Live music.

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gigging in Perth

A local celebrity DJ on community radio cold-called us about a gig he was putting on. A friend of ours had told him to do it. He came over to the North Perth house to hear our music. We had dozens of rehearsal tapes. I handed him the flyer I'd designed but it wasn't cool enough and in-the style so he left it in the bathroom when he used the toilet. He told us he didn't do Christmas and when it was his turn with the bottle he took a sip and shouted "whiskey power!" He said he loved the sound of the effect on the guitar. "Uh, nah, man, that's my voice." That wasn't the first time I'd met him. I'd seen the DJ in a video the same friend had shot. He was driving her old Mercedes, 666 on the license plate of course, she was in the passenger seat, and he was high on speed or ADHD prescription medication or ecstasy or probably all three, and was babbling away and being witty and edgy and transcendent. He's married now and his wife's Facebook profile page has over thirteen thousand friends. At the gig, when we sound checked, the feedback on our vocal mic was so loud that the headlining band thought it was broken and offered to lend us one of their's. Before we were about to play the local celebrity DJ told us he was going to play one last song - Helter Skelter by The Beatles - and then we were on, which was ironic, because days earlier I'd been arguing with the other band member that there was no way that Helter Skelter was the first heavy metal song 'ever' and that Bob Geldof had no right to state as such.

AAYL Tinnitus.

From 2004. A miracle, I know. I thought this old entry in the Angry Angry Young Lady was cute. Ringing ears are mentioned - one could argue that this is the theme of the piece? - and, of which, I still suffer from the hearing damage. But it's all perception and psychosomatic and a fact that resides purely in the mind. My mind, not yours. Unless you've got it. In which case: I'm so sorry, join me.

Please note: No line breaks - terrible apologies - but some major editing has taken place. What can I say? I must have been excited that day, night, year in particular. 

Please, please note: The editing function of the old blogger has been messing up and this might look weird. If so, and, if you believe in God, I genuflect in religious contrition. And there's no sex talk contained within: you perverts.

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Saturday 10th of July

Sometimes it feels like all I'm doing is counting down minutes and seconds. My ears have been blocked up for the last couple of days. Sounds to me like everything is on a depressed mute. Or, more precisely, I'm not receiving sound at the correct, stipulated level. That's ok; I don't want to hear what my family or friends have to say, what the commercials on the television have to tell me, or the very important message the dirty stranger on the street has to give me. I couldn't think of a better gift to be given, than to enter a club and not have the ability to discern, locate and pick out singular elements that make up the soundscape of the environment. So I can't locate the awful band mutating power-metal into funk rock in the corner of the room. The short blonde in bright white, trying to sell her whiskey brand of choice to me, may as well be trying to stop a speeding train when she looks and smiles at me. When a friend of the power-metal band talks to the singer, and tells him that she thinks that if he weren't a singer he would have to be an actor, and the singer, without a hint of irony or self-reflexivity or even a single blink, replies that he would "really like to get into acting" - it's all a wee buzzing in my right ear. A distorted, tonal modulation that is competing with the other buzz in my left ear, itself a fairly inaccurate representation of the folks leaning against the bar, ordering their drinks, bartering away for their social flesh and sweating, spitting and shitting out all they have over the club floor. You had to have your car detailed because you live up north and the red dust is everywhere in the vehicle? Do I come here often? Do bands play here all the time? You go better at pool when you've had two drinks? There's only one fluro light above the table? Cheap bastards? Your boyfriend? Eighties music? Fifty cents for a glass of water? Am I enjoying myself? What do I think of the music? Your name is Rachel by the way? You want to shake my hand? The next band starts and I finish. I go outside the club into the night air. A lonely road stretches past the door. In one direction this road follows along the coast in a winding path; in the other, it reaches back into the port, flowing over a two-lane bridge. The traffic lights, one twenty feet this way, the other ten feet that way, flick from green to orange to red and then back again; without the orange of course. And there are no cars driving by for a good five minutes. I can see the lights that line the Swan River, over in the distance, flickering without any due recourse. Everything is still; not even the air wants to move. Who needs to hear?

AAYL Going drivin'

Another Angry Angry Young Lady circa 2003. That seems to be the year for all the good work. The car mentioned was a Toyota Corolla. Not sure the year model; I don't pay attention to those details. I recall the vehicle was sky-blue in colour. Or was it navy? It also wasn't a bad car. That didn't stop me from driving it into the ground. I really didn't give a shit. Finally the car started to overheat. We (royal?) drove the bashed-up Corolla down to a Wreckers in South Fremantle. Parked it in the street for a while, so as to allow the engine's overheated particulars to cool down. Then, the Wrecker Man drove the car around the block to see that it wasn't completely fucked. The temperature gauge didn't budge and the Wrecker Man handed over 500 bucks for the car. What a hustle.

Anyway, point to the pick. I was a trawling in my spare time and saw this. Found it hilarious I drove such a shit box in the emerald days of my youth; especially considering the new, newish, car I recently bought. So, in aid of blowing-up my own ego, here is the following AAYL read. 

And, these days, when it comes to cars: I still don't really give a shit. 

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Sunday 3rd of August

At three am this morning when I was zipping along Thomas Street at a great zip, desperately trying to find a toilet, a bird broke cover from the trees of King's Park and flew straight at my car. Suffice to say when given the option of a windshield hurtling at a ton versus a flimsy feathery body, the only choice is to watch the bird explode. That and catch a glimpse of the windshield wipers being bent up and over the car. So let's recap the damage that has occurred to the car over recent months past. One of the windshield wipers is bent out of place, causing the wipers, when deployed, to scratch the windshield and make a great shreieieieik! I found my driver's mirror smashed and left by the side of the road one morning. The glass was awfully cracked but only a few pieces had fallen out, so I stuck the mirror back into the encasing. Now, whenever I have to change into the right lane, it's like driving in hall of mirrors. Oh - and to readjust that mirror I have to wind down the window and do it manually, as the handle on the inside broke. Now don't forget the white scratch, and a big dent to go with it, on the panel of the driver's door. I think a car pulling out of a parking spot did that boo-hickey. But I'm not innocent of bad driving myself, as I accidently bumped into the back of a parked car last week. My car's front bumper seemed fine. And finally the engine has taken to whining whenever I accelerate. Fortunately, the car doesn't overheat so I haven't really bothered to find out what that sound is. Welcome to my world of bad car maintenance, zero insurance and general apathy in extracurricular motor activities.