette I recorded a copy of it off the radio about 10 years ago, and I listen to it often.

A rare occasion to see and hear the work performed is upon us; the Tudor Consort is collaborating with Gate Seven Orchestra and presenting a performance of Seven Last Words from the Cross on Saturday August 21 at Sacred Heart Catholic Cathedral. You can book at Ticketek.

Extra 44 Quid Exhibition

The Extra 44 Quid collective [myself and three friends] are staging our inaugral exhibition this week. It kicks off on Tuesday night and runs for 10 days or so.



Here is some more information on the show:
Extra 44 Quid #1 is a group-exhibition featuring the work of four artists; three from Wellington and the fourth straight outta Germany. The show features an interesting range of work - drawing, painting, and 3D work - sculpture and assemblage - from the four very different artists in the E44Q collective:
Terence Turner (Tainui) is a celebrated bone-carver who is currently helping to make King Kong for Peter Jackson. He is also reknowned for his paintings of blowflies and intestines. He will be exhibiting paintings and souped-up re-wired and generally deranged toaster ovens.
Kathy Bartlett (Wairarapa) has an ever-growing number of followers, enthralled with her stunning and incisive portraits. She recently exhibited a series of portraits of her friends as saints, portrayed in the Orthodox Christian-style replete with gold leaf and halos. In an inspired move these were shown in an auxiliary building at Wellington Cathedral. Kathy will be showing her new paintings.
Sandra Schmidt (Saxony) hails from Dresden in the Communist heartland of the GDR, but she evaded the Stasi, moved to Wellington to teach art. She is known for her assemblages of found objects, and repetition drawing and painting, the execution of which verges on obsessive-compulsive. Sandra will be showing a number of large objects constructed from many, many small objects.
Stephen Clover (Tawa) leads a double life; by day he is a quiet, shy lad working as a tea-boy for a Government department . At night his shadow looms large over the sleepy vale of Aro as he works long into the night, with only his pet chainsaw for company. Stephen will be showing wooden sculptures and ink drawings.
The show runs from the 3rd to the 11th of August, at Thistle Hall (upper Cuba Street) and is open from 12pm to 6pm daily. The opening celebration is on the 3rd of August at 6pm. Please come... it'll be fun. We've got a keg of beer and some DJs... what more couldya want, huh?

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.........

The week from hell (work) and the rapidly approaching deadlines of three exhibitions have meant no bloggin'-a-me for a wee while.  Sorry.

Can I be the first to recommend a good night's sleep?  You really do feel better after a solid 10+1/2 hours or so.  I was thinking about the various natural methods available for assisting one to get off to Nod of an evening:

> Read a few pages of a book.  Not just any book though, it'll need to be something good, so as to hold your attention.  I particularly recommend the hallucinatory prose of William Burroughs and Paul Bowles, or the complexities of Lawrence Durrell, rampantly riddled as he is with oft-arcane poly-syllabillic adjectives.

> Try talking to your ex-girlfriend for about 1/2-an-hour before you go to bed. As well as putting you to sleep, a possible therapeutic spin-off is you might get over her way fast.

> Music.  Music is good.  Music works, man [or at least, it does for me].  You're going to need something without too much explicit beat.  That means no Gatecrasher techno, Steve.  Try the works of the heroes of the 60's avant-garde minimalist school - Terry Riley, Richard Maxfield, Tony Conrad, Henry Flynt, Harold Budd, La Monte Young et. al. Otherwise more contemporary practitioners - Surface of the Earth, John Clyde-Evans, K-Group, Birchville Cat Motel, RST, Eso Steel, Signer...

> Popular wisdom holds that onanism, the science of self-pleasure, is a sure-fire method of unducing sleepiness.  I couldn't possibly comment, as they say.

Counting sheep is silly. I've never managed to achieve anything other than to end up with a pen full of sheep in my head, and worry about what I was supposed to do with them.

If you can't get a full night's sleep without help [I know I can't always] there are a number of options, of the chemical variety, to assist: 

> See your GP and blag your way to a prescription for sleeping pills.  There are a couple of good-ish ones around which aren't habit-forming and don't interrupt your R.E.M. cycle either, which means everyone wins [translation: they don't just knock you out leaving you groggy when you arise in the morn].  I'm thinking particularly of Imovene [a.k.a. Zopiclone], which I heard first about when reading Douglas Coupland's Shampoo Planet. 
 
> Tranquilizer and anti-anxiety medications - specifically, the benzodiazepine family - will help you achieve a good night's rest.  Which of these you can get your hands on legitimately may depend on how crazy you are. These are generally dangerously addictive.

> An alternative to the benzo's could be to raid your grandmother's medicine cabinet for halcyon and valium.  Take as directed, and then some.
 
> Particular products derived from Cannibus sativa can help remarkably well with sleeping - perhaps a couple of spots of some nice pungent oil - although experiences vary - as do side-effects, which can be long-lasting, and probably addictive too.

Getting really drunk isn't recommended. I appreciate that 1/2 a bottle of vodka will knock you out something wonderful, but you won't feel better for it in the morning.

Finally, one other suggestion for getting enough sleep: quit your bastard of a job. That way you can sleep to 1pm every day, ensuring plenty of rest each and every night.

In the presence of greatness: An evening with Dr. The Sneak

Last evening I was lucky enough to be present as world-renowned research scientist Dr. The Sneak conducted some ground-breaking experiments. The purpose of the research was apparently to find the effective surface tension of a dead mouse. I had the formula explained to me by Dr. The Sneak thusly:

nBite x nToss all over t

where nBite is number of times I bite the mouse, nToss is number of times I throw the mouse in the air, and t is the length of time I spend pretending the mouse is still alive.

I wasn't furnished with the raw data, but apparently when all calculated out the result of the formula turned out to be just slightly more than 1.

When I suggested to the good doctor that this number was somewhat short of being anywhere near something resembling a useful figure, Dr. The Sneak spoke several quick words in a language I could not understand, concealed the research subject somewhere in the laboratory and rather haughtily left the room via a small trapdoor which I had not previously noticed.

Five minutes later, however, it seemed I was forgiven because Dr. The Sneak returned and I was treated to a short demonstration on testing the effective surface tension of one of my dirty socks.

Long time between drinks

Today being the the 12th of July, it's been almost two months since I did anything interesting. Well that's not quite true - a couple of weeks ago I went to a pretty good party on a wet Saturday afternoon. Apart from that, though, and a weekend in the Bay of Plenty, nada. Thoughts of boredom lead me very quickly to thoughts of drinking and at the moment I'm drinking a lot of what is known in the films of Europe as schnaps.

Don't jump to conclusions; we're not talking about some sort of nasty sickly peach flavoured muck here, but rather pure grain alcohol. It's the stuff that looks like vodka. You know, some guy'll walk into a bar and order "schnaps" and it says "schnaps" in the sub-title and the barman drops a small glass onto the counter and reaches for some nondescript bottle filled with a clear liquid and sloshes a measure into the glass and the guy slams it back slams down the glass and says "danke" or "grazie" or "obrigado" or whatever and wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand...

Nelson's South Pacific Distillery make a line of spirits called Roaring Forties and amongst them is their Doppelkorn Schnaps [38% a.b.v.]. It's a very pure-tasting drink and best drunk cold and straight. Unfortunately I haven't yet found a distributor so I'm nursing the last of the bottle I picked up when I was last in Nelson. No you can't have any. It's mine, preciouss...

Even more pure [possibly] is Frog-shine. Y'see about the only other interesting thing to have happened to me lately is to meet a guy, a friend-of-a-friend from Wanganui, who distills his own alcolhol. It comes in two variants - 30% a.b.v. and 55% a.b.v. - and it's very similar in quality to the Doppelkorn.

Both drinks are good drinkin' and will get you well fucked-up [see image, above] but the beautiful, wonderful thing about them is being made in a pure, traditional manner - Roaring Forties "100% cane or grain, no preservatives, chemicals or artificial flavours added" and Frog-shine "pure as fuck, man" - there's no nasty chemical aftertaste, and better still, there's no morning after. No hangover. You can drink away the evening on the stuff - I have - and get up in the morning with just a slighty funny taste in your mouth [and how unusual is that?]. You can even pick up again at 9 a.m. or whenever you get up - again, I have - and carry on with no adverse effects.

They're also real cheap.

Nostalgia

Monday July 5 2:15 pm: I am overcome with a very strong urge to shop for second-hand records in New Plymouth.

Am I Hard Enough?

If you're a Rolling Stones fan, I have a CD you should really hear. It's an album of Stones covers I picked up at The Warehouse the other day [for $9.99]. It's called Songs of Rolling Stones All Blues'd Up!. Here's the track list:

Luther Allison - You Can't Always Get What You Want
Johnny Copeland - Tumbling Dice
Junior Wells - (I Can't Get No) Satisfaction
Otis Clay - Wild Horses
Taj Mahal - Honky Tonk Women
Alvin "Youngblood" Hart - Sway
Clarence "Gatemouth" Brown - Ventilator Blues
The Holmes Brothers - Beast Of Burden
Lucky Peterson - Under My Thumb
Bobby Womack - It's All Over Now
Larry McCray - Midnight Rambler
Joe Louis Walker - Heart Of Stone
Alvin "Youngblood" Hart - Moonlight Mile

Most of the versions are great covers [and hours can be spent discussing the merits of a good cover version]; some are even superb. In addition, rather agreeably, the album should really be called Songs of Rolling Stones All Blues'd, Soul'd and Gospel'd Up! because many of the artists totally nail the innate gospel-soul component of the Stones' [approximately] 70's material and bang out fully-powered screamin'-soul versions which generally kick yo' ass.

Other aspects which add greatly to the appeal of this CD:
1] No appearance of Robert Cray, in any form, anywhere
2] For that matter, no Albert King, B.B. King, or Johnny and/or Edgar Winters
3] Much muscular bass, Hammond organ, squelching guitar and ace drumming... and all nicely produced and recorded - no shitty cheap Warehouse CD styles here
4] Charmingly odd graphics on cover [see image]

In the same series there is also a set of Led Zeppelin covers which I picked up - it didn't make such a strong impression initially - and one of Eric Clapton material, which I sniffily passed on; also available, apparently, are discs of Janis Joplin and Bob Dylan tunes.

Smoke and Mirrors: Eternal Sunshine of the Lame Plot

[WARNING: Spoilers]

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind is the latest film offering from the team that brought you Being John Malkovich, Adaptation, et al. It features Jim Carey, apparently hired for his ability to make cute faces, Kirsten Dunst, apparently hired for her proclivity to jump on beds in her skimpies, and Kate Winslet, possibly hired for her ability to behave badly and speak in a passable Sri Lankan accent while acting in film set in New Jersey. The film sucks, too.

Generally the pathology of relationships are interesting to me; here it is interesting enough - when you're trying for a second time, when you've already had a crack at it and failed, how you deal with knowing all the things that you're going to start feeling at that point when "the honeymoon's over" and the cracks start appearing - the true test of a relationship, right? But I always have the same goddamn problems with the films that these people make. The idea on paper for this one is fine - explore ideas of destiny, predetermination vs. freewill; does history, given every opportunity, really repeat itself? Plus they get to deploy the narrative device of the general public being able to book an appointment for a selective memory erasing procedure about as casually as having a couple of teeth filled.

As per usual this film doesn't go deep enough - ok, it seems Mary [Dunst] can't help throwing herself at Howard again - it's written in the stars or her DNA or something. The assumption is she could keep undergoing the procedure and still find him irresistable - this is one angle on the issue. Joel [Carey] and Clementine [Winslet] both undergo the procedure - on their memories of each other - but meet and hook up again; only a twist lets them discover how much they hated each other the first time around.

So effectively they wind up where any other couple do who are giving it a second try (or third or fourth or whatever) except this time they're missing the links between where they are now (and where they were originally) and where they ended up. This is the other angle - but all of the interesting things about their situation are voided by the storyline. And when you really think about it, there's no resolution to this narrative trap. They could either have been like everyone else and know how it went wrong and have a chance at avoiding it a second time; or be like Mary, have no idea about anything, and start from a clean slate. Either way, there's no film.

No film, just smoke and mirrors to distract you from the fact. Eternal Sunshine... is cinematically interesting, mostly, if quite cliched now - I'm a bit over this shit, I suspect. And because I can't accept their story resolutions I can't suspend my disbelief and as always, I finish the film not really caring about the participants at all. It may be technically sound, but ultimately unmoving and a bit dull.

Unconsequential. And that's the most brutal assessment I can make of a film. So I'm left wondering... why do people really like these films? 'Cos they do - a lot.

Pumice's Raft

The other night at Pumice's Raft CD release gig, while he was setting up for to play, I was talking to someone - an initiate if you will - who asked me what it was that Pumice 'did'. I had to think about it for a moment and then came up with drifting, shuddering gospel-folk-music.

Upon reflection, that kinda nails it perfectly. It's very interactive; you have to engage with it and when you do, you'll have a hard job to disengage again. Pumice hangs out a big analogue carrot which you follow, transfixed, teetering on the edge of something that you have a vague feeling might be going to be really important.. you're transcending.. pay attention; Pumice is goan take your head a-rambling over those hills over there in his little wheezing broke-ass tape-loop and concertina-powered flying machine.

Raft has all the essence of Pumice live, distilled through an 8-track recorder onto a CD-sized listening session. Pumice has worked very hard and very carefully for quite a long time to make some good Pumice here; the good news is he's pulled it off. For the sake of reference: it recalls the absolute glorious best of Alistair Galbraith's psych-dirge but tempered with the kind of occasional instrumental dexterity that you might find on a Sun City Girls record. I'm going to go out on a limb by saying that Raft is easily the best thing I've heard by Pumice; it is highly recommended.

[image of Pumice courtesy of Arc Cafe's possibly-slightly-out-of-date Pumice page]

The Audio Foundation

According to its homepage The Audio Foundation is

a networking and resource database hub for the representation, facilitation, support and promotion of innovative and experimental artistic development in NZ Audio Culture.

It's a pretty neat site, put together by Zoe Drayton, and it has a gig guide outlining up-and-coming events such as Alt.Music.3 at Artspace.

An artist index is also included on the site; it's fairly sparse now as the site is new, but this promises to develop into a valuable resource.

On a related note, two interesting gigs in the next few days here in Wellington:

Friday night/City Gallery/9pm to 12pm/free: Dino Karlis [HDU], Bevan Smith [Signer] and Andrew Thomas.

we'll be playing some live instruments and making our laptops make some noises too.

Saturday night/Adam Art Gallery/7pm/$10,$8 unwaged,$5 Friends and Members: New Voices A collaboration between Rosy Parlane, Richard Francis and Campbell Kneale.

This event brings together three of New Zealand's most exciting and dynamic sound artists. All three have been actively creating phonic works for the past decade and have participated in sound festivals and exhibitions throughout Europe, the U.S.A and Australia. This event represents an ideal opportunity to witness collaboration between three of the most innovative sound artists currently practicing in New Zealand.