The Inside Line

So this is a quick one, because I have to run off and play a gig with Enola Fall.

I have to give credit for this, because angelamaryclaire pointed it out to me.

In South America, six feet have washed ashore. Feet. That’s right. Not connected to any legs or anything, just the feet. Most of them are size ten. Some of them are still wearing shoes.

Now, this is strange enough in itself, and has already recieved a fair amount of media coverage, but the bit that got me, is the coroner in charge. The coroner’s name is Randy. Randy Gaylord.

Now, my bullshit alarm went off immediately, so I did a quick websearch for “Randy Gaylord” (which strangely wasn’t already in my search history), and I shit you not, this guy is for real. He’s even got his own website.

Randy Gaylord - Rated “exceptionally well qualified” by the Washington Women Lawyers and other bar associations.

That’s him. Check it. Randy Gaylord - the website.

Well done on the guy for making it through school in one piece. I can think of a few unfortunately named people that went to school here in Tasmania, but this guy takes it. Onya Randy.

I toyed with the idea of getting someone else to design an album cover, and maybe I should have. Thing is, I gots no money, so I can’t pay someone. And if I’m not paying them, I can’t hassle them about a) not being what I want or b) getting it done on time. So I’m doing it myself.

This is how it’s looking at the moment.

Album self portrait #1, incidentally, appeared on the last Fell to Erin EP, Stumble & Fall. My then flatmate LuckyCam came home to find it painted on his loungeroom wall. It’s not there no more.

Linc in front of the last dodgy album artwork

Oh, and I found this recording today. It was an original idea for an album track, but I didn’t really have a place for it. I wrote it for a lovely girl, who was living in the US. We spent many hours and dollars chatting on the phone from one side of the planet to the other, until she finally came home. I wrote her this song during the huge storms that hit Miami, where she was living on a boat.

Better off - MP3

In 1977, scriptwriters from the ABC series Happy Days included a scene where a waterskiing Arthur “The Fonz” Fonzarelli actually jumps over a shark - a feat mimicking that of stuntman Evel Knievel. Such a seemingly proposterous leap from the original tone of the show was considered a futile attempt to breathe life into the show’s ratings, by then in its fourth season.

The phrase ‘jumping the shark’ has since entered the lexicon of TV criticism referring to any series or franchise that has passed it’s useful life, and has turned to unbelievable measures to keep itself alive.

‘Nuking the fridge’ is a similar term, referring to the exact point at which the series breaks the illusion of reality, when the viewer is presented with something just too unbelievable. The phrase is a reference to the nuclear explosion scene in Indiana Jones and the Crystal Whatever, in which our beloved Indy survives by hiding inside a lead-lined fridge.

According to jumptheshark.com, there are seventeen ways that a series can jump the shark, and I’m pretty sure Home and Away has done most of them. They include:

• Same character, different actor
• Character has a baby
• Character dies
• Live episode
• Two opposite leads get it on
• Special guest star
• New character

You get the idea. (You’ll also note that The Simpsons, Family Guy, Arrested Development and Scrubs are listed as not having jumped).

homer jumps the shark

So I’m wondering if there are any bands that have committed some kind of act of reviving a failing career so badly that they’ve resorted to some kind of musical equivalent of jumping the shark. ‘Selling out’ doesn’t really cut it, because these kinds of measures are usually so far beyond merely selling out. It’s like they sold out years ago, and now the record label is selling out what’s left of their lifeless husks, and they’re too drugfucked and brainfried to even care, let alone do anything about it.

Certainly Kiss taking off their makeup is a good example. Putting it back on again is another. Putting it back on and playing with a symphony orchestra is again, a good example.

Any other takers? And don’t say going solo, ya dick’eds.

Okay, so there’s a bunch of kids out there that have probably been watching this band as closely as anyone is able for the past five years, and I’m kinda slow to the party, but this new single from Toronto’s Fucked Up got me well excited.

Fucked Up - No Epiphany

Check them out here:
Matador Records
Wikipedia
Looking for gold (blog)

At first, it grabbed me as something reminiscent of My Bloody Valentine, but with hardcore’s vocal aggression. But then i dug deeper, and found a bunch of other tracks online, and fuck, there just aren’t labels for this.

What is it about Canada that gives rise to such creatively independent rock music? I mean, I’m sure they produce as much shit as the rest of us, but there seems to be a real trend of unique and artistic, yet still accessible music.

Take Godspeed You! Black Emperor.

I was put on to these guys by Harper, a friend who had recently seen them live in Osaka, Japan. He said that by the end of this song, the audience were standing, slackjawed and still, some of them in tears, overwhelmed by this amazing music coming from what had looked to be a bunch of dirty Oi! punks.

The first time I put this record on I didn’t move for two hours, apart from to change the disc.

I wanna go to Canada.

Incidentally, I spoke to Bobby Flynn (yep, of Idol fame) about his time living in Montreal, and asked if he’d heard of Godspeed. He said that yeah, Thierry from the band lived in the downstairs apartment.

The new record, 30-Watt Heart, is pretty much in it’s final stages. The tracklisting has been all but finalised, the mixes just need a final draft, and then it’s off to be mastered. Looks like it’s going to include Morning (I gotta go), Hey, alright!, Miami, Holy Rose (a new and more uptempo version than the one that appeared on the Amplified CD), Sweet sin, How did we get it so wrong, Cute girls are stupid, Where the poppies used to grow, September, Blues for Jen (featuring Pete Cornelius playing the guitar stick), I know (this one features a dude called Frog. More on that later.) and Painting our names, the one that Triple J seemed to like the most.

There are three or four tracks that didn’t make the album, but they might pop up as special fan downloads for anyone on the mailing list.

I’ve nearly finished the artwork. Fell to Erin fans might have noted that the last three album covers have been painted by moi, and this project lets me be even more self indulgent than before. Thus, yes, I’m painting another self portrait, and designing the thing with a bit of help from Angela Mary Claire.

I can unofficially say that the album launch will be taking place at the Republic Bar & Cafe in the latter part of September, and will supported by young garage rockers The Novocaines, fresh off a national tour supporting The Vasco Era. However, the album will be available to mailing list fans before this, and at a discounted price.

So, rather than marking the two-dozen short stories that are sitting on my kitchen table, I’ve spent the entire afternoon arsing around with css and ftps and shit that I only have a basic grasp of. Come to think of it, I seem to have foregone eating for the duration of said arsing around as well. I did have a cup of tea though.

Thanks to everyone who came to the Brisbane Hotel last night to celebrate their first birthday party. I haven’t heard the numbers yet, but it looked to be a couple of hundred at least.

The night was hosted by the charismatic Charles Du Cane, and got off to a cool start by a fairly new band, All Fires the Fire, an eighties-inspired indie synth pop kind of affair. I’m not sure how flattered they’d be by the comparison (because we all fkn love comparisons), but I heard glimpes of GANGgajang (think This is Australia). Sorry if that offends, guys.

So we’ve finished playing, and I’m sitting at the bar trying to get some headspace, and some classy lass has decided that this was a perfect time to tell me how to make my band better. This is a pretty common sort of occurrence; some drunk always seems to start a conversation with ‘You know what youse guys need, you need to-’ before slurring something incoherent about a better singer or costumes or pyrotechnics or some shit. But last night was different. I got a demonstration.

‘You guys are alright, but you know what would make it even better?’

‘I can think of a few things, but go on, tell me.’

‘Well, this shirt’s ok, but-’ pauses and looks my chest up and down. ‘Is this shirt important to you?’

‘It’s one my Dad gave me before he died.’

‘Are you serious? Is it really?’

‘No.’

And with that, she proceeds to get a fine two-handed purchase on the t-shirt that’s under my shirt, and rips the whole fkn thing in half. Buttons all gone, t-shirt in half, I had no choice, but to stand up and walk bare chested back into the band room to find a jumper. I don’t exactly have the manliest chest in the world, so I’m not a fan of showing it off.

I think it was meant as a compliment.

Edit: I originally said that AFTF sounded like Goanna, but I got mixed up. Thanks Helen.