Tongue Dizzy and the Potentially Generous AFL Stars

Over the course of the proletariat working week, arcane and rusted footy hymns reverberated around Victorian churches. The Yarra was dyed Sherrin red, and the cold stone of each player who was immortalised into a statue brushed the fingertips of those who came to worship. While my cynicism reeks of Waratahs, the ritual of procession of Granny weekend feels fuelled by fanaticism and shrouded by capital greed. Kylie is tea though. Stroking chin with these sentiments in the backseat of the Uber while the driver is subjected to our pre-drink inclination for Sabrina Carpenter. His head is in his hands while Sugar Talking pumps deoxygenated life force energy from the aux cord artery into the lungs of the whip. Gallant suffering briskly whisked with 13 minutes of gallant karaoke.

Kieran of Jason Boltex is taking fat swigs out of a bottle of maple syrup on the upstairs stage of the Grace Darling. They reckon its coz they’re a vegan and no one really bats an eyelid, especially me considering I just spent $14.30 on a gin and tonic so it seems like a viable option. These guys sound fresh - breakcore bumps and bruises. Kieran meanders into maple-less crowd leaving Lincoln to orchestrate bass all alone up there. Non-artificially sweetened electronica chunes and a little bit cloudy. Nice. I like the singing a lot. 

Outside on the curb, Max reveals the unfortunate fox-induced decimation to all three of his chickens: Jeremy Cluckson, Kelly Cluckson and White Bastard. We sit at the sticky table with solemn bereavement, offering hands-on-shoulder condolences as he describes the marble tombstone that will soon be erected in their honour. Boochi returns from bar enquiring on the topic of conversation. We’re talking chickens, I say, Max’s chickens…

                       

                              “AWWWWWWWW!! HAS KELLY GIVEN YOU EGGS YET?” 

She presses unto the widower, with giant sparkling anime eyes and genuine endearment. We all recoil so I whisper dutifully in her ear that lowkey they're all dead. Her bone fracturing scream magnetises the attention of the Granny acolytes propagating on the ground level of the pub, designing a sort of inadvertent one-minute of silence. The neighbouring seccy also lowers the counterfeit P-Plater driver’s license in his hand for a moment and nods respectfully in our direction. We pour one out for the girls. 

Braids come loose for Astrid. I’ve sent their LP Blue Sky World to a hardcore-obsessed coworker and my angelic-catholic mother. They are fronting the acoustic renaissance with two axes, one with 12 strings for an even more shimmering dissonance. All of a sudden, I've seen a warm shift in the atmosphere where in which everyone has become Bob Dylan pre-motorbike accident instead of post. It’s a phenomena that appeals to me greatly, as it feels like in this Century of music, the hippies and the punks are finally shaking hands without being forced to. I’m singing da chorus der for On Your Shoulder and squinting at the stage through the loyal entourage of dancers, reminded of V.I.P.P and The Mamas And the Papas, if they were covered in gum leaves. Paganism progresses as Grace pulls out a tin whistle for A Long Day Of Bad Ideas - heaps twangy on the gats and just as sultry as the recorded version. Smiles are being shot around the place like fragments of light off a mirror as the set circles to an end like a serpent biting its tail. That’s Sydney Style - u neva want it 2 end. 

Conclude discussions of bygone work romances and the benefits of vegetarian diets and slither back in for Punko. Have you ever been faded in a bathroom stall with your best friend? Have you ever known laughter like that? Why is everything so funny in the bathroom stall? Is it the cleaning chemicals cutting through the sting of piss? Is it chirping on about some mofo you’re tryna tune in the crowd? Is it sacred? Am I chopped liver? No Girl you look hot? Should we get another $14.30 gin and tonic? Is the Pope Catholic? 

Watch the trail of smoke that winds up and around Punko from the incense they lit at the foot of the stage. My nose gets all congested with curiosity. They’re playing the bass in a metallic and steezy way and everything starts to feel a lil bit Blade Runner. Painted by the Moon sways the whole crowd in a regulated 135bpm head-bop, sweeping up our emotional leaves with the mid-tones on dat bass. Punko got me flying like one of them birds that like shiny shit coz they can't stop running up beats that beam thru the Nag Champa. The frequencies falling out of Collect are huge. It's lrically clever but not devoid of playfulness.

Eyelids start drooping from all the $140.30 G&T’s consumed on premises. It's getting a slightly Gatsby as the bartender does a massive shot while I rip out another page in my cheque book, chewin on the end of a gigantic unlit cigar. And the lights dim. And Kylie is exclusively spinning around on the sound system and I think everyone is really having a go with hedonism on this Granulated Saturday night. Kinda wish the Lions were here and not at the Crown coz they’d probably be in a mood generous enough to donate me some of their eight-ball. I purify the air with my Gurkha Royal Courtesan smoke, lit from the remnants of stage incense as Tongue Dizzy start setting up their gear. 

Mouths agape in lieu for a cluster dissolvation of tongue. A certain vibe infects the crowd as punters prepare for loss of inhibitions, a typical symptom of seeing Tongue Dissolver in the live format. Music begins and it feels like I am standing behind a moving bus billowing gas in my face with hundreds of other cars sweeping down my peripheral and Bob Dylan just came off his motorbike. I amn’t even on any drugs (fuck you crown casino chosen locus for potentially generous AFL stars). It is just how it feels to see Tongue Diz. Sonically induced leaps loosen the bolts in the floorboards and I prophesies the floor caving in like a creme brûlée. The soundstorm rages through the grattic and I am getting rained on even when i’m note-taking in the humorous bathroom stall. The weird effects on the VOX electrocute my ears like lightening. Jam back into da circus with 1 more priceless in-gay and onic-tay, lapping up the last iterations of the frenzy.

Booch and I are staring at each other grinning on the tram home with the same smile Bob sometimes reserves for his senile crowd. We are pelting down Spencer Street like it’s the final 20 seconds of the match toward the Kebab Kingz goal posts. Lament over UK Love Island season 13. Drop falafel into every crevice of couch. Scream and moan when Lorenzo on screen. Clamber into dog bed. Turn around 3 times on the spot. Twitch in sleep throughout green field dreams and blue sky worlds. 

BREAKING GLASS with GINA BIRCH

                                                                    

The incessant chirping birds and tiny little MacBook numbers alert me through blurry eyes that it’s 5am here in Northcote, Melbourne. Tangled up in my lace bed canopy, I’ve managed to break my glasses in this brief cross-over to the requiesence of REM. I think I’m also still a little cross-eyed after the Antenna EP launch last night, confirmed by the lingering flavours of garlic and self-flagellation that coat my tongue. Minutes tick by, when at last a smiley and frantic Gina Birch appears on the screen. My nerves subside as we get to chatting about how I know her kid, Honey, from a fated meeting in Berlin last year. She also relates to sitting on her specs at too-frequent an interval… 

If you were born under a rock, The Raincoat’s were one of the most prolific punk groups to emerge out of the London art scene during the late 1970’s. A precursor to Riotgrrrl music and culture, the band fronted a format of self-expression light-years away from any pre-conceived expectations of the sexist atmosphere that stunk out the 60’s and 70’s - both on and off stage. 

Assembled first in art school by Gina and her classmate, Ana De Silver, the pair would go on to cycle through rotation of members before assembling a primary formulation of Birch, De Silver, Vicky Aspinal and Palmolive. A line-up of raggle-taggle women, who put sugar in their hair and wore their clothes inside out. The instruments and the unconventional techniques they were played with formed the resistance to virtuosity that The Raincoat’s built their sound upon. Their blatant authenticity and gigantic contribution to the underground D.I.Y movement continues to entice music enthusiasts like a moth to a flame, beguiled by the band’s lack of interest in what anyone else had done or were doing within the scene. And doesn’t it sound good, what can filter through the happenstance? 

Gina Birch and Ana De Silva

Gina Birch: So sock into me. What’s your first question? *pans computer camera to a poster on wall* Oh there’s my Women in Revolt poster! Have you seen it?

Farmdog: I wasn’t in London to see it unfortunately! But that kind of draws in to my first question, all the things you’re doing right now, between your involvement in the Women in Revolt exhibition, and your new album, do you have any time for cups of tea?

GB: Well, i’d like to, but I make them and then they go cold! I do make them, but I get up and walk around the room and I forget to drink them. But yes, I do. Honey’s the same actually - there’s nearly always a cold cup of tea around Honey. 

FD: At least the thought’s there?

GB: [Laughs] It’s funny, there’s a lot of similarities between Honey and I’s behaviour without any planning…

FD: When I would tell my relatively conservative parents that I listen to punk music, I think records like Odyshape would be the very last thing that they would consider. I wanted to ask you, what do you think are the most and least punk elements about The Raincoats?

GB: Well it depends what you mean by “punk”, everyone’s got their own idea really. For us, it was about having courage to do something at a time where there was a movement called punk. A lot of us felt that we didn’t want to be cookie cutter punk, and then the punk that kind of emerged was tourist punk, a bit like fast food restaurants or something, lowest common denominator. We wanted to make something that was our own…

-

For me it was when I came to art school in London, and punk just seemed to be revolutionary in so many ways. Things like Vic Goddard from Subway Sect reading his lyrics, you got the feeling he’d written the song a couple of hours before they came on stage. There was a freshness to it and it felt un-tutored. This was good for all the young women, we didn’t have to be brilliant at what we did, we just had to have some ideas and some courage. For me, that’s what punk was at that time. It was about not necessarily following traditional song structures, it was about finding our way through things. You could say we were a bit more progressive than we were punk. It’s funny because people say “Oh, you know Gina? She was a punk you know!” And I kind of grin and grit my teeth a bit, because everyones idea of what a punk is something different from what a lot of us who were in that early part of the movement. It was buying clothes in charity shops, sewing them, subverting them, printing on them. Just being creative in any way we could. we would wear our clothes inside out. Ana [da Silva] used to draw lines on her face, We would put sugar in our hair - there was a kind of look. I think you could tell we were affiliated with punk… drainpipe trousers, I had big galoshes - I liked the idea of really skinny legs and big feet.

The Raincoats - photo courtesy of Kevin Cummins

FD: What was the sugar in the hair for?

GB: You melt the sugar in water, then you put it in your hair and it dries out. You end up with some kind of weird hairdo.

FD: I might have to take that one on board…

GB: It was all about what that movement was at that time, there were people that used to jump on that bandwagon that were already rockstars, doing garage rock who kind of turned to punk. They weren’t what I considered to be the real deal, because they were already doing something else, the thing we were fighting against, and then they starting singing about Peaches on the Beaches - you know, it’s like “Oh fuck off!”. There was lots of good girl energy. There were a lot of young women who started playing instruments then because they didn’t have to be brilliant, in fact, part of the charm of punk was, you let everything show. The rawness, the edges and the seams was part of the aesthetic in a way. No one wanted virtuosity really, at that time. Obviously theres nothing wrong with virtuosity but it excludes an energy and a creativity of people. We didn’t have to be virtuosos, just had to have a bit of an idea and a will to do it.

The Raincoats

FD: And big hair!

GB: [Laughs] Big hair was quite important, yeah. 

FD: Why do you think the allusive nature of the underground music scene is still so sought after? Do you think we’re all hard-wired to want to be “cool”, or do you think it’s something more significant? 

GB: Again, it kind of refers to the virtuosity. The underground is kind of its own little club isn’t it? It’s like, people trying to create something that isn’t immediately exploited by the mainstream media. The mainstream media tends to take things on, and kind of either put them too high on a pedestal or put them down, it interferes, in something thats quite nascent, it’s beginning, burgeoning. When the riot grrrls were doing their thing, they did a media blackout - they wouldn't speak to the press. They knew once the press got hold of it, they would destroy it somehow. The underground is cool because it’s less exploited, it’s more about the people that are making, rather than what other people are writing about it [laughs]. Well, I don’t know what the papers are like there but outlets like the Daily Mail [writing about] The Sex Pistols, people were outraged! I think the thing with Malcom McClaren was he was trying to play at that game of underground and intervention into culture, then pulling back. It’s a dangerous game. A lot of [punk bands] signed to major labels, and were seen as sellouts. I think the Gang Of Four used to say it was better to get the heart of the beast. The underground is cool because its often got its heart in the right place. It has a passion and it's often unexploited. 

FD: I think it’s interesting to see bands today that are really trying to eschew social media, and media in general. Bands like Bar Italia, who have this cult following with barely any presence in the media - they only just did their editorial debut with Crack Magazine after a few years on the scene. 

GB: There’s something about word of mouth. When Raincoats started, we were like, “We don’t want any advertising!” But you know, I think it’s good for people to explore things in different ways. People don’t have to be cookie cutter in their approach into their careers. We never thought of it as a career, we just thought we were doing it for a while… and here were are! 

FD: Here we are. I was listening to the interview you did for the Women in Revolt podcast, and you articulate the feeling of liberation you first experienced as a young woman in the punk movement, and you said that you felt like you could stand on your own two feet, without any need for extra artillery like boyfriends or the likes to secure yourself in a traditionally macho space. Can you recall any defining moments of feeling this independence?

GB: I think the thing is, when I came to London, I left home, I left any boyfriends I had in Nottingham. I realised that I could choose my own music, play my own records and be my own person. I know it sounds naive, but I was naive! We didn’t have the internet, I wasn’t a very worldly person when I came to London. It was just art school, and living in a squat, really. When we started the band, to be able to write a song, that was the most liberating thing. I could create something and it was my story… “I don’t wanna be in your family tree” and “no one’s little girl” and blah blah blah. It wasn’t that long prior to us doing this that the world was incredibly and intensely misogynist. When we started the band, women “Shouldn’t be doing this”, we wrote our own songs, we organised ourselves, made our own artwork. We were in control of our lives that was quite unusual at that time. We just got on with it really! The moment seeing The Slits play meant that we started the band, because we’d seen lot’s of bands play, [but] a lot of the women who were fronting had male band members. We weren’t surrounded by all girl bands. Seeing The Slits was a revelation - you definitely felt that they were writing songs from their own perspective. They weren’t writing Cherry Bomb or something, or songs that felt they were appealing to a female sexual identity… going on to stage to be admired or lusted after, which I suppose is every Rock ’N’ Rollers dream [laughs], male or female! Girls were expected to have this kind of sexy appeal, which were weren’t really aiming for. We wanted to look nice to please ourselves! We weren’t aiming to look terrible, but we shocked people. We were really believing in it - feeling that we were part of a change - all though we weren’t very much appreciated. It was like cutting through a rock or thorns and nettles - you get stung and spiked and all that - but it’s satisfying as well!

FD: I think that leads on to the next one, what advice would you give to a gig-goer who is feeling the weight of machoism, or the constrictions of being female in a boys club. 

GB: Well I don’t know what gig they’re at, if they’re at a Bikini Kill gig they’ll be laughing because there’s not much machoism there! When you hear Kathleen Hanna talk, she was going to a lot go gigs and finding a lot of male macho posturing and fights. So she decided to start her own band. She got a lot of heckling and verbal assaults [because] she would try to make it a safe space for women. The only other thing is to gather a gaggle of girls to go too! I wouldn’t go to a macho gig alone as a girl, it can be dangerous I think, unless you cover yourself in horse shit! [laughs]. I haven’t been to a punk gig on my own in a macho room in a long time. I think just walking down the street sometimes at night, you can feel the dangers of being a young woman in the city. I always advise walk near to the curbs, not near the gates because I just think someone could pull you into a gateway with a plastic bag over your head or something. I’m always wary - best to be safe! This has all been a really ridiculous answer, but I would just advise people to be as safe as they can because it's tricky out there! We don’t live in a utopia, we live in a pretty shitty world. Don’t get too out of it, unless you’ve got friends with you to look after you!

FD: I have been to many punk gigs by myself before, and I think its definitely such a better experience when you’ve got your mates by your side.

GB: I think it’s interesting, Kim Gordon has written about male bonding - boys in bands - if you took a sociological approach to male behaviour, rather than being a victim of it, you can be an observer of it, taking a cool, collected attitude towards their interesting and sometimes absurd rituals and behaviour. Just as long as you know where you are. 

FD: Yeah, absolutely! Do you see any connections in your role as a punk musician and as a mother? Are there any values that interject with each other? 

GB: I always try to make life creative and fun. I feel like I was as good a mum as I could be. We did lots of singing and dancing and making films and drawing, I hope I gave them confidence! We had further complications, a trans, racial adoption, its not an easy thing, more for the kids side than mine. I love being a mum so much, I found it one of the best things I’ve ever done, it’s just amazing. Kids are so, my kids particularly, they’re just so smart and interesting, I went with that. I tried to bring that out and expand it, explore it. 

FD: What’s been the least conventional addition to a Raincoat’s song that you can recall? 

GB: I think basically we always tried to find different approaches, not on every song, but we tried to make things different. We did buy some different instruments like the kalimba and the balofon and the strittibox. Now with samples it’s a bit redundant in a way. The way music was created, and the way I create music now is just so different. I think Only Loved At Night is a pretty fine example of us going off piece a bit and making something beautiful! 

FD: How do you feel about making music now, with samples?

GB: I really like it. It’s a predominant way of working, with a computer but getting other musicians to come in, record them, send samples backwards, having the same approach but with different instruments. It’s also nice being in a room with other people. I don’t know about you, but it feels like a lot of people I know are going out a quarter as much as they did before the pandemic. We’re all more kind of hunkering down. Do you feel you’re less going out? It doesn’t sound like it to me.

FD: Not last night anyway! I think in Melbourne in particular, there’s a gig on every single night of the week. I think my circumstance is a little unique, but I do see an inclination to wanna stay home amongst my mates. People just got comfortable!

GB: Yes! You haven’t got a band?

FD: No, but it’s something I really want to do. I’m very inspired and I’m excited to start something - one of these days… 

GB: You will! Lovely to meet you, Sorry I was late! 

FD: No worries! Thanks so much for your time! I really appreciate it. Have a lovely evening. 

GB: Thank you - have a lovely day! 30 degrees. Yum! Bye!

                                                        (interview took place in March, 2024)

                                                                (I have since joined a band)

HTRK AND THE BIRDS OF PASSAGE

Piper and I are soaring down the West Gate Bridge with the sinking sun coursing in through the windshield. I’m slinging her mandarin segments and trail mix, trying to decipher the map with her ridiculously gigantic sunglasses falling down my nose. The grand rites of love, family and our respective regional upbringings reverberate around the 2004 Toyota corolla, and we bond over the bush and Michelles patisserie. I turn up the music when it dies down, and as fate would have it, HTRK belts out from the stereo so the emerging stars listen eagerly. We're running late. This is not due to my undecipherable navigation, but because the traffic was really really bad. 

A little later, I am fighting with the blue eyeshadow I packed. I look like a clown. Piper sympathises as she pulls on her tights in the corner of the tin shed rental. Because I love her, I approve of LMFAO as our getting ready soundtrack, blistering through an iPhone speaker and making me a bit teary-eyed, fuelled further by the sting of my bargain bin eyeliner. At the Theatre Royal, we’re all thrown together at lightening speed for fear of missing the opening act of the evening, THE LEWERS. In addition to their lure, it’s clear that the Castlemaine getaway entices a certain city-slicker-weekend-warrior. My hunch is secured by the inner-north naarm battalion that emerges on the ballroom floor, but it’s nice though, in a way. I am an artic tern joining its flock in the Antarctic Ocean. The only risks of predation on the course of this long migration are running into a bygone hinge match at the pub next door and not having anywhere to hide. I remember no one will recognise me anyway if I am face painted to this Prussian degree.

(courtesy of cannon992.com)

We’re perched up on a couch, knocking back another prosecco as THE LEWERS take the stage. The ballroom gets toasty, and the sounds that start to trickle into the air guide me into a musical coma. I sink deeper and deeper into the couch, so much so that I can no longer see my fellow terns. Through the thick wafts of denim and lint, I hear the unmistakable intro for Kalopsia. The slide guitar + drum machine are savoury and sweet, and Celestial Dogs has a feverish quality to it. Even from the depths of the sofa’s belly, I’m charmed by their Sydney-side manners - apologising profusely for fucking up the start of a song. Their politeness reminds me that Melbourne lacks morals, and I feel a bit homesick for the NRL. Pastoral paints my reminiscent walls a soft bright yellow as the wailing melodica fights for our attention. Each member of this band is another colour in their stained glass window - slotting together perfectly and letting the light in for their congregation.

When interval arrives, I crawl back up through the leather and put Piper down for a nap on the sofa. I tuck her in with our jackets, and set off to find my flute teacher, Hank. He isn’t really my flute teacher anymore, because I bet all of my lesson money on one night at the Crown. For the convenience of my readership, I’ll embellish his character with his musical prowess and silver hustle. We’re seeking darts, and lamenting the eternal construction next door to his house. Outside on Castlemaine’s polar front, he explains that his sense of self is eroding because of it. I listen and look on with my best therapist eyes, suggesting we make a short film about the torment. This would provide a means of processing, documenting and becoming friends with the skull-vibrating hum of the Rotohammer (it’s average Db levelling at 97.8). The other tar-sucking tagalongs are flapping back into the ballroom, so I finish laying out the semiotics of our peace plan and feature film. The frenzy alerts me that HRTK are about to change my stupid bird life forever. 

Anticipation aches through the several thousand bones stood silent in the theatre, awaiting the fleeting presence of Jonnine and Nigel. Starving and starstruck, we look on hungrily from the black sky. They are pelagic invertebrates sparkling in the darkest undulations of the antarctic ocean. I’m smiling at them like a kindergarten teacher as they set off with Blue Sunshine, gentle and slow. Jonnine orbits the stage with timeless kind of grace, nonchalant as the fixtures glow red upon her like the northern lights. Nigel strums the essence of Kiss Kiss and Rhinestones on his guitar, and I am thrown into an unknown sentimental emotion - but I settle on gratitude. I never thought I’d get to see them play. Puddles on my Pillow, spills out across the water like an oil spill and rocks Piper to a gentle slumber on her sailboat sofa. 

“Give your love to me give it all to me, under blue mouldy light… Ocean floods my bedroom floor”

Gorgeous. The whole world waits for HTRK. 

The next morning, we are having breakfast at Togs Place when YUTA MATSUMURA materialises before us. My hangover grants me special powers in confidence, I so blurt out a compliment. I think one of us tells him to remember to “Rise and Grind” after he explains his busy touring and recording schedule. He is so lovely - and I show Piper the Red Ribbon album on the long journey back to the concrete nest. When we land in North Melbourne, I make sure I have all of my feathers and wave goodbye from the front porch. Our wings are adequately stretched and studded with rhinestones. 

DRINKING THE VENOM with DYLAN McCARTNEY of THE DRIN

 

I nearly let this one slip through the cracks! I was too busy howling at the pale moon...

I emailed Dylan McCartney (The Drin, The Serfs) last year, with hopes to stick this micro-interview in the centrefold of the pending Farmdog zine.... One day it will happen - but for now, here is a digital offering.

Hope all is well.

Yours truly,

Farmdog. xxxxx

https://thedrin.bandcamp.com/

https://theserfsmusic.bandcamp.com/track/bodies-in-water

 

WHAT'S A BLOGGER TO A ROCKER? WHAT'S A ROCKER TO...

ON A SWEATY THURSDAY AFTERNOON in the illustrious Port Melbourne, I am busy pissing off my coworkers talking about The Dare. If there’s one hot soirée that will resurrect this blog from its digital grave, it’s a suited-up yank with semi-fucked teeth and an irrefutable sex appeal. With careful and somewhat repetitive execution on my behalf, I am banned from saying his name - ordered to remain in my corner and frame god awful Etsy prints in silence like a sad little elf. I frown at the LeBron James basketball print I have seen one thousand times before in my picture-framing career, and begin to imagine the bands that those evil graphic designers must be counting - reproducing one another’s square purple bullshit in search of global Etsy domination. Linda, the lovely Canadian postwoman, startles me from my stupor - reporting the weeks gossip, and the heat that’s set to vanquish the city. 

“He’s piggy backing off the vast resurgence of… Indie-Sleaze?” She questions in her soft Whistler whisper.

I’m doing my best to explain the trajectory of his lore when the clock strikes five. Blowing the dust off my Ryobi One+ 18V drill like I’m Billy The Kid, I stagger out into the blaring sun and mount my carbon frame steed. I thought I saw a tumble weed, but rub my eyes to reveal all but an empty packet of Coles Deli popcorn chicken - billowing upon the steaming tarmac - is this an omen? Will I be weightless with no direction after 2nite? IDK. Call it fate, call it karma. 

Back at the pad, I frantically fuck it up with my electro-pop drippington. In Chiara’s apartment, we are passing around a fedora like a holy relic to the ancient hymns of Imagine Dragons and LMFAO. I get that disgusting urge to tag my belongings again, but my silver marker drips on Chiara’s beautiful wooden floorboards and I freak out. It comes right off. Thank fuck. We shuffle to Parkville and dexies are divvied out like we are receiving the holy communion. Bishop Casablancas reads us scripture from a UE boom, while Piper calls me Señorita Awesome in my newly adorned skinny black tie. Max’s literal honours certificate for his university thesis is discarded upon his bed, next to a can of deodorant and a pair of socks. I like the girls who got degrees. I begin visualising it’s potential blizzard-white mat board and Tasmanian oak frame when I am alerted it’s time to face the music, time to destroy disco…. I finish my prayers as we head into the city like we’re the charming intro for a coming of age movie.

When we land into the line for Miscellania, there appears to be a distinct air of both trepidation and mania. People don’t look like people, they look like Disney characters - patterned with cyber-sigilism tattoos and gorp-core on they feet. My final destination can of whiskey ’n’ coke hides discreetly in the tarnished lining of my cunty day-bag. It's metallic and very hard exterior unfortunately doesn’t fool the seccy. Feeling around, she looks at me like I am in fact stupid, and asks:  

“What is that?”

The likeness of a question mark emerges in my minds eye, like the spin transition effect on Microsoft powerpoint. 

“Myyyyy… wallet?”  

She seems saddened, more than agitated. I give up the goods (just step) with my tail between my legs then Piper takes my hand and leads me up the stairs. Must be better at lying. And at thinking. We surface up at the rooftop, to an atmosphere I am often induced to peak levels of anxiety within. Weirdly, such perturbations wither, under the impression that I am eleven years old again. Mainly because we are all genuinely dressed like we’ve stepped out of an episode of Wizards of Waverley Place - is my inner child healing? Or is it my vodka JD mystery-festival-floor-baggie cocktail that’s eroding my ego? Hard to say. Everyone is looking around at each other and talking about Harrison in discreet hush-hush type of way - like he’s cancelled, or dead. Piper reveals her secret wish for another lockdown so she can play Minecraft again. Real! People start to abscond from the watering hole - time 2 bounce.

I can’t really breathe because the air is thick with The Dare’s cigarette smoke. I’m also being electrocuted by the high-voltage-performative-vintage-style that’s characterising the room. Being in this crowd is life-threatening, as the daremania climaxes when he rolls out the Guess song. Tune, to be fair, I wanna know what you got going on down there. I bop so willingly that every electrolyte I’ve ever cultivated has been evicted from my pores. DILIGAF? This is awesome. He starts playing The Prodigy and I lose my basic motor function. So fresh. I wonder if Keith Flint would fuck with his suit? All of a sudden, the most peculiar scene begins to format itself in front of me, for upon that stage I see a medley of mfs in huge sunglasses taking turns lighting Harrison’s skinny vogue ciggies. He must rip through at least fifteen, because I have seen the same quantity of girls and gays revel in their intimate spark-up time with him - in a densely crowded semicircle, holding their respective lighters with an unshakeably tight grasp. I see deze hoez shake ass around the decks and I am no longer eleven years old. This is hedonism right before my eyes, elucidated in the polaroid picture I take on Piper’s camera when I reach the front row.  

The communal fedora is now long gone - and I take this as my humble sign to oge. I wipe the sweat off my brow and clamber out of the frenzy while he’s still sending us frequencies from the misc mecca. In that sea of lust and flat caps, I wave goodbye to my new mates and sink into the leather couch at the back of the clurb for a fighting chance of oxygen. I feel like The Bride from Kill Bill when she wakes up from a coma and develops muscular atrophy. 

When I find myself back at the crib, I am still scuffling around like a zombie. It’s 3:30 on the dot when I accidentally trip over the collection of skateboards leaning up against our wall - like the dominoes scene from Robots - the sound is deafening, and I bite my fist in shame. Shimmying into my unmade bed, I kiss my stuffed crocodile goodnight and set my alarm for another day in the frame factory. I attempt 2 drift off to snooze town, but it takes quite a while because I am in fact wired. All I can see when I close my eyes in the darkness, is the shimmering faint outline of the Mickey Mouse Disney logo. All I can hear is the residual chant of 212, and all I can smell, is my perfume.

It’s $5.99

I spray it in my mouth and the taste is divine.