Jason Mulgrew

Hey y'all. Good weekend? Hope so. I realised it has been at least a month since I linked to Jason Mulgrew so I thought I'd take the opportunity to do so, especially since he writes some good shit about a song I love, the Beach Boys' I'm Waiting For The Day, from the Pet Sounds album.

Like he says, just a solid A+ song. Probably the most interesting arrangement on an album full of interesting arrangements. Lyrics here.

Massacree

I popped into the previously mentioned Mojo Sound (Tom also touched on this new store) the other day, and was a little disappointed. It's dark, and they don't seem to have much of sweet fuck-all. They particularly didn't have any Aphex Bass Xciter Big Bottom/Aural Exciter pedals (kinda awesomely, if you follow that link, you can listen to demonstration sound recordings), as featured recently in the December/January 2005 NZ Musician magazine (right, above, whatever). Which is a pity, because I'm all set to buy one of these sweet babies; at $295 they're absurdly cheap, especially if they're anywhere near as good as the review suggests.

I've recently become a much bigger fan of The Brian Jonestown Massacre (AMG page here) than previously I had been; this has largely down to having watched the quite fantastic documentary DiG! which covers the first seven or so years in the life of the BJM and their once-great-friends and rivals The Dandy Warhols (AMG page here). The film has gotten a lot of hype lately, and it's all deserved; it's really great. I'm sure it would even be a fascinating watch for someone who doesn't give two shits about the BJM and/or The Dandy Warhols, American indie music, indie music, or even just music, since it's really about human nature and the mechanics of genius. I'm especially now a huge fan of the divinely-carried Joel Gion (dark hair, centre) (you could do worse then to Google Image him), tambourine player with the BJM, who lit up the screen whenever he was on camera, and seemed to have the personality of an angel. Don't get me wrong, I don't want to fuck the guy, but I'd like to give him a hug. Trust me, you'll understand if you ever see the film.

A long time ago at a band-practice Ross once said something that has stuck with me ever since. He said "the talent of a band, and their motivation to 'succeed', are normally in directly inverse proportion to each other". Or something along those lines. DiG! is a perfect illustration of this principle, as we watch the demonstrably less-talented and less-interesting Dandys rise to a certain degree of super-stardom (in the "indie" world, anyway - it's all relative, dig) and the profoundly better Massacre sputter and tragically fizzle out. They have experienced something of a resurgence recently, though, possibly on the back of the movie; if you're interested in hearing them it appears that you can download pretty much everything they've ever recorded, and a bunch of other goodness, from their website.

Speaking of Ross, you should check out his cartoons, if you're not already. He's gone to publishing six a week, and lately they've been kicking my ass all over the place; seriously laugh out loud stuff.

And speaking of angels (I was, truly.. scroll up and you'll see), the other day I was "fortunate" enough to see The Jacket, another film for which there's been a bit of hype lately; this time, though, it's thoroughly undeserved. Pretty as it is (and it's quite pretty, I'll give it that), The Jacket is just a lame combination of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, and Touched By An Angel, that offensively piss-poor TV series about the angel who manipulates divine providence to save people from themselves. Actually, that's a bit harsh - how about Cuckoo's Nest combined with Tru Calling, that more recent and equally-offensive ludicrous series about the woman who manipulates time and space to save people from themselves, and which surely only exists as a vehicle for it's "sexpot" lead, Eliza Dushku. (I say "sexpot" in that rather than make me want to fuck her, and buy all the products that are advertised in the commercial breaks, she makes something inside me spasm violently and cause pain). Also, how much of a ham is Keira Knightly? And how badly does she want to be Winona Ryder? Fucken heaps x 2, I say. Give The Jacket a wide berth, unless you feel you need proof.

Pictured is Adrian Brody, wearing a jacket. Not The Jacket, though, just a jacket.

Cup

This is a picture of a cup that I drew in a meeting the other day. I'm quite into it. I think I might work up some design ideas and offer it to one of the local espresso roasting houses, whose graphics tend to suffer quite a lot from being terminally-hip - "terminal" being the operative word, since they generally bore me utterly to death - clean, tight, sharp, safe, sterile - or are just a little tired.

funk-y

1. Having a moldy or musty smell: funky cheese; funky cellars.
2. Having a strong, offensive, unwashed odor.

I guess I just like the funky stuff.

Write

I haven't really posted much of late, as I've been writing a column for an online music magazine, Foxy Digitalis. You'll notice the awesome photo of the author - luckily I was able to take an awesome self-portait with my phone on the bus one day. ("You look like you're waiting for someone to kill you" - Foxy D. editor). (Luckily, the same Foxy D. editor was also able to crop the pic and turn it into black and white, making me look even more awesome). The piece is specifically designed to stir up a bit of controversy amongst the usually-benevolent and generally hippie-like underground music community; I'm waiting for the hate-mail to start. I also did a few short reviews of various albums; this is an old tendancy which, now resumed, is probably something I'll continue to do for a wee while.

I got absolutely wankered on Friday night, and as a result spent a large amount of Saturday in the bathroom, shivering and retching, or in bed - doing much the same. With immaculate timing, around 8am the road-gang - who've been making a nuisance of themselves in Aro Street for about 6 weeks - also began work outside my bedroom. Fortunately I was able to put to good use the transcendental meditation techniques I learned from Tibetan monks while we were imprisoned by the Chinese, and transcended my way back to an uneasy sleep; by the time I woke around 2 or 3, I could actually keep down liquid, food, paracetamol and codeine. By mid-evening I had recovered sufficiently to drink lots of beer and go to Paulie's birthday party, where I had an excellent time drinking more beer, inventing champagne cocktails (Jacob's Creek Chardonnay Pinot Noir Brut Cuvee, crushed raspberries and a large dash of 42 Below Feijoa vodka), eating Comtessa's insanely decadent cupcakes, and feeling like a hungover mutant.

Don't ever drink "lime"-flavoured Finlandia vodka. Especially don't ever drink about 1/2 a litre of it, after having drunk 2 huge martinis and a gin'n'tonic. I know I won't be.

Some miscellany:
1. We popped into Morocco one evening late last year, and it was shit. Utter shit. I take back everything nice I said about it.
2. No 42 Below linkage for fear of upsetting The Sifter.

Martini bling

Is there anything better than a martini made with good ol' Tanqueray gin? I think actually that there may not be.

This is my Omega Martini. It's mostly made as per my 1947 Martini, but garnish instead with a large canned dark plum and a generous drizzle of the sour syrup/juice.

Sooooo good.

UPDATE: I was thinking - I didn't mean to imply that I 'invented' the Omega Martini - it's effectively the same as, for example, the Gambata (sp?) as served at Good Luck, except there's no sake. Oh, I don't know, perhaps I did invent it. Opinions invited.

Misanthropy pt. 1

1. Exclusive to The Mill Liquorsave - the "Beer Ball": 800 ml of fresh beer in a convenient ball-shaped bottle.

Uh, since when the fuck was a ball-shaped bottle convenient?

2. Arobake. (In case you can't read it, the text on the bottom of the sign reads "Nearly all cultures believe that a Ladybird is lucky!")

And I imagine that most of those cultures also believe that putting wack faux-mysterious gobbledegook on your shop's signage is stoopid and tasteless.

If you only spent more time learning how to make bagels properly; now, that would be lucky - for everyone.

(click the images to enlarge)

Guitar bling

Oh dear. I felt a disturbance in the force as soon as I laid eyes on it. So, I'll wager, did my bank manager. Mojo Sound is a brand new store in Cuba Street, purporting to deal in custom guitars, amplifiers and accessories. I couldn't bring myself to actually venture within, but it's time will come, you mark my words. (click picture to enlarge)

It's all about tone, apparently.

House bling

Despite my natural stinginess, about once a year - around this time - I get all home-nest-feathery or some shit, and go and buy some kind of homewares. Last year it was a second-hand microwave. After both of my beautiful 50-yr-old vintage chrome toasters broke down irrepairably, this year it was a new toaster (see pic). Ain't it purty, Cleetus. It was on sale... at Briscos, of course. (Ooohhh now I've gone and revealed my class-roots. Bad move.)

As if to celebrate this wonderful addition to the house, my oldest and most dearly-loved trichocereus decided to bloom. Ain't it purty, Cleetus. You can click on the pictures to see enlarged versions of them. And no, in case you were wondering, this one's not a "San Pedro" - rather, it's Trichocereus scopulicola. The flowering is also usually a once-a-year event (conditions in Wellington, NZ not being the most ideal for the poor bugger), and normally the flower only lasts one day - especially if its FUCKING RAINING LIKE IT SEEMS TO BE INSISTENT ON DOING TODAY.

Sorry.

I love it when plants and animals do stuff and suddenly get themselves all tricked-out and pimped-up - it's a kinda nice to imagine that I live in a world that is much more wild than this mundane one I seem to spend most of my days in.

For an Xmas present to myself, I bought myself a new strap for my bass. I got it from the maker, on TradeMe, and it was an incredible bargain. The strap arrived yesterday, and it's really beautiful. Click on the picture to link through to the TradeMe auction - and witness the motherfucken fitness. If you're after a new strap for your instrument, I couldn't recommend this guy highly enough - let me know and I'll put you in touch.

Finally, my summer-project - of completely cleaning and reorganising my flat - is nearing completion, and I am now looking for a housemate. Wish me luck in finding not-a-psycho (well, not-as-much-of-a-psycho-as-I-am, anyway). Thanks.

Caring is creepy

Looks like Rose beat me to the punch on the fantasy-blockbuster-showdown post. Oh well. Some points I'd like to add, though. Narnia was weirdly unfamiliar to me. Despite reading the entire set of books when I was young, my only lingering memories of them are (a) that they got more and more stupid with each volume, (b) turkish delight and snow, and (c) Vivian out of the Young Ones. We were heavily stoned when we saw it, and I kept getting hung up on technicalities like "all the animals are like people, so what did they eat?", and how terribly CGI the lion looked. Oh, and I decided part way through the battle scene that I never ever in my entire life want to watch another movie in which there is a huge battle between an army of 'good' and one of 'evil', where optionally the good is heavily outnumbered, but prevails anyway.

Thanks mostly to the trailer that screened before Narnia, we decided the next night to get heavily stoned and go see King Kong. I enjoyed this a little more, but I still kept getting hung up on details. I mean, exactly how, with most of his crew dead, and especially (presumably) towing a colossal monkey (how the fuck else are they meant to have transported it), did the ship's captain manage to get the ship back out through the treacherous rocks surrounding the island, and back to civilisation. And that diplodocus-stampede. Yeah right. They were all toast. Every single one of them. No question. I was thoroughly exhausted by about half-way through, and could happily have stopped the film, had a nap, and resumed watching later on.

In summary: don't go to see Narnia unless you are 10 years old, or wasted. And, don't go and see Kong unless you are wasted.

Thank you.

In other news, a really, really great little film I saw recently was called Ivan's xtc. Based on Tolstoy's novella "The Death of Ivan Ilyich", but set in contemporary Hollywood, it's a candid treatise on the sordid underside of the film business, supposedly with references to real-life events. It's shot in digital - but with nary a computer-animated monster in sight - and although it's about five years old now, it's only just shown up at Aro Street. It was unexpectedly moving, and fully I recommend it. (another review here).

Best. review. ever.

"New Zealand Stephen Clover proposes on this album of the floating, at the same time stationary beaches and moving, as extracted from continuums without beginning nor end. The music, made up of electronic loops, tablecloths and held sounds, car-discusses, is maintained on its own energy. No the trace of human voice, strictly linear musical structures which progress in not-Cartesian plans. Seht avoids the speeches for the benefit of an enveloping sound with which the listener can start, in one moment of loneliness resonant and alleviating, a dumb relation. Application antarctica download form is an album which naturally finds its place in a current very developed at the occidentalized end of the world; the New Zealand labels Corpus Hermeticum, Siltbreeze and Celebrate Psi Phenomenon publish artists who strip the diagrams of the rock'n'roll to keep only the bones of them, a phantom music whose desolation reveals some questions and feelings that the entertainment in general occults."

- Jean-Grégoire Muller, la Médiathèque

This was translated from the original French to English via babelfish.altavista.org - if anyone reading this would like to chance their arm at a more accurate translation, be my guest.

Second hand news

[seht] i'm also now a fleetwood mac fan
[xxxxxxxx] oh dear god no
[seht] yep
[seht] it all made sense
[xxxxxxxx] i think we need to stage an intervention
[seht] sun, drugs, and heartache
[seht] the only thing that was missing was the late 70's
[seht] and that is always there in our hearts, so there you go
[seht] possibly it's more to do with having sex in a tent at 2am on New Year's morning
[seht] while the van on the neighbour's site blasted "You make loving fun" at about 700 dB
[xxxxxxxx] sounds idyllic ;)
[seht] actually I was always into tusk, but I hated rumours with a fiery passion
[seht] but that was more to do with the awful, awful memories it brought up
[seht] awful, awful people and awful, awful times...
[seht] like, just hearing the opening bars of "Second hand news" would send me into a cold sweat
[seht] and a mild panic
[xxxxxxxx] ?
[seht] heh
[seht] so it would seem that amazing stoned sex and extreme volume have combined
[seht] to break down the bad connotations and the pavlovian reactions
[xxxxxxxx] destroy all false prophets
[seht] and now all i am left with is bliss, and stevie nicks
[seht] exactly

This is cute

In 1991 when the yanks were explaining to Israel why the Patriot missiles they'd promised would shoot down all of Saddam's SCUD missiles instead kept missing, and the SCUDs were slamming into residential Tel Aviv, they should've put together a nice little powerpoint presentation with this graphic, and I'm sure everything would have been much sunnier.

Future estate divergence

Hi. How was your Xmas? I celebrated alone this year, and it was great, thanks. Thanks for asking. I invented two drinks on Xmas day. The first one is called a 'Champagne investment' - serve about a pint or so of cheap, dry, white sparkling wine (the cheaper, and the dryer, the better) in a stainless steel cocktail tumbler with ice, and depth-charge about 60 ml of Stone's Green Ginger Wine into it. The other one is called 'Champagne revolution', and it's for when you run out of Green Ginger Wine; use the same amount of tequila instead.

I've been having an awesome holiday. Xmas completely brings out my misanthropic side, so I've been avoiding ppl as much as possible. Instead of socialising, I've been working on my inner person - taking incredibly strong drugs and crashing early; rising with the birds; going to the gym a lot; drinking shitloads (white spirits, low-cal mixers) ; 'spring'-cleaning the entire flat (I even got the gardener in); trying to flog off my records and DVDs on internet auction sites to raise money for something; all that sort of grown-up crap. Four more weeks of this to go. Here's a picture of me looking fat and being suitably misanthropic.

A few people have privately commented that they think it's weird for me to be planning to get a tattoo that was designed by my ex-gf. To this I must respond simply that I don't. Actually, the main person whose opinion on whether or not this is weird I value is my future life-partner; since this is currently an abstract concept to me, the sum total of people whose opinion interests me equals two. More on this later. Maybe.

Things is looking up though.

I've also had two new mini-albums released in the last week; one (Syddo paragone) on the Belgian record label Audiobot, and the other (Nova bonalbo) on the Australian label Music Your Mind Will Love You. I can't be biffed ranting about them here, so just click on the cover images if you want to know more. I can't completely stop myself, though: here's an excerpt from the PR-sheet for the Audiobot disc:
"Imagine King Tubby at the controls of a New Zealand spaceship, throbbing and shifting into a bottomless pit of reverb upon meeting the Wordsound rockers in a malaria infected basement. Classify under : throbbing NZ claustrophobic dub sponge."

Oh, I'm gonna need a housemate soon. Keep your ear to the ground, would ya?

Tattoo me

Can I show off for a moment? Just wanted to share my awesome tattoo which I'm gonna get this summer. It was designed for me by The Jarman about 18 months ago, and I've fluffed around and procrastinated for far too long already. The second, lower image is an artist's (i.e. my) (extremely crude) representation of where and how it'll sit on my shoulder.

Since the weight of opinion in the responses to my pop-survey was for Roger's, and I had independently been advised the same, I shall be turning up there forthwith to get the ball rolling. The complete bugger of it all is, though, that there's something like a 4-week waitlist at the moment. You know that thing how when you make a decision about something and then you totally just have to do it right then and there. No? Maybe it's just ol' impetuous me. Well anyway, I hadn't counted on having to wait.

Yesterday was the staff Xmas party. About 200 of us convened at Newtown Workingmen's Bowling Club about lunchtime, and proceeded to get extremely pished in the extremely hot sun. There's hangovers aplenty in the office this morning, lemme tell you. What better time, I am thinking, to share with you my brand-new and seemingly surefire hangover prevention remedy. 'Tis the season and all that.

It's quite simple. Before you go out on a bender, put a litre of McCoy's cranberry juice in the fridge. When you get home, drink it. It's not all smoke and mirrors and magic potions.. apparently cranberry juice is a powerful diuretic, as well as being loaded with vitamins. Makes sense to me, anyway. It even works well on the morning after. Oh and for some reason, the stuff in the big glass bottles - Ocean Spray - doesn't work as well. It's much more acidic, to my gut anyway.

Gerry Rafferty's stem cells

One of the reasons I love shopping for booze at Rumbles, downtown in Waring Taylor Street, is that it affords me the opportunity to visit my favourite bit of the city, Maginnity Street (right). Without fail, every time I turn the corner from Ballance Street, I'm suddenly overwhelmed with delightfully faux sense of history, grandeur, depth and scale. Only here, utterly surrounded with 10+ floor buildings at close range, do I find myself forgetting for just a moment that we're basically a piss-ant little city built around a trinity of longish streets laid out in the shape of a Mercedes Benz logo. Only here do I get the hopeful feeling that - just possibly - there may suddenly have sprung up thirty city blocks in every direction.

It's not the architecture per se; the sequence on the right side of the street - the Wellesley Club, then the State (?) building, then the somewhat grandly named Petherick Tower - is nice, I guess, if a little disjointed*. It's more just the disorientation I experience when I suddenly cannot see any hills around me by which to navigate. It's a feeling I also experienced very strongly in Sydney, and have suddenly been overcome by at other odd moments like when walking down the main street of Onehunga, in Auckland.

So much deep thought, yesterday afternoon, as I wandered about in the bizarrely warm afternoon and dreamt of g'n'ts, and pondered on exactly how long it's been since I wrote anything of any worth on this blog. Busy-ness is only a partial excuse; I shall try harder, dear readers, do not be afeared.

If you're looking for promises, that's about as good as you're gonna get.

In other news, it appears that I'm not the only person who absolutely cannot stomach oaked Chardonnay. Oaked anything, actually, including Merlot, which I'm not absolutely sure is oaked, but if it is it will explain why I can't really drink it. I don't get headaches, apart from the understandable ones (1.5 bottles of any wine will do that to ya, innit), it just makes me retch, pretty much. I've started telling people I'm allergic to it; entertainingly enough, most take me at my word.

Shout outs to the other Welly-bloggers who turned out last Friday night for the hooley. It was good to meet y'all, although I almost feel bad that I was so tired after a big week that no typical Drinks-After-Work-type behaviours were indulged in. That's my excuse, anyway. I'm not sure what The Sifter's excuse for the state he got himself into later in the evening is, though.

*As I'm no expert I'll leave it up to someone like Tom to verify the identify of the middle building; he might also like to comment on the respective architecture of the three buildings. About the best I can do is suggest the approximate era of each - 1900s, 30s, and 50s.

Tattoo you

Any concensus on where's the best tattoo parlour in Wgtn, NZ?

Stumps T's are go!

I'm in the process of making a whole stack of Stumps t-shirts which are going to to be available in a wide variety of different shapes and sizes and very affordable. The shirts will essentially be one-offs - no two will be alike.

I've started uploading images of the shirts here; have a look and email me if there's one you want. Ultimately I'll have a much sexier web-interface set up for browsing and ordering the shirts; for now this'll have to do.

Shirts will be only approx NZ$15-20, with a shipping charge on top of that.

What you need to know:
- The colour and size of each shirt is given on the image. The measurements are approximate only - to the nearest 1cm/0.5in or so; the actual colour of the shirt may also be slightly different to that shown, due to the shitty light I'm photographing them in.
- Because no two shirt manufacturer's sizes are the same, I've measured each one in SPAN and DROP dimensions. See [0] demo.jpg for an example of how this works.
- The SPAN is the horizontal measurement across the shirt, basically the "bust" measurement from armpit-to-armpit.
- The DROP is the vertical measurement from the front of the neck to the bottom of the front of the shirt. In the case of 'V'-neck shirts, this is from the lowest point of the 'V'.
- All measurements are made initially in glorious metric; conversions to imperial (inches) are done here and at the mercy of javascript floating point math inaccuracies and the like.

And one for The Stumps....

MySpace.com page for The Stumps here.

Somewhat alarmingly, the url www.myspace.com/stumps AND www.myspace.com/thestumps were both already taken.

These MySpace pages are kinda neat; you can even include a wee blog-type thing where you can post info like a newsletter-type thing.

Sorry if I'm not making much sense. Hardly slept last night and I'm tired as a motherfucker.

I wish I could...

remember who I lent my DVD of the Twin Peaks pilot movie to. It's doing my head in... goddamn memory fails me every day lately, it would seem.

On a more positive note, I've set up a profile for Seht at myspace.com, including some tracks you can listen to while you're browsing.

More fun soon.. when I gotta time 'aiight.

Round-up my ass

Ok, where to begin.



The Yellow Swans gig was pretty great, even if Tom didn't really like them. Possibly I should've called them "punk-noise-rock" or something; I had a lot of fun, anyway, though possibly I would've had less so if I hadn't solidly primed myself with liquor. One of the features of the 'Swans was that they performed with Campbell Kneale/BCM in one of his retarded schlock-metal guises which involved him, amongst other things, seriously messing up his usually-cherubic features by diving continually face-first into the stage. I was actually a fan of the the "rock-god antics" which Tom comments as having found "a bit forced" - there's too much serious in serious music, and not enough KISS-like pyrotechnics and stage theatrics.

My own set was mostly disasterous; however, for an unrehearsed and improvised thing, it went across really well and everyone seemed to think I was awesome. Probably this was due to the degree to which everyone else had primed themselves with liquor, as well.

After the gig I went out and got (more) drunk; later on I drank myself sober; later still, about 7am, I went home.

Thanks to Ryan, who pointed out that "Riley's You're No Good was reissued in 2001, but it was originally recorded wayyyyy back in 1967. Which makes it all the more impressive a work, given the relatively primitive sampling and sound manipulation technology of that era". Word.

Now, between then and now a lot of crazy shit has happened, but due to time constraints, I'm gonna have to catch you up on it later on. I did want to mention, though, my band The Stumps is supporting the Grey Daturas - an awesome noise-rock band from Melbourne (this time the empahsis is on the rock, not the noise) - tomorrow (Weds) night at Katipo Cafe, in Willis Street. Apparently this time it's an early show; also playing is (NZ's only semi-serious doom-metal band, just back from triumphant tour of Europe and the UK) Black Boned Angel.