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.

Nar, it's chill. mating rituals are ceded on the Journey south anyway.

(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 “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.