a bad seed, a beast of bourbon, a boy next door and a birthday party

I saw Rowland S. Howard at Prince last night. Here is a picture I stole off some site, of the show. I was standing near that guy to the left with the bangin' fringe. I was jealous that he, as a boy, had nicer hair that me ( I presume he still does, apologies for the past tense).

It was to be my very first gig on my lonesome, but I ended up spotting someone that I knew, and stood with him for the gig. It wasn't too hard to spot a young face amongst all the oldies, although I shan't be disrespectful, as I hope to still be enjoying music as washed-up groupie when I grow up. Take that whole last sentence with a grain of salt, please. I really can't rectify it in a positive light- i'm too tired at the mo'.

I don't know whether to call it a gig or a show. The word gig conjures up sticky-floored pub and attractive young men jumping about and sweating with their instruments (not to say Rowland and his band weren't good looking. Brian Hooper still looks completely sexy, nearly as good as in his heyday). I'd only been to Prince Bandroom once before and I was too plastered to remember anything, the venue was really blue and clean looking but I guess it fit the crowd well enough.

The show itself was great. It was amazing to see members of all these influential bands on the one stage and to FINALLY get to see Rowland after caressing his poster every time I saw it plastered somewhere. I was pleased to be given the aural pleasure of hearing Dead Radio and his banter with the audience, namely towards some presumably drunk or possibly overexcited ladies: "there's some werewolves in the font row". I was however, a bit disappointed when he bid his goodbyes without playing Exit Everything but a few moments later the band returned as they had "forgotten to play the last song", which happened to be Exit Everything followed by another.

Halfway through Exit Everything, he must have hit his lip on the microphone and blood was falling to his chin and over his hands (or in his words "...i'm leaking"), but he continued to plug away. It was insane. I'm not sure what other word to use here. I guess on the inside I momentarily felt like I did when I saw Rocket Science earlier in the year and Roman jumped off the stage and and slipped on beer that some crazy-dancing drunken buffoon bitch split everywhere and everyone was like "ahhh" in alluding to how he was in a coma for falling over in '04.

I'm really glad I got the chance to see him, it was a really good night and worth my money. Or worth Dads money I 'spose. Thanks Dad.

wayward man.

I can not decided whether to be bad and skip five hours of class, and go get a new record I've had my eye eye eye on for a while and my Rowland S. Howard ticket. I kind of just want to go to sleep again. I think I will.

desire be, desire go

Last night my friend and I trifled away our evening divulging in Cameron Crowe's 'Almost Famous'. Although my favourite scene is the obvious, the-singing-Tiny-Dancer-brought-us-all-back-together-again, we longed to be involved in the mosh scene of one of Stillwater's arena shows. We thought that we'd have to wait a couple of months, and spent $80 to see a band that would warrant the jump, squash and bump of the mosh, but we only had to wait less than 24 hours. All year we have only really attended gigs in Melbourne where everyone is too cool to do anything but nod and cross their arms. Or I have dragged my friends along to gigs like this, so it was my turn to be a courteous young lady and attend a gig of my friends choosing. Last time was saw Tame Impala a little light bopping occurred, but Tame Impala at the Corner Hotel tonight was an insane contradiction of this. Granted, they are slightly more mainstream than the bands we generally see, but their laid-back retrograde psych rock didn't seem it would be the place to get vigorously jumpy. I was wrong, the crowd was going fairly nuts for such a small time band, even causing the lead singer, Kevin Parker to lavish the crowd in praise for their performance. After losing my shoe, and regaining it (luckily) moments later; I retreated to the side of stage (not to the actual side of stage, rather to the left of the crowd) for the last two songs. I feel sorry for my feet, but it was worth it to have a little Stillwater moment whilst it was still fresh on my things to do list.

diane arbus.

brunswick ladies.

I have found a new humdinger of a song, 'Brunswick Ladies' by Legends of Motorsport. I am yet to see them live, as a whole, and it is a moment of high as a kite anticipation. I discovered this piece of aural pleasure when I attended a show for the Fringe Festival called 'About The Town', where 20 musicians each sung a song about Melbourne.

Truthfully, I was bored out of my brains for most of the two hours I was there. There was too much folky, pretty music and I really was just their to hear a bit of Digger and the Pussycats, and to let my eyes wander over some of the very, very good lookin' muso's.

Richard Fyshwick, from Legends of Motorsport, was a relief from all the slow acoustic that was incessantly falling from musicians mouths. He sounded shit, but that's the way I like it. So, a couple of days later I hippity hopped to the record shop to buy the Legends of Motorsports CD. It's great. Especially Brunswick Ladies and Ice Cream.

Things I have learnt from listening to the Legends of Motorsport song, Brunswick Ladies:

1. Brunswick ladies don't like the Coberg ladies

2. Coberg ladies don't like the Preston ladies

3. Fairfield ladies bark like dogs with rabies

4. Fitzroy ladies shake their ass like crazy

5. Brunswick ladies never take of their shadies

Things that I already knew, that listening to the Legends of Motorsport song, Brunswick Ladies reinstated in my mind:

1. Northcote ladies like kissing other Northcote ladies

2. Brunswick ladies are stuck in the mid to late 80's

3. Thomastown ladies are all hitched to tradies

4. Toorak ladies drive around in their soft-top Mercedes

The song had other suburbs/ ladies but i couldn't quiet grasp what he was saying.

It's not all about the content anyway, really...

now it's time to cut you loose.

Digger and The Pussycats and Yah Yah's are the twin peaks of my musical love and when they come together I get weak at the knees. Once before I had shrilly and hysterically professed my inundated love for Digger and the Pussycats orange haired drummer at a gig at Yah Yah's, but no need for embarrassment (I have no shame when it comes to barely know musicians), he remembered my name. I have continually been smashed off my face at every gig post my inaugural one. I have only ever been to one of their gigs sober, and that was last Friday at the Tote for their farewell show.

It was trashy garage punk rock at its finest and hilarity ensued with the drummer releasing his body from his clothes. He didn't have the finest body in the room, but he still banged his drums as vigorously as his chest was flouncing spasmodically. They were joined by a myriad- okay, maybe only four- guests from the crowd; a tambourinist, a maraccarer, a shitty single-hand drummer, and a tiny raucous-voiced lady. They were all shit, but all added to the amazingness of the night. I'm going to miss their live shows.

With Digger and the Pussycats departure from the country and the sobering realisation that as beautifully crap their music is, the drummers moobs made my retinas cringe a little. I think it's time for me to find a new lesser-know Melbourne musician to give my hand, face and heart to.

bonjour.