Appalling Behaviour, La Mama, Review

Appalling Behaviour

Written and performed by Stephen House

Directed by Justin McGuinness

Reviewed by Lee Bemrose

I once heard about a play that was performed in an elevator. It was at one of those arty fringe festivals. Appalling Behaviour took place on a stage much more intimate. Seriously, I think this was the tiniest stage I have ever seen. Did it work in this shrunken version of La Mama? Hell yeah. This is a case where intimacy really works.

Stephen House wrote this play and could sit back happy that he has done a good job of writing it. It's one of those scripts (it's a monologue) that makes you want to read the words on the page as you watch the performance. It's lyrical. It's savage. It gives eloquence to people most of us ignore.

Story? There's a guy on the streets of Paris. He's broken and lost but clinging to the hookers and the dealers and the schemers who get him through each day, either in reality or the hallucinations and memories he needs to survive. You live in a big city, you see them each day. But you ignore them. You never enter their world. But you wonder, don't you. You wonder how they got there. You wonder what their life was like before they became grimy and fucked up and forgotten.

Acting? There's not one minute of this 75 minute performance that isn't convincing. This guy just a metre or so away in his shitty clothing with his bag of drugs and his tales of sorrow and his yearning for admiration and love and for things to be the way they should have been... he's like the forgotten ones we all see on the streets but step over or close our ears to. This homeless human that Stephen House has created gives a voice to these people. They are human. They have feelings. They have a past. Sometimes they are even tragically funny, just like the rest of us.

This is a big performance on a small stage that was hugely impressive.

Addendum: I was lucky enough to have an accidental post-show chat with Stephen House. Apparently the La Mama stage was so small due to the 6.30 performance of Blackbox 149, which explained the mysterious curtain at the rear of the stage that didn't do anything; it was not a prop in this show. House said that he was intimidated by the diminutive size of the stage and initially didn't think he could do it. He was used to performing Appalling Behaviour in bigger spaces and had to pull back his performance. On hearing this, most of us were surprised because this very intimacy enhanced the performance. You could feel the energy, the anger, the frustration, the sadness and longing.

There was a young kid in the audience who was from time to time disinterested and occupied herself by playing with her rubber ball. But even for her, as distant from this broken character's life as she was, she was frequently engaged, the toy falling still in her lap. House has indeed taken this performance to schools as well as theatres for us worldly grown-ups. However he said the most nervous he has ever been was when performing for homeless people. Understandable, because this was the acid test. Seems he got it right; Appalling Behaviour went down well with the very characters he was portaying. That's how good this performance is. That's how real it is.

As to why the story was set in France? House has spoken to many homeless people who have said that they feel they are speaking a different language, such is society's deafness to them; they feel like aliens even in their home country. He also likes the contradiction between the impression we have of a place like Paris and the reality. Indeed, spend a bit of time in, say, Pigalle, and you'll understand what he means. It's a short walk between vomit in the gutters and the shiniest shopping Paris has to offer.

At La Mama

205 Farraday Street

Carlton, Melbourne

September 21 – October 2

Pod Of Friends, Collins Street, Sept 20 2011. A Memorable Moment For No One.

Walking along Collins Street today happily off in my bubble, I eventually notice that the street seems a lot more crowded than usual. Why is everyone packed in so closely and talking so much? I look around and realise I'd simply wandered into a pod of friends dawdling along talking to each other. They all look a bit the same. They talk in groups of two or three or more, sometimes one conversation spilling over into another. Outside the pod, the street is normal. Normal pace, normal space. I've been inside the pod for at least five minutes. I think about staying longer but decide it's time to go.

Life In Northcote Update, And Kimbra's Plain Gold Ring

When I heard the Gotye track Somebody I Used To Know for the first time, I recognised Wally's vocals but when Kimbra came in I thought who the fuck is this? I saw the film clip and was amazed again. I've since read up, have since heard much of her music and whoa, how good is she? This track is my favourite. I like her other stuff too, but man, I watched this one this morning and just melted. She's 21 years old and clearly headed for big things. The track itself, originally performed by Nina Simone, is a wonderfully sad story of unrequited love. Nick Cave did a typically cool version of it. Kimbra's version... I think it's the kind of song you really have to feel to pull off. Watching her perform here, she is totally immersed in the song. Love it.

I was going to give an update on what's been happening in my life but I don't know if I'm in the mood. I am Limbo Man. I need a change. I need a good thing. I need a new adventure.

Yeah, a new adventure sounds nice.

Focused now on the 2012 World Trip Of Parties. Ozora, Boom, Ibiza, maybe Burning Man. This time next year we'd be heading back to Australia for Dragon Dreaming. I think we will work on making this happen. Living adventures like that, it's what it's all about.

For now though, things are not as bad as they were when we landed back in reality in Melbourne. I've gotten through the troubles, mostly. I think only The Dreaded One and Kat know what I'm talking about. Not good times even though I managed to pull out the smiles and laughs. Feel like I'm through a storm, shaken but okay. No one suspected a thing.

Fun times ahead. I really can't express how much... two things save my head. Writing silly stuff and hearing good music. I watched the Kimbra clip with tears in my eyes because I love how much she is getting into it. It's an amazing thing.

Oh there other things that save my head. The friends I know will hug me at the next doof. The new friends in this new city who are actual friends. The observations of The Buddha. The sight at Flinders station of a group of total wreckheads with tattoos on their necks, trashed clothing and one girl with a black-eye... seeing them enjoy taking time out from the life of carnage I know they live to enjoy a simple pleasure like buying icecreams on a sunny day. I passed by and took in all the information and it was a sad and happy picture. The girl with the black eye, she probably wondered why it can't always be like this. The guy with the tattooed neck she was passing the icecream to, he probably wondered the same. No doubt it would all fall apart hours later, but seeing these wrecks enjoying this moment of innocent enjoyment and being nice to each other for a while, it was nice. If sad. Why can't it always be nice?

Things are okay here. We like Northcote. We like Melbourne.

Grumpy And The Doughnut Of Love

The new Grumpy column which will be out in the next issue of Tsunami mag. Unlike the mag version, you get to listen to a soundtrack as you read this tale of misguided romance.

Grumpy

Grumpy is freelance writer Lee Bemrose (leebemros@hotmail.com), and he has a problem, only it's not what he thinks it is.

Addiction can be a horrible thing. It makes you a slave. It makes a level-headed person change their habits and do things they wouldn't otherwise do. Addiction can ruin lives.

My name is Grumpy, and I'm a Bahn Mi-aholic. I love my Vietnamese pork roll. I love the crispy crust on the outside, the fluffy soft bread inside, the seismic crunch of cucumber and shallot and coriander stalk all so wonderfully juxtaposed with the cream-smooth pâté . I love the incendiary explosion of fresh chilli, the deft balance of salty soy with two-tone pork products. OMG, it's gotta be Bahn Mi for me.

Problem is, you start calling into the same place everyday to get your fix and strange things can happen.

It all started innocently enough. I saw that a local place in my new neighbourhood served Vietnamese pork rolls and remembered that I quite liked them. I'd had a bit of a thing for them before, so on a whim I decided I try these ones out. Ah yes, the memories came flooding back. So began my first steps on the road to ruin.

Soon the girl behind the counter started to recognise me as not just another random walk- in but as a regular customer deserving special treatment. Soon there were smiles and how are yous as our transaction got underway. Soon the thin spread of pâté seemed to become more generous – no mere scrape for this loyal customer; I, it seemed, was worthy of a luscious, thick spread that made my heart pound in anticipation. Likewise, the rest of this symphony for the mouth grew in quantity until surely I was getting the Mac Daddy of all Bahn Mi. I could feel the eyes of other Bahn Mi addicts on me, wondering why I was getting such royal treatment when they were receiving their pedestrian efforts.

I tried to restrict myself to one indulgence every second day but it was no good. I was hooked, and hooked good. Some days I almost made it past the bakery, only to be lured inside at the last moment. My Bahn Mistress' smile of greeting turned to a flirtatious giggle, her cheeks blushing as she set about professionally assembling my daily fix.

I knew things were spiralling out of control when one day, as we came to the dirty part of the deal, when I paid my $4 for her services, ever so softly, gently and I swear in slow motion, the tips of our fingers touched...And I don't know if you're an illusion, Don't know if I see it true, but you're something that I must believe in, and you're there when I reach out for you... Love is in the air, every sight and every sound...

But it got worse. How could it possibly get worse, you wonder? Like this: Lure, giggle, blush, Bahn Mi assemblage, payment, slow motion fingertip caress, cheesey 70s music followed by, “One moment. Something for you.”

Bahn Mistress has deposited a mystery item into a paper bag and slid it blushingly across the counter. I thank her and we smile blushingly and shyly, then I make my way through the thought balloons of the other customers (“Oh right – so not only does he get better pork rolls than us but now he gets mystery gifts as well.” “What's so good about him?” “What the hell is going on here?” “Where is that cheesy 70s music coming from?”).

Outside, curiosity piqued, I peek inside the bag: a doughnut. But given the circumstances, it's not just any doughnut but a Doughnut Of Love. And it might have been manageable if she had given me any other pastry (there were lamingtons and cookies and caramel slices and chocolate eclairs to choose from) but the symbolism of this Doughnut Of Love was unmistakable; she was clearly telling me she wanted to put a gold wedding ring on my finger.

This latest development happened just yesterday. I am due to be lured inside in a few short hours. I have no choice – I have to tell this Bahn Minx that I already have a Dreaded One. Perhaps I should let her down gently by making light of it and telling her that it's not her, it's Mi... no, that won't work. How oh how do we get ourselves into these things?

Daheen's Being Green Album Review

DAHEEN
Being Green
REGEN Records

Being Green is the latest release from Sydney psytrance producer Daheen (aka Dave Le Breton). It's an album with an environmental message, for sure, but the music is as fun as the message is, well, green. The tracks – a motley collection of proven favourites from Daheen's live sets – as often exist simply to smile and dance to as they do to remind us of the precarious situation we have gotten ourselves into environmentally.

Tracks such as Pirates Ahoy, Horsin' Around, Pink Panther and Master Yoda use often hilarious samples to get you smiling while you stomp. Who would ever have guessed that the likes of Peter Cooke and Dudley Moore's classic comic duo Derek and Clive would make an appearance on a trance dancefloor?

The real beauty in this album though is the music from nature. The natural rhythm of a frog's ribbit and cricket's chirrup (are they the technical terms?) provide the perfect base for the wonderfully fat title track. And lest you get caught up in the dark coolness of this track, who should make an appearance but the green one himself, Kermit The Frog. The following track draws on the symphony of sounds the great grey beast the elephant communicates with; it's an intricate track of shimmering beauty, dancefloor friendly but equally one of those tracks to close your eyes and think beautiful things to.

Printed and packaged in eco friendly materials, the album comes with a short story connecting the variety of characters who make an appearance on the album as our frog hero Neehad (where did Daheen come up with such a name?) embarks on a voyage to get to the bottom of the mystery of the disturbing shrinking world frog population. Whimsical, silly and with a whole lot of heart, it's exactly the kind of thing you could read to your kids at bedtime... just fast forward through the Derek and Clive section.

Daheen may have a message, but he knows the dancefloor is for dancing. As the Hopi Indian saying goes, “To watch us dance is to hear our hearts sing.” Dance to Being Green and hear your heart sing.

The Melbourne launch of Being Green happened at The Mothership Part 4, My Aeon, Friday September 9.

Lee Bemrose

Please Explain: AC/DC Wine

Grumpy

Grumpy is freelance wine-maker Lee Bemrose (leebemrose@hotmail.com). Grumpy's Grenache is a mighty fine drop.

In the local bottle shop the other day I was a bit bemused to see the newly released AC/DC range of fine wines. It's... I mean, I like AC/DC and I like wine, but they just don't have anything to do with each other. Seeing images of Angus Young in Dan Murphy's was as bizarre seeing Kim Kardashian at a Mensa meeting. Or the Murdochs at the International Meeting of People With Integrity. Or Adam Sandler in a funny movie.

“What's going on here, Brain?” I asked my brain.

“I don't know, Grumpy. It's just not computing. It's as bizarre as seeing Kim Kardashian at a Mensa meeting. Or the Murdochs at the International Meeting -”

“Hey – that's what I was just thinking.”

“Great minds...”

Nobody was going near the AC/DC point of sale area. I guess everyone was having bemused conversations with their bemused brains. But I guessed a lot of shoppers, like me, were taking surreptitious sideways glances at this oddity of merchandising. Think Oz rock, you think black T-shirts, tatts, muscle cars and shouting. Think Oz rock and booze and you think beer or Jack.

And yet there it was – Hells Bells Sauvignon Blanc.

“Brain...?”

“I know. I saw it too.”

There's also Back In Black Shiraz, You Shook Me All Night Long Moscato and getting away from the Back In Black album, even a Bon Scott reference in the Highway To Hell Cabernet Sauvignon.

“Erm – Brain?”

“Yes Grumpy? I probably know what you're going to say, but go ahead.”

“Didn't the original singer of AC/DC die from an alcohol induced incident?”

“He most certainly did.”

“So as well as pretty damned weird, it's not really in the best taste, is it.”

No. I agree. It's a bit like... a bit like...”

“Releasing a Jeff Buckley range of swimwear?”

“Exactly what I was thinking.”

But it's not really the bad taste aspect that has stayed with me (others have suggested a Marc Bolan model Mini-Cooper to celebrate the vehicle in which he died, or a Mama Cass chain of sandwich shops), it's just the weirdness of the whole thing. Who, exactly, is going to buy this stuff? Certainly not cardigan-clad and knowledgeable wine buffs. Certainly not me or my bon vivant brain. Are AC/DC fans really going to buy it?

And rather than go down the bad taste road of releasing a celebration of the thing that killed a loved rock star, I'm a far more practical thinker. “Isn't that right, Brain.”

“You said it, big feller.”

What I'm wondering is, what do I eat with my Hells Bells Sauvignon Blanc?

“I'm thinking,” Brain tells me, “a well-ripened cheese. Maybe the Led Zeppelin Black Dog brie.”

“Sensational. Accompanied by a Black Sabbath Paranoid quince paste.”

“Exquisite.”

The Grumpy-Brain Advertising Corp next plans to release the Pauline Hanson range of Please Explain lingerie.

The Maids Review

The Maids

Review by Lee Bemrose

(Photo by Joe Calleri)

This was one of the oddest plays I've seen in a while – not the least because I went in pretty blind as to what I was about to see. I don't really remember what initially interested me. It was on at La Mama. It looked like a bit of a dark comedy. The promo shots hinted at something a bit strange; might be worth checking out.

Basically, The Maids by Frenchman Jean Genet follows the story of a couple of maids playing naughty power games in their mistress' absence. They dress up in her clothes, wear her make-up, mimic and tease, both her and each other. Their game escalates until they dare themselves to murder her. She returns, almost discovers what the mice have been up to while the cat's away and... well I've already given away too much.

Although this is a one act play, it is constructed of three parts. There is the opening revelation of the curious nature of the maids followed by the return of the mistress, followed by what happens next when the mistress leaves again.

There is something strange about this production right from the start. The two maids, Solange and Claire, are played by male actors Matt Crosby and Ben Rogan. There's nothing wrong with seeing gender played by opposites, but in this case it was strange because... well because it was all very obvious. Matt and Ben are very masculine men playing very feminine roles, but in a very over-the-top way; women cast in these same roles would have played the parts very differently, I feel. There's a self-consciousness about it which adds to the feeling that all is not as it seems.

Looking around at the faces in the intimate space of La Mama, I did see a few staring on occasion into the middle distance rather than the actors on stage who frequently rubbed shoulders with the audience. There were jokes which occasionally raised quiet laughs, and there was this constant, unsettling feel about the thing. Why have male actors playing female roles? Why this campness? And what, exactly, was going on here?

In what is basically the second act, the limelight is stolen by Butoh and burlesque star Yumi Umiumare. This is also over-the-top camp, but somehow, suddenly, there is electricity. Yumi's Mistress is a loud Japanese pop-punk drama queen who struts, demands respect (the maids have become suddenly subservient in her presence after being so bold in her absence), and she also demands answers. What has been going on in her absence? Why these misplaced objects? Why traces of her make-up in unexpected places? Much of her barked sentences trail dismissively into Japanese, making her dominance even more comical.

The plot to undo the mistress is thwarted and as she leaves for what is basically the third act, the maids resume their power games, but with added edge.

Unfortunately, once Yumi left the stage, a bit of that middle-distance gazing came over again, and this third section felt a little too long. I'm pretty sure I wasn't the only one present who thought okay, I've seen the fun bit, let's get this over and done with.

Discussion afterwards between plus one and myself was along the lines of the opening line of this review. It is an odd, unsettling play. It's a play from a bygone time. I don't think it's timeless or even relevant to our times. I do thinking acting from all three cast members was very good. I am curious to see another production of this play because I'm not sure why gender came into this... although it was certainly about power and dominance, both of which often dance with gender and the roles we have to play. (Note – in reading about The Maids after writing this review it seems the playwright himself wanted male actors, so this production is being true to the spirit of the thing).

Like I said, one of the oddest plays I've seen in a while. Not entirely a bad thing.

Season Over.

Grumpy, Captain Jack And The Peacock Juice

Grumpy

Grumpy is freelance pirate Jack Sparrow. He can be Shanghaied for writing at leebemrose@hotmail.com

The Dreaded One walks into the bathroom and asks where I left her eye-liner.

“Back in the other room. Near where you were sitting.”

She leaves to look for her eye-liner, and I ponder what a strange exchange this was. First time we've ever had such a conversation; I am not in the habit of wearing my girlfriend's make-up. However, we are going to a fancy dress party and I am going as a pirate. Weirdly, I have managed to fashion an entire, impressively piratey outfit from found items in my wardrobe. I have a scarf (which has for some long-forgotten reason been referred to as my terrorist scarf) which, when folded correctly, makes a splendid bandanna. I have a white linen shirt with French cuffs which when left un-cuffed looks like one of those billowy jobs pirates wear. Throw a vest over that, a sash around my waist and my leather Swear boots on my feet and hey presto! I'm Jack Sparrow!

Only I need some eye-liner. A quick lesson on how to apply eye-liner and I look fabulous. I become Jack Sparrow. I sway and swagger like an inebriated feline as I make my way into the living room and say things to The Dreaded One like, “You need to find yourself a girl mate. Or perhaps the reason you practice three hours a day is that you already found one, and are otherwise incapable of wooing said strumpet. You're not a eunuch are you?”

“What?”

“I'm Jack Sparrow. Captain Jack Sparrow, at your service.” I may not look exactly like Johnny Depp, but the accent is totally spot on. I am the whole package of swashbuckling sexiness.

Somehow The Dreaded One rolls her eyes whilst staring levelly at me. “You don't have to be Jack Sparrow. You can just be a regular pirate.”

“Will you please shut it?” I slur ever so slightly in the manor of Captain Jack Sparrow. “Listen to me. Yes, I lied to you. No, I don't love you. Of course it makes you look fat. I've never been to Brussels. It is pronounced "egregious". By the way, no, I've never met Pizzaro but I love his pies. And all of this pales to utter insignificance in light of the fact that my ship is once again gone. Savvy?”

“Oh God. This isn't going to be a repeat of Turkey, is it?”

Ah. Turkey. Yes. A dance festival with a total solar eclipse in the middle of it. A party in the pine forest populated by people of all persuasions; no pirates. Everyone, it seemed, had an accent, and after someone put a drop of something on the back of my hand and the pine trees turned to peacock feathers, I developed an accent of my very own. It was the accent of a swarthy European, a seasoned world traveller who is deep of voice, thick of accent and wise of head. It may or may not have been inspired wholly or in part by Sasha Baron Coen's Borat.

And because of the stuff that turned the pine trees into peacock feathers, my accent would not go away.

“Stop it please,”The Dreaded One kept asking.

“But I cannot. I am veddy solly, but it has... how you Eengleesh say... it is part of me. It is simply the way I communicate in your Western... tongway? Tong? Tung! If I must communicate to you in you preferred langoo-wage, I must speak in, eh, these accent. You must forgeeve. Ooh – look at the peacock trees.”

It's a strong relationship that can survive three solid days of this. I simply could not shut it off.

And this was what The Dreaded One was getting at with this Jack Sparrow thing. I had taken to being Jack Sparrow perhaps a little too naturally.

No problem. I just have to stay away from people offering peacock juice and everything should be fine.

A Grumpy Love Song

This story will be familiar to some of you. I needed a Grumpy column and came across my one and only attemps at song-writing and the circumstances around it and thought I'd recycle a bit. It really is a coincidence that I've moved to this city and that I am currently working in this particular theatre.

Grumpy

Grumpy is freelance writer Lee Bemrose (leebemrose@hotmail.com) His new venture as a love balladeer extraordinaire may be shorter lived than he hoped.

When it comes to writing, I've tried most forms with varying degrees of success... or varying degrees of failure, depending on how you view these things. I've been lucky enough to win an award for a sad love story, have had sad and funny love stories published in a variety of mags and lit journals and even the odd crime story has found an audience. I just think what the hell, you have to give things a go.

Rummaging through old files recently I discovered that I have also tried a bit of song writing. It all came about after I reviewed an internationally famous cabaret diva and in my review (which, I guess, did turn into a bit of a declaration of love) I mentioned that by the end of her show I “was comatose with desire.”

Bugger me, I thought, wouldn't Comatose With Desire make a good song title. Sounded like something The Smiths would come up with. Next time I interviewed the internationally famous cabaret diva I told her about my idea for a song for her. Her response? “Stop stalking me.”

Encouraged by her enthusiasm, I set about writing my first love song:

Comatose With Desire

I would walk the desert sands for you,
Move mountains and part seas for you,
I would hold my breath and turn blue for you,
You make me comatose with desire.

Comatose with desire,
Comatose with desire,
You make me
Comatose with desire.

Your presence penetrates me,
It envelopes and smothers me,
You choke the very life out of me,
And make me comatose with desire.

(Chorus)

Your beauty intoxicates,
It makes my pupils dilate,
And my heart fibrillate,
I’m so comatose with desire.

(Chorus)

To know you is to know humility,
You degrade and humiliate me,
And leave me snivelly and whimpery,
And comatose with desire.

(Chorus)

My unrequited lust for you,
Has crushed my heart, it’s true,
And another vital organ or two,
And left me comatose with desire.

(Chorus)

I am a peaceful village,
That you rape and pillage,
My heart buuuurns for yoooo... because you set it on fire,
I am comatose with desire.

(Chorus)

Your indifference to me
Has made me quite loony,
I am drugged...
And bound...
And dribbling...
In the... mental... asylum... of love...

(Chorus, with sad echoey effects and maybe one of those eerie theremin things).

I sent the song to my diva. Her response? “Really, darling, if you don't stop stalking me...” She also pointed out that the song made no sense because if she sang it, who was she singing it to? Who was the 'You' in the song. Me, I ventured? “I don't sing love songs to stalkers.”

I interviewed her for another mag twice after that (“Stop stalking me! Stop stalking me!”), but it's gone quiet between us since then.

By complete coincidence, the new city I've recently moved to is also the hometown of our internationally famous cabaret diva. And by an even bigger coincidence I've scored a job at the very same theatre she performs her new show at in a few short weeks.

It's going to be so lovely to catch up with her again.

Grumpy With Job Interviews

Grumpy

Grumpy is freelance writer Lee Bemrose (leebemrose@hotmail.com). He's not so good with job interviews.

Why do I do this? I wonder as I bumble through the panic of waking up feeling rough after a big night out, knowing that I am late and that this is typical behaviour and where are my pants and wouldn't it have been better to have laid all my clothes out the night before and in fact shouldn't I have stayed in for a quiet night instead of going out and getting wrecked? Wouldn't all of that have been the sensible thing to do? I mean, after all, this is A Very Important Job Interview.

I am not very happy with the sock situation. How is it that so many single socks have gone through the wash while their partners took the day off. Odd socks for A Very Important Job Interview is a well known bad omen. But I can I really pair one clean sock with an unclean matching one? More to the point – should I be spending so much time thinking about socks when I have to be at the place in a very short time? Stop being so superstitious and do something about the sock situation.

I move like The Flash. My mind sharpens and I prioritise. I grab stuff on the way past that I think I will need – phone, keys, wallet, stapler, it all goes into my (very fashionable) shoulder bag. I stop at the door because something doesn't feel right. I think at the speed of light. I turn around and run back to take the stapler out of my bag and stuff my resume into it. Oh I'm good.

I catch sight of myself in the hall mirror on the way past... fuckity fuck – haven't shaved. Seriously no time now so the electric shaver goes into the bag. I move fast because not only do I need this job, I want it so very badly because it's a very cool job.

I run for the bus. I'm one of those people you smirk at (from the comfort of your bus seat) who has lost all dignity, such is their desperation to make it to the bus before it pulls away. You smirk in justified superiority at me because YOU had a quiet night in and YOU laid your clothes out the night before and YOU have clean matching socks and... oh why don't you just fuck off.

Bus. Sorted. No seats. Standing room only. Still, all cool. So long as the traffic isn't broken and we don't get taken away by aliens, should be fine.

I fix myself up. I cool down by the end of the bus ride. I tell myself to stop asking me why I do this. I clear my mind. I think of the interview. This is a cool job. I must be cool. My outfit, it is very cool... so long as they don't look at my socks. My things, they are all very cool. My diary, my pen, my watch, my lovely lovely things will make an impression. Be calm. Relax, I tell myself, you have the questions you know they will want you to ask even though you know the answers... because you are a professional. A cool, professional cool person and their future employee.

I keep soothing myself like this all the way through the city streets, through the huge revolving door to this huge skyscraper. I whistle a little tune to myself as I look at the huge building directory, taking longer than I need to now because I even have a little time up my sleeve.

Elevator dings open. I step inside and press 34. I turn for one last look and – FUCK! Didn't shave. Right. Too late now. Just have to go for that so-cool-I-can-get-away-with-three-day-growth look. But can I? No, I cannot. I just don't have that kind of facial hair. I have gaps.

I also have my shaver. Because I plan ahead.

I lunge for the elevator buttons and press every one of them between current 7^th floor and the 34^th floor, my fingers tickling those buttons like I'm Mozart playing a very weird piano. The other occupants of the lift do not look overly impressed. I don't get the feeling that I'm very popular in that elevator, but if they knew the full story I'm sure they'd understand.

I rip into my fuzz with a satisfying buzz and we dawdle upward.

27^th floor and I am totally going to make it. Feeling good? Hell Yeah.

We leave the 33^rd floor and... the shaver dies with one half of my moustache to go.

Silence. Ding. 34^th floor.

Cool Like Amanda Palmer

Geeze, what's with the Palmer infatuation lately. First Chili, now Amanda... although to be fair the Amanda Palmer thing has been going on for a while. She's a favourite blogger. I love her honesty, her sense of fun and adventure and her heart. She's got a big one. Read this blog post about the cuddling monk and her and husband Neil Gaiman's reaction to it. Weird, funny, beautiful, just like Amanda Palmer.

Also, because I don't feel like writing much at the moment, here is a link to a recent interview with the director of a new theatre company (Mello Yellow) in Melbourne. I haven't seen the production talked about but it's by award-winning New Zealand playwright Thomas Sainsbury and it sounds pretty good. I was also drawn into this because of the very funny Steph's handling of our interaction. Vibe says yes. I'm planning to review the performance in a couple of weeks.

Cool like Chili Palmer

Grumpy

The Dreaded One and I have found a local club in our new city that we enjoy going to on an almost weekly basis. It's a psytrance club filled with trippy beats and fluffy people, as well as fluffy beats and trippy people. Slowly slowly, we are being recognised, friends are being made, roots, so to speak, are being put down.

Just last week at our new favourite club, I'm dancing away, sometimes with eyes closed, big dumb grin on my big dumb face. But it gets really crowded and soon there is a bit too much body contact for it to be properly enjoyable. There's been a DJ changeover and the usual rush at the beginning of the set takes place. I am patient, however, because I know that soon the crowd will thin out somewhat as the softies have had enough and head back to their nooks or the outside fire to continue chatting, leaving more room on the dancefloor for us hard types to keep stomping.

Someone keeps intruding on my personal space, though, even when numbers have thinned so that the dancefloor is only moderately rammed instead of insanely rammed. It's this bald little guy, looks a bit like Gollum. He's really short and really drunk. He wants to dance but all he can manage to do is kind of wobble about a bit, stagger and laugh at all the fun stuff going on in his head. He just keeps stumbling back so that I have to put a hand to his back to let him know that someone is standing behind him. I also step back to give him room.

But soon it gets too much. He's forcing me further and further from the sweet spot and, well, the sweet spot is Grumpy's spot. I get a little annoyed. I wonder whether I should get in his face about it. But then I think nah, he's having a good time, no need to piss on his parade.

Besides, I'm reading Elmore Leonard's Be Cool now, and Chili Palmer is about the coolest damned character ever written, and although Chili Palmer handles himself when he gets in mo'fo's faces, he saves the heavy stuff for special occasions. Sometimes, charm works just as well. Chili Palmer? He could charm the pants off anyone, and somehow I just know that in this situation, Chili Palmer would use charm over hard-guy.

The little Gollum guy laughs and flails his arms about, giggling with a mate. I put a hand on his shoulder, just firm enough to let him know I am here and I'm not backing away any further. He turns and looks up at me. I smile at him, creasing my eyes at the corners just like John Travolta as Chili Palmer would in a situation like this. I smile warmly in a way that lets him know everything is cool, but I could take your Goddamned bald head off your scrawny shoulders if I wanted to, but hey, I'm as cool as Chili Palmer, so because I'm being nice to you why don't you be nice to me and stop pushing into my personal space, okay? He looks momentarily, I don't know, worried or something, so I reassure him with a cute little two thumbs up; it's okay dude, everything is cool. The guy smiles back at me at returns my two thumbs up, looking happy again because everything is cool.

As cool as Chili Palmer? I could give my man Chili some tips.

A little later The Dreaded One tells me about a dancefloor encounter of her own.

“You wouldn't believe what happened before.”

“What's that,” I asks softly, just like John Travolta as Chili in both Get Shorty and Be Cool.

“I was dancing away before having a really good time when this guy dancing next to me leaned over and said something to me. He said that him and his mate were wondering if me and my friend would want to go back to his place and have sex with them.”

“You and your friend?” This comes out in pure me. No sign of Chili Palmer.

“Yeah – they wanted you and me to back to theirs to have sex with them. Not just me, both of us.”

“They were two dudes?”

“Yes.”

“And they wanted us to go back -”

“Yes.”

“To have sex with both of -”

“YES.”

“Oh. Gee. Wow. Who was it?” I don't know why I ask this.

“It was this guy wandering about with two drinks. We just started talking and realised that we grew up in neighbouring suburbs in Queensland. He seemed nice.”

“He just wanted to have sex with both of us... did he have hair?”

“Yes. Why? You like hairy men?”

“Stop it.”

In reality, though, what I'm thinking is, is it wrong to feel ever so faintly flattered to be included in this little wished-for foursome? It's not like there was ever any chance of it coming to fruition, but it is kind of nice to be included. Kinda nice to know you still have pulling-power, as misdirected as it is... imagine if it was a straight couple though... like that lithe woman in the tight stripy dress and her boyfriend... imagine if it had been them... maybe it would have been something to consider...

I hear The Dreaded One's sigh through the sonic blast of the music. “You're wondering what would have happened if it had been a mixed couple instead of a same sex couple, aren't you. Or better still, if it had been a couple of girls.”

Whoa – imagine that. So awesome... hey, how does she do that? How does she know what I'm thinking?

“It's written all over your face.”

“What is?”

“What you're thinking.”

This was getting too weird. Clearly, I had to stop thinking.

“You said he had two drinks?" I Sherlocked out loud.

“The other was for his mate. You might have seen him. Little bald guy?”

Fuck. Suddenly the little drunk guys doesn't look as much like Gollum as he does a little drunk sex toy on wobbly legs.

“What's wrong?” The Dreaded One asks. “You look a bit strange.”

“I'm just wondering if this would have been before or after I gave him the two thumbs up.”

“What? You gave him two thumbs up? Why?”

“I was trying to be cool, like Chili Palmer.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Finished your drink? Good. Let's get the hell out of here. I'll explain it in the cab.”

Grumpy is freelance writer Chili Palmer. He's cool like Lee Bemrose. (leebemrose@hotmail.com)

Deya Dova Interview and Remixed Album Review

Two more mag things about the amazingly talented Deya Dova. And check out Deya's website for even more music than covered here. The psytrance tweak of Spaceman is awesome.

Steampunk... The Way Things Should Be.

The Dreaded One and I saw Circus Oz, Steampowered last Friday night. Steampunk was the theme and needless to say, it was a pretty awesome show. My full review for Australian Stage is here.

But what I did want to share here was my version of karma. A little thing happened last night that wasn't karma, because I don't really believe in karma, but it was The Way Things Should be.

I collected my tickets from the box office with the usual confusion about names etc. Review tickets are often booked through someone else and there's always a couple of moments of wondering if the tickets were actually there. Name. Confusion. Rifle throught the files and names scrawled last minute on sheets of paper. Then the box office person said, "Lee, is it?" I said yes and she handed me the envelope.

It wasn't until we took our seats in the big top that I saw in better light that the name on the envelope was Bree. I told the Dreaded One. We talked about it. I could have easily just said fuck it, not my problem. But I hate that feeling of being left stranded at the box office knowing that you really should have tickets waiting for you but feeling like you're blagging unjustified freebies. So not wanting Bree to miss her tickets, I took them back out to the box office and explained what had happened. They remembered me, understood the Bree/Lee thing and looked for my tickets. I started to think I had done the wrong thing in doing the right thing because they could not find any tickets under my own name. We finally figured out that the tickets had been booked in the editor's name (she had definitely told me tickets were in my name) and all was sorted. Back inside, we moved to our proper seats (marginally better ones) and I had a coupon in the envelope for a program, which Bree hadn't had, so I had done the right thing. We were only a few seats away and saw Bree take her seat, not knowing the trouble we had spared her.

At intermission, The Dreaded One realised she had lost her bag. We looked everywhere in the area, under the seats etc before realising that she must have left the bag when we moved seats. Bree was not there but neither was the bag. However, on checking with lost & found we found that Bree had done the right thing and returned the bag with everything inside.

So. Karma? I don't think so. It's just The Way Things Should Be. Everyone does the right thing, everything will be fine.

Circus OZ - Steam Powered from Speaker TV on Vimeo.

Look At Me - I'm Chili Palmer

I'm reading Elmore Leonard's Get Shorty now, taking a break from the bushrangers thing... although I am still in the middle of writing The True History Of The Kelly Super Gang (see post below below).

I'm loving this book so much. So well written. So deft. Such a perfect balance between cool and funny, and with enough reality in there to make it almost believable. His characters ring true, even the really dumb ones. And I just read that Chili Palmer was based on a real life friend of the author's, Ernest Chili Palmer who made a cameo appearance in the film. The story refers to real Hollywood stars and is about movie making, so knowing there was a real Chili Palmer, you can't help wondering just where the idea for this story came from.

I also can't hep getting very caught up in this book and will read Be Cool, the follow up, next.

Yesterday I was so into it that after the tram had been sitting still for a minute or two, I casually looked up and wondered where we were. Then leapt out of my seat and bolted arm-flappingly to the door because it was my stop. How in the hell did that happen?

And just now... I'm waiting on an email interview for a music festival and the director's answers are not in yet. Deadline is technically yesterday. I'm thinking the way Chili Palmer speaks now and emailed my editor with, "The Castlemaine guys, they haven't got back to me yet. You want I should wack 'em or lean on 'em some more?"

We're emailing in Mob-speak now.

Which in turn got me thinkng... you know how there is International Talk Like A Pirate Day? Well why not an International Talk Like A Mobster Day? The pirate thing doesn't go much further than aaargh me mateys and oim a poirate, but talking like a wiseguy? The possiblities are endless.

Guy behind the counter: "You want what? You come into my joint - a coffee joint - and you ask for a coffee and expect me - a motherfocking barista - to make you a focking coffee. Do you know who I am? Do you have a focking clue what you're dealing with here?"

Etc.

I wonder how one starts an International Day. I think I'll look into it. I'm thinking February 25th can be International Talk Like A Mobster Day... Happy focking birthday to you... happy focking birthday to you...

Grumpy With Bushrangers

GRUMPY

Sometimes when I'm not looking, my brain wanders off to lands weird and whimsical, returning hours later with pocketfuls of fantastically fascinating if incredibly useless information which it is very keen to share with me.

Recently my brain was pondering the tough nature of the humble tow-truck driver. You don't get a tougher job than a tow-truck driver, my brain pondered. Except maybe gladiators. I'm pretty sure a gladiator would beat a tow-truck driver in a fight. But then gladiators lead pretty comfortable lives outside of actual gladiorating. They were well-fed and looked after by their owners so that they could train to stab people in the arena next tournament.

Now Australian bushrangers, on the other hand, were tougher than gladiators and tow-truck drivers. They roughed it and toughed it in the harsh Australian bush. They stole, they had gunfights. They had wit and daring, cold hearts and battle scars... and an astonishing number of them had really flamboyant names.

Sure, there were your regular Ned Kelly's and Ben Halls, but what's with all the ones that sound like they were Baz Lurhman characters?

Guys like Frederick Ward, whose bushranger name was Captain Thunderbolt. Now while Thunderbolt can come across a bit threatening in a Thor, Viking God way, it's highway cred is completely undermined by that Captain bit. When I think of Captain Thunderbolt I can't help but see a guy on a horse – or maybe a pony - in tights and a cape.

But Fred wasn't the only Captain ranging the bush. There was also a Captain Melville, a Captain Moonlight and two... two Captain Starlights.

Okay, so Ned Kelly with his bucket on his head asks me for money, I'm going to give it to him because only a tough, crazy bastard gets around wearing a metal bucket on his head. And his name is tough. It rhymes with dead. There's a subliminal thing going on there.

Captain Melville, on the other hand, he asks for my money and after I stop laughing my arse off I'm just going to tell him to piss off. What a stupid name. His real name was Frank McCallum but he not only decided to go with the Captain routine, he decided to camp it right out with something as silly as Melville... which is a fine name if you're an English professor or an accountant, but a bushranger?

As for Captains Moonlite (real name Andrew George Scott), Starlight (Frank Pearson) and Starlight (Harry Redford)... was someone putting something in the water? Moonlite as in bushranger lite? And did the two Starlights ever run into each other and have a pillow fight over who was the real Starlight? Did they get dressed in their Captain Starlight costumes and have Walk-off challenges like in Zoolander to see which Starlight shined brightest?

As well as giving the colonials a well needed laugh, the Starlights obviously caused some confusion because Harry Redford's full title ended up being “Captain Starlight – The Gentleman Bushranger.”

It's unclear whether he gave this as his full title when robbing people, but you can imagine the scene if he didn't.

“Hand over your money, for I am Captain Starlight!”

“Okay, but before we do... which Captain Starlight are you?”

“Oh not this again. There is only one Captain Starlight. The other one is a mere -”

“The other one what?”

“The other Captain Starlight. He's a cheap imitation -”

“So you admit there are two Captain Starlights?”

“All right all right. I'm the gentleman one. I am Captain Starlight, The Gentleman Bushranger. Now please give me your money.”

“Oh that's a relief. We were worried that you might be Captain Starlight The Bastard Bushranger...”

And don't even get me started on bushrangers Sam Poo and Jack The Rammer. No, I am not making this up.

Confusion

Grumpy

The new place The Dreaded One and I live in, it's right above a large shopping complex. It's so convenient – run out of anything and it's a quick elevator ride downstairs (why is it still downstairs when it's an elevator ride?). I can be in the local bottle shop before most people can make it to their front gate.

Curiously, though, our downstairs shopping complex has two supermarkets from the same chain. Two Coles, known to us as Good Coles and Not Good Coles because although one minute's walk separates them, one is good and one is, erm, not good. I'm not sure what the differences is exactly... they both play the same crappy music, they both carry the same produce... it's a vibe thing. And the fact that The Person Who Decides Where Stuff Goes in Not Good Coles appears to be a direct descendant of Dali's.

Both stores recently implemented a policy of having a meet-and-greet person at the entrance. Their job is to smile and ask you how you are and hand you a shopping basket.

I'm not sure who thought this was a good idea, but it's a very strange experience. The people doing it are very good about it (although the dude at Not Good Coles is clearly struggling with what he obviously thinks of as the very extreme low-point of this whole stupid life but gives a grudging gesture of faux pleasantness with lips generally reserved for sneering), but you can tell that even the ones at Good Coles know that it's all a bit silly. Nevertheless you make eye contact and smile and tell them you are well and ask how they are as you accept the shopping basket.

Thing is, you get used to it. It's just a done thing. It all becomes almost second nature. It becomes as natural as putting one foot in front of the other. Suddenly there is a new person in your life and their role is to hand you a shopping basket. In its way, it's a change for the better because it takes the pressure off. It's one less thing to think about in our cluttered, busy lives.

But what happens if Shopping Basket Person is not there?

Maybe they're just hanging out outside getting a lung cancer hit. Maybe they've quit. Maybe... look I don't know where they are, all I know is they are not here and I don't know what to do. Usually they are here with the handles on the top baskets turned perkily up in anticipation of being handed from Shopping Basket Person to the grateful shopper. But they are not here and what happens next? The whole system has crashed. What next? What next? The confusion is overwhelming. How does the shopping basket get all the way into my hand if Shopping Basket Person is not there to ensure that this very complex process runs smoothly?

I move in confused circles. I desperately look for Shopping Basket Person. I flap my arms a bit. I scratch my head. The handles on the shopping baskets have not even been turned up. Is this a sign? Am I not allowed to take a shopping basket until someone with appropriate skills turns up to rectify the situation? Or do I go to the front counter and alert Front Counter Person that Shopping Basket Person has gone MIA. Or AWOL. Or both MIA and AWOL at the same time. Perhaps Good Coles is losing customers to Not Good Coles because they cannot cope with the confusion this... this... this crisis has brought on?

I'm sending this dispatch from my phone whilst stranded at the deserted shopping basket post. There have been no further developments. I feel weary. Please send help or I fear I may have to abandon the operation and make my way to Not Good Coles...

Grumpy is freelance writer Lee Bemrose (leebemrose@hotmail.com). He thinks the meet-and-greet thing would be much more successful if they replaced Shopping Basket Person with Hundred Dollar Note Person.

Elmore Leonard Versus Barbara Cartland

I'm reading Elmore Leonard's Get Shorty at the moment. It's an excellent book, or at least what's on the inside is excellent. But the cover... what were they thinking? The issue I have (even camper than the one in the link) is various hues of pink and pastel blue with his name in shiny shiny gold. I'm almost embarrassed to be seen reading it on the tram each morning. I'm forced to whisper to the person sitting oppsite, "Elmore Leonard... not Barbara Cartland." Then a little louder to those sitting around or standing up in the aisle, "Definitely NOT Barbara Cartland, people - it's tough funny guy Elmore Leonard, okay?"


Also, I checked a rarely used email account yesterday and found this email from music journo Cyclone:

"Hey Lee!

I was given your contact by the 3D peepz.

You'll have heard that sadly 3D World is folding (http://themusic.com.au/newsletter/street-press-australia-to-launch-new-mag). I've been assigned to write a cover story on its history for the final edition (arghh). Of course, it's all come up late and after the usual official deadline (you know how street press is!) so it's been a mad scramble to find and contact people who may be up for a quote or two!

Anyway I was wondering if you would be up for answering any of the questions below given your iconic role as Grumpy?

I'd so appreciate it!

The plan is to slam something together tonight so if you can even answer a couple below, that would rock!

Cheers!

Cyc"

The email was sent three weeks ago. I totally missed out. It's like Marlon Brando said in On The Waterfront, "I coulda been a someone... I coulda been iconic instead of just a schmuck, which let's face it, I am." Something like that.

The Pyamid Of Northcote

Heading out to dinner last night, we walked to Northcote train station. We dutifully tried to 'touch on' with our Myki cards but neither of the sensors were working. It's a good system, when it works. In a bit of role reversal, The Dreaded One gave up after a couple of attempts while I got all terrier on its arse. I was convinced I could get it to work by trying again and again, swearing at it and biting the end of my tongue. Finally it did indeed work, the little blinky light came on and the screen told me that $3 had been deducted from my account. Punch the air! High five! Yesss!

Then one of the two only other people on the station pushed the button that dials into the timetable place and the recorded message came over the loudspeakers to tell us that there were no trains running, that busses had replaced the trains. Awesome. This has happened before. What I don't get is why the hell someone doesn't put a sign up telling us that this is the case. There is absolutely no indication anywhere that there are no trains running. Just pin a hand-written note to the wall. Hell - they make automated announcements at other times telling us about delays - surely... oh never mind. Lesson learned after this happening for the second time - assume the trains are not running and confirm this before paying for your ticket.

The other couple left at the same time as us and asked if we were going into the city. We were going to Richmond, on the way to the city. The guy suggested we share a cab. They seemed like nice people. They had been laughing, they were well dressed, well spoken, young and good looking so we thought why not? This kind of thing always seems to be happening in Melbourne. Strangers strike up conversation at tram stops and railways stations. I don't recall this being quite so common in Sydney.

Anyway, we started walking back up to the main road. The Dreaded One and the guy walked ahead chatting about general stuff and I started talking to the girl. She was amazingly pretty and had a strange accent that I eventually had to ask her about. She said she was Persian. Conversation was easy. We flagged a cab and the conversation kept flowing. They seemed genuinely interested in our story of selling our home, traveling the world and settling in a new city. They lived nearby and I could sense this being the beginning of a new friendship. His name was Aria. Hers was Paria.

As promising as the vibe was I was content to leave things up to fate. If we bump into them again in the hood, cool, we'll say hello and see what happens.

But as we drew close to our drop off point, with Aria and Paria continuing into the city, the conversation changed colour.

"So," Aria said to The Dreaded One from the front seat, "if you're working corporate hours, I guess you have a bit of free time on your hands."

Everything about him changed in that one question. A dull bell chimed. My radar came on. Time to hit the conversational eject button.

We talked a bit about how we fill in our spare time. We have lots of interests, loads of things we enjoy doing with our spare time. Aria was deaf to this. He knew he only had a couple of minutes before we got out of the cab.

"So you have free time then... I just mention this because Aria and I are involved in a plan that help people and lets you make a bit of money at the same time. That's why we do it - because we like to help people. Maybe you're not interested in helping people though... "

It was time to get the hell out. The cab pulled over and we worked out how much we owed. Aria pushed on with his spiel. I felt compelled to be polite but was not interested, and in fact was pretty pissed that he had ruined the vibe like this. I asked upfront what the name of the scheme was.

"Oh I don't want to tell you the name of it without explaining it properly... I mean I could tell you the name but... maybe I can take your number and talk to you about it over coffee sometime..."

I asked if he had a card as I slid across the seat to the open door, Paria standing outside to let us out. He didn't have a card, but he could take our number and call us sometime.

Jesus. He hadn't been genuinely interested in us at all, at least not on a decent, personal level. He had just been profiling us to see if we might want to sit below him on whatever pyramid scheme he was involved in. I had gone from thinking this is one of those random meetings that could lead to new friendship to feeling like an idiot. Everything had gone from shiny to grubby in the name of peddling some sham scheme.

I got out of the cab and chatted to Paria about the weather while The Dreaded One politely gave Aria her number. This is fine because we can just tell him we're not interested. I kind of hope that they are decent people (I think they are) who will accept no for an answer then either stay in touch without bringing it up again, or they will accept no and disappear. I don't care either way.

I just find it a bit sad that someone can pretend to be interested in you, to appear genuinely interested in you as a person while all the time waiting for an opportunity to sting you. A family member did this once. Managed to get me to invite her over for dinner only to say something about something she could show The Dreaded One and I at the same time, because we might be interested in making some money out of this thing. I asked what the thing was. She wouldn't tell me because it really needed to be explained in detail and she could do that after the dinner we were going to cook for her. I called it off and didn't hear from her again.

I know Aria knew our walls were up. I know he knows we'll be a hard sell. Thing is, it won't work. When it comes to this kind of thing I like to get to the point, and the point is he's on some level of a dodgy money-making scheme and we don't want anything to do with it. Those things are for suckers. There will be no meeting to discuss things if it's not something he can't quickly and easily describe over the phone. We won't be dropping by their place if there happens to be a casual party at their place one afternoon. Thinking about it, his call will probably be screened and we'll probably not call back. We might bump into them on the street one day. We'll be polite but now better prepared, as soon as he gets his pyramid on I'll cut him off and explain that if they want to be friends, fine, but we are not his next targets and if that's all he sees us as, hasta la vista.

Also, Persian? Isn't that Iranian? I guess it does sound better these days.

Old Skool Grumpy

I know you've probably read these before, but look at the adorably Grumpy avatar they've given me. And the header font is so old skool compared to the rest of the mag. I really like it.

If all goes according to plan, click on the image to enlarge.

For now, I'm going to bed in prep for the rest of my first full week at work in about 10 months... and even then I'm only doing 30 hours. Still, it's good to be back on the treadmill... Hmm.

Okay, you have to click on the pic twice... and some of it is blurry... am rusty. Gimme a Goddamn break.

Bad Music Writing

I just read another interview with Deya Dova (scroll down for my effort) and I have to say I'm pretty appalled.

The writer spends the opening four or five lines talking about the fact that he has a British accent. When you only have what appears to be 500 words, you have to make ém count and I'm terribly sorry but as a reader I don't really give a shit what your accent is like or what effect it had on the person you are interviewing.

The article is supposed to be about Deya's new album, but the writer goes on to talk at great length about where the artist grew up and what effect that had on her earlier music, and where she lives now and what effect that has on her music. He (could be a she as they only give the first initial of their first name) does cover how nerve-wracking it was for Deya to give creative control of her creations to the other producers to remix the tracks before coming to a pretty garbled conclusion about how the artist found it all an interesting process.

There is not one mention of the list of fascinating producers involved. Not one mention of any of the tracks that have been remixed and how they differ from the originals. There is not one mention of the wide variety of genres covered. There is a tag line telling us where we can buy the album from, but what is the point in that if the reader has no idea of what the album actually is? There is simply no indication of what kind of music we are talking about. It's half a page of completely missed opportunity.

I've not heard of this writer before (I've since read an article they did with Deadmau5 and although better written they still made a couple of basic mistakes) but I suspect that they might be a rookie. I suspect they know nothing of Deya's earlier music. These things could both be overcome by some relevant questions though. The article is about the album - talk about the album, or at least ask questions about it. There is simply no relevant information in the article. And don't even get me started on the poor use of quotes and sentence structure.

But at least we do know the writer has a British accent.

My big problem is that I can't really complain to the magazine because I don't want to appear to be promoting the album (I have already written my own piece for another mag as well as an album review), and I am about to start writing for this very magazine so I don't want to risk pissing anyone off. The writing was bad enough but the editor, really, should have done something about it. They should have binned it and asked for a re-write with actual information in it. They should have pointed out that at no point does the reader get any idea of what the music is, other than electronica. Deya herself mentions the words trance and progressive house but no cue is taken to find out what other sounds are in the mix.

I don't know what they thought they were writing or why the editor let it go through, but I do know that it made me Grumpy... maybe I should rant about it in a Grumpy column. Although it's a bit dodgy slagging off other writers, innit.

Grumpy On The Job

GRUMPY

When we got back from our World Trip Of Friends and moved to another city, the plan was for me to not go back into the same line of work but to get something different. Quite simply I had had too much fun travelling and being idle to want to work as a chef ever again. Cheffing is bloody hard work. I've been a stonemason and a bricklayer before and being a chef is harder work than both, and to be perfectly honest, six months of partying, looking at great art and funny shaped buildings, eating boozey lunches and snoozing on Mediterranean had taken its toll. I think I had deluded myself into thinking that I really could... nay – was entitled to keep living like aristocracy.

“So what are you going to do?” The Dreaded One enquired.

“Dunno,” I replied distractedly, smirking at the talking dog Youtube clip someone had posted on Facebook before hastily re-opening the employment page of Gumtree again and pretending to read it.

She kept up this brutal line of interrogation every day for months after we set up our new home. She, naturally, scored the first job she applied for and has been enjoying her working week more than at any time in her life. I felt as happy for her as I felt sorry for myself. Why could I not find that Idle Aristocrat Wanted ad? It was so unfair.

As the cash buffer ran low I did indeed realise something was going to have to be done. Ideally, realistically, I wanted something that involved writing. I wanted to trade in my chopping board for my keyboard. The perfect job would be to write this column, say, for a living. To just get up each day, thrown on some baggy clothes, crack open a beer (it's okay – my dream job would have me staying up nights because I am a night owl, and sleeping in to around midday) and simply regale readers with my daily adventures.

If I was going to go back into the kitchen, I didn't want the pressure cooker environment of a high- end restaurant, I wanted a daytime job in a nice little cafe, with nice, laidback co-workers.

Recently, I found such a job. Cafe kitchen in a very cool theatre. They gave me a trial day and offered me the job. I like it there. They are lovely people and the customers are all cool theatre types. Really nice vibe.

As timing would have it, I had also applied for an unusual-sounding writing job. This sounded as close to a dream job as you could get (Idle Aristocrat aside). I said in my job application that I don't have any writing qualifications but I have done a lot of writing. I have even won a national short story award and have been published in literary journals, but no formal qualifications. Also, I added, I don't have much of a clue of what this job actually is but it sounds weird enough for me to enjoy and I'd like to apply please.

The guy was amused and apparently impressed with my samples because he called to say I was on the shortlist. Five of us out of hundreds of applicants. We did a role playing interview and I wrote my piece up. The shortlist is now down to me and one other. Face-to-face interview happens tomorrow.

So now I've put myself in this quite horrible position of turning up at the cafe really hoping that my first week there is going to be my last, but really really also not wanting to let these good people down. I've effectively put myself in a position that I don't want to be in. But do. But don't. I hate letting people down but what else can I do? I'm basically putting a dagger through the heart of the trust of my nice new employers (if I get the job... which I will... won't... might... might not), and I don't want to be a murderer. Why did both jobs appear at the same time? What are you such a funny bastard, Universe?

I'll let you know how it pans out in the next column. For now I'm sweating out in a moody cocktail of angst and excitement, hope and sadness. Grumpy? Hell yeah. But happy too. I'm so fucking Yin Yang right now.

Grumpy is freelance Idle Aristocrat Lee Bemrose. If you have any freelance writing or Idle Aristocrat tasks, contact him at leebemrose@hotmail.com