Too Late

You write stuff about people you don't know and will never meet. You read about their lives and you think of Really Interesting questions to ask them. You speak to them. You phone them in Zurich or Amsterdam or New Orleans.

But then a friend is online and you're too busy to chat because you're doing all these interesting things, with all these interesting strangers.

The saddest kind of funny, because too soon it all ends.

The Bee: A Seven Minute Review

As it appears in The Drum.

THE BEE

My new favourite thing to do on a Sunday afternoon is to wander solo through the streets of Kings Cross to Darlinghurst Theatre. I like the mottled afternoon light on the leafy trees and the motley collection of humanity now chilled after a frenzied Saturday night’s debauchery. It puts me in a chilled state of mind.

And chilled I was as I took my seat last Sunday to see The Bee (and not just because that air-conditioning is always too cold). Lights went down and suddenly I was being startled and astonished and pretty amused by what was taking place on stage. After the normality of the world outside, The Bee plugs you back in and zaps you with a few thousand volts of Weird. And it’s good shit, man.

Based on a Japanese story by Yasutaka Tsutsui and written by Hidek Noda and Colin Teevan, The Bee follows the plight of a businessman who returns home to find his family held hostage by an escaped murderer. It seems one of the writers holds the media while the other puts the boot in, and this bit of satire is deliciously absurd and pretty spot-on.

I won’t spoil it for you other than to say the story turns unexpectedly until the whole things is a darkly amusing parable about brinkmanship and what a bunch of total numb-nuts you humans really are. The premise is amusing and ultimately so simple that it has to be kept short to avoid repetition – and the point it is making is undeniably true.

The performances are stylised to perfection and with subtle changes in sound and lighting you are occasionally dropped into real life anime. Very clever and a lot of fun.

At Darlinghurst Theatre, Potts Point until 15 December.

LEE BEMROSE

Meow Meow Pt 981

I was supposed to interview Meow Meow a couple of days ago. I stuffed up and couldn't make the call. Asked to re-schedule but didn't think it would happen. I asked for Saturday because between then and now I was looking down the barrel of 10 to 15 hour days all with midnight finishes. Surprisingly the publicist said Meow Meow was cool with that provided it was in the afternoon and asked me to pick a time. I said 2pm because it meant only taking on hour off work. I just called and she said she had it in her (ravishing) mind that it was meant to be at 3pm and could I please call her back then.

If you know Meow Meow you will suspect, as I do, that she was simply having her way because I am Mere Male and she is Meow Meow.

I am sitting on my hands right now waiting to call her back at 3pm. I have no idea what to expect.

Actually, I think I have some idea.

"You're so bumbling you should have been British."

A friend who knows me quite well said the bumbling line in a lovely and too rare phone conversation. Real voice action... phwoar.

I think she came to that conclusion as I was telling her about the meeting with the editor of the Big Magazine (shut it Bird - I know you came to that conclusion a long time ago).

Anyway, I told her about the train stations and how I sat on the train being astonished by all the extra train stations I had forgotten about. This is all the more bumbling because it is my old train line. The trip took twice as long as I'd allowed for. Then getting lost... a whole suburb in the suburbs I thought I knew so well.

Anyway, as I said in the previous post the meeting went smoothly right until the end when it just went a bit squirmy. We stood up to leave, shook hands, thanked each other for our time. Then in a blatant attempt to show off my sweeping broad knowledge of everything I looked at the huge painting on the wall of the meeting room and said, "Ooh - is that a Miro?"

"No," the editor replied, looking suddenly like the whole smooth thing had gone out the window and now she thought I was a bit odd. "No it's not."

I spent a day in the Miro museum in Barcelona, so I know a fucking Miro when I see one.

"What?" I asked, looking down at the signature in a way that was meant to indicate that I had recognised its Miro-ness from the brush strokes themselves and not the signature. "You sure?"

"No. It's a painting."

"Yeah but... what?"

"A painting." Like she was speaking to a special person.

"Yes. Painted by Miro, I'm quite sure."

"Oh sorry - I thought you were asking if it was a mirror."

I think the lesson to be learned here is if the meeting goes well, let it rest at that and don't aim for one final, ornamental flourish.

Leftfield

Ages ago, maybe a year, I picked an agent at random to see if they would be interested in syndicating a story overseas. Someone from the agency liked the story and was onto it. Then she went quiet and after a few months I added her to the list of promising things that would not eventuate, which have pretty well defined my 2007.

Couple of months ago I was wondering what had happened to this agent when I received an email from her telling me that she was no longer with the agency but that she was now the editor of a Big Magazine and she wanted me to contribute. She asked me in for a chat. I was really late for the meeting because I forgot about some of the train stations on the way and it took longer than I remembered. Also, once off the train I got a bit lost and wandered into the next suburb. This is typical of me.

Anyway, meeting went well even if I did keep wondering if this was all real. Maybe she had the wrong freelance writer and would soon realise this.

She said she was changing the tone of the mag and she wanted me to pitch ideas. She wanted serious stuff from me but I was interested in humour and suggested a story that was pretty leftfield. She liked the idea and said to give it a bash. I did the piece and sent it in, then did what I do so well. I worried and assumed it wouldn't be good enough and thought this was going to be another promising thing that falls through.

But after a tense day's wait I got an email saying all good. My leftfield comedy bit will take up two pages in the February issue of a high profile national glossy magazine. Happy? Hell yeah.

I think what I love most about this is the complete coincidence of choosing the agency at random and the person who happened to reply to me turning out to be the future editor of a Big Magazine. What are the chances? Sometimes all you can do is shake your head and say what the hell is going on here? I love it. Fucking love it.

Morbid

Never post when drunk. That is the thing. That's why I just deleted the most important and poignant blog post that has ever been posted in the history of important and poignant blog posts.

I nailed it on love and friendship and the fleetingness of life and the lessons to be learned from death. Seriously, people would be leaving comments like good post dude - you clearly understand shit.

So when I sober up I'll tell you what this post is all about... provided I've left some indication somewhere that will enlighten me about what the hell I am talking about.

So there.

At least I wasn't rude to moths and didn't swear too much.

Happy motherfuckers?

PS: A nice thing happened to me today. A good and nice thing. Will tell you about it later.

Moth... er F*cker

Sorry about the previous post. I'm putting together a piece about various comedians and some of those comedians just happened to swear a lot. But just because that filthy minded Lenny Bruce c*cks*cker was a dirty mother*f*cking pottymouth doesn't mean I have to be one.

And just because Bill Hicks screamed... Totally f*cking screamed at a heckler because she was a drunk c*nt, it doesn't mean I have to sink to his depths.

So I'm sorry about that.

And. So. Tonight. I'm all gentle and stuff and I'm saying goodnight to my Anngel and apologising because I was in a hyper mood because of all of the laughter yesterday and I'm telling her I love my friends and I love her too and reading about all these funny guys who died young, I tell her that I kind of like that I didn't die on August 9th five or so years ago, because fucking hell there are new people and the quality old people and the laughs... and it's really a sweet second chance. I nearly died. I didn't die. I thank the universe for that almost every day.

Then at this tender moment this offspring of nature makes its way into the room. It's a moth. This powdery moth with its wings and its eyebrow feeler things and its sweet determination to do... what exactly?

And I don't know how it happens but suddenly I'm standing on the bed and I'm clenched fists and sinewy necks... sinewy neck and I'm enraged and I'm fucking totally screaming at this fucking moth right into its sensitive little moth ears, "CAAAAAAARNT! YOU MOTHERFUCKING CAAAAARNNT! DID I FUCKING INVITE YOU INTO MY HOME? NO I FUCKING DID NOT SO WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING HERE YOU FUCKING CUNT OF A FUCKING MOTH?! HUH? WHAT IS YOUR FUCKING PROBLEM YOU FUCKED UP FUCKING FAAAAARCK!"

I have to start reading some Enid Blyton.

Why I Think Bill Hicks Is A Cunt

That's right - not past tense, present. Is. He is a cunt. He made a mark and it's still here, so present tense it is. Bill Hicks is a cunt.

Some of the things he said were so utterly funny. I've been drinking up all this information about a few comedians and it wasn't until I started reading some of his material that I started laughing out loud. If you know me you'll know I don't laugh out loud much, but there I was alone in front of my computer screen falling about in my chair because this guy was fucking brilliant.

And dark. Man he could savage people. People in the audience who came to see him... he could turn on them and verbally fuck them over. It could be brutal. Same with idiots and wankers. He despised them and showed no mercy and sometimes it wasn't all that funny, yet strangely funny.

But that's not why I think Bill Hicks is a cunt. Wankers are despicable and idiots can be difficult to tolerate. Worse kind of person in the world is a malicious idiot who thinks highly of themselves. So I kind of enjoy watching Bill Hicks put the boot into marketing people, trailer trash and Billy Ray Cyrus. Especially marketing people.

Bill Hicks is a cunt because he bailed on us way to early. Dead at 33. It's like he knew it was going to happen. Got cracking on the comedy thing and was doing stand-up at the age of 14. Less than two decades later it would be all over.

Bill Hicks is a cunt because for all his dark humour and all his hilarious savaging of people, reading about his death moved me to tears. Fucker had a good heart. (Just had a shithouse pancreas). Superstar funnyman gets sick and what does he do? He moves back home with his mom and dad and he plays music on his guitar for them. And tired of the world and the way it was taking him away far too early, and not being a Christian with a glowing afterlife to look forward to, he opened Tolkein's Lord Of The Rings and re-read it. And for some reason that small and gentle act of escaping to that fantasy world really moved me.

I don't like it when people fuck with my emotions. And that's why you're a cunt, Bill Hicks. A funny, funny, magnificent cunt.

Good Question

I think this is what every interviewer secretly hopes for when interviewing someone they admire and respect. C'mon... you know it's true.

Interviewer: Many people have cited your influences as such-and-such and so-and-so. Personally I've always detected the influence of whatshisname - albeit it with a post modern twist. Am I way off target there?

Interviewee: Not at all. No, quite the opposite. Remarkably, you're the first person to have ever noticed. Good call. Well spotted. In fact whathisname blah blah blah etc etc.

Wer: Do you think if whatshisname were alive today he'd hear those same influences, given that blah blah blah?

Wee: Good question. I've always thought that rah rah rah rah etc.

Wer: Whatshisname never achieved commercial success in spite of his critical acclaim. Do you think art and commercial success bleh bleh bleh bleh?

Wee: Right, that's a bloody excellent question. Too good for this time of the morning, hehe. Umm... blimey - I think you've stumped me with that one. Can I have a bit of a think about it and get back to you?

Wer: Sure. Sure, no problem. Erm... technology has been the backbone of much of your work. Do you ever wonder if rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb?

Wee: (After long moments of phone silence). Um... Jesus, man. That one's a cracker of a question. I thought the others were good questions but that one is totally fucking awesome. Where are you getting this stuff from? What are you - some kind of genius? I think you must be some kind of genius to be coming up with all these gobsmackingly amazing questions. You're good, man. I don't think anyone in the media has ever understood my work quite the way you do. You take the understanding of my work to whole new levels. I'm going give your number to all my famous friends and tell them that if they want a good story written by someone who asks killer questions, you the man.

Wer: (Blushing and twirling a curl of hair around a finger). Really? You really think I'm asking good questions?

Wee: The best. Killer questions one after the other. If I'd known you were this good I would have been shitting myself with the anticipation of this call. Glad I didn't know how good your questions were going to be. Good questions, good questions.

Wer: Oh. Cool. Ok, moving right along... hang on - did you actually answer the last question?

Wee: Couldn't mate. Over the head stuff. Do me a favour and lower the bar a little would you? Hehe.

Wer: OK, I'll try my best. Ummm... blah-di-blah-di blah blah blah? Yada yada etc?

Wee: Oh fuck me - now that question is so utterly devastatingly good I have to slaughter a goat. Aaarrrgggh...

Wer: And finally - what can you tell us about the new directions this album is taking -

Wee: (Sobbing) Oh stop it. Stop it man. These questions - they're just too good. You're too good. I'm not worthy. I should be asking you the questions... only there's no way in hell they'd be a patch on your questions... which are really good questions, by the way. Man, I am sooo dedicating the next album to you. I'm going to dedicate my life to you. I'm going to name the next world tour after you. I'm going to re-name my first child after you...

Wer: Um... but your son is 27 years old.

Wee: Don't care. He'll get used to it or he's no son of mine. I'm already writing him out of my will. When I go, man, it's all yours. You are dead-set totally The Man.

Wer: OK. All right. I think we might leave it there. Thanks for your time -

Wee: Wow, man - genius and humble too. Humankind has a lot to learn from you, dude. I should be thanking you for your time. In fact I do thank you. From the bottom of my... my shallow and worthless heart. You have rocked my world and changed the course of my work and my life and destiny itself and -

Click.

King Tide Review In Drum

KING TIDE

Griffin Theatre’s world premiere of Katherine Thomson’s King Tide is quality, home-grown drama exploring what motivates us and what defines us. It’s a play about division and acceptance and honesty. It’s both straightforward and complex and it pulls off an admirable blend of personal drama and social observation.

Sal used to be a hard-hitting political journalist, however two years after the drowning death of her son she is withdrawn and still in mourning at her beach-side holiday home. Daughter Beck takes in a mysterious Japanese boarder while hatching a plan to change the direction of her future. Although she excels at marine biology, she has decided that idealism is not the way of her future and that saving the world can wait until after she has made her first million. Enter Sal’s brother Jack (a Wheat Board guy) and his new hard-as-glass, grab-it-while-you-can girlfriend to pave the golden path to Beck’s future, and suddenly Sal is not just mourning the loss of her son but also time not spent with her daughter, as well as the loss of idealism and passion in younger generations and society generally.

Hmm. It all sounds a bit earnest, doesn’t it? Well it kind of is, in a good way, but it’s also - at just the right moments - really quite funny, the humour deftly breaking what might otherwise run the risk of being a bit of a diatribe. None of the characters are what they first seem – except for Jack’s bauble girlfriend who so accurately represents the increasing superficiality of modern life... the kind of woman who probably thinks the real estate section of The Herald is erotic literature. Each of the characters reveals more of their true nature as the play unfolds, ensuring a speedy momentum in this seemingly slow-moving story.

I really enjoyed the larger story of King Tide as well as admiring the writing itself, with some of the dialogue sounding like the narrative from your favourite novel. There’s some exquisitely drawn imagery here, and some deft handling of all aspects of a production that stays with you like good theatre should.

At SBW Stables Theatre until 24 November.

LEE BEMROSE

Boing.

I think dying must be like sitting in an aircraft ejection seat. Been a great flight, lots of turbulence, nice things to eat (nuts are nice). You've seen pretty things, met interesting people, wondered why there are children when cats are so much more convenient, you've marveled at the surreality of it all.

And all too quickly it's time to go. Because it's all going down waaay too quickly, and there's no pulling out.

You hit that button.

And the last sound you will ever hear is...

Boing.

A Bird In A Tree.

It's stupid how busy we allow ourselves to be. None of the real stuff gets done. Keeping in touch with people.

I padded into the study the other morning before work, screwing my knuckles into my eyes. Checked email. There was a message from someone asking if I was still alive. I wrote back saying yeah, still alive, just busy, we're all so fucking busy.

Sun was just coming up. Clear day, the scent of spring flower in the air. There was this bird in the tree just outside the window, its crystal chime pinginging sweetly into this new day. Like it was singing out to me, "There are good things for you today Grumpy... or Quick... or Lee or whatever your name is. Small and wonderful, good things. Shiny things of goodness. Trust me on this. I'm a bird in a tree, and I know such things."

And words formed patterns in my head as a poem of epic proportions took shape, and I added a PS to my email to the friend who had asked if I was dead:

I wish I was as happy
As a bird in a tree.
I'd poo on all the busy people
And fluff my feathers with glee.

Me And Laurie Anderson.

How do you make a great show better? The star lets you hang out with them for a while after the show. This is one very happy me with one very gorgeous human being.

Laurie Anderson Interview With Drum

HOMELANDERSON

NEW YORK PERFORMANCE ARTIST LAURIE ANDERSON IS ABOUT TO HIT SYDNEY WITH HER LATEST PROJECT HOMELAND. WHILE SHE WAS IN MEXICO, LEE BEMROSE MANAGED TO CHAT WITH HER ABOUT ALMOST EVERYTHING BUT THE VERY THING HE WAS SUPPOSED TO BE TALKING TO HER ABOUT.

Mention the name Laurie Anderson and you almost always get one of two reactions. People either think she is an awesome artist and love everything she has done, or they ask, “Laurie who?” Those familiar with her work generally find it hard to believe the latter types exist, but astonishingly, there are quite a few of them. This says a lot about the nature of the artist’s work: she’s a truly unique artist who has achieved world-wide critical and commercial success whilst maintaining an artistic integrity that ensures she will remain outside the vision of those focused solely on mainstream pop culture.

A New York-based performance artist, Laurie Anderson’s career took off in the early ‘80s with the success of the unlikely hit O Superman (“Oh that Laurie Anderson,” the Laurie Who’s will be saying right about now). A strange, hypnotic and ominous anthem of anti-Americana, it reached a huge audience thanks largely to the support of Brit DJ John Peel. A genuinely original and quite brave track, O Superman was the launch of a remarkable career that shows no signs of slowing down, nor does it show any signs of artistic fatigue.

Currently touring her latest project Homeland, I was lucky enough to catch up with the artist over the phone during her stopover in Mexico where she is taking part in the Monterrey Forum, a three-month long meeting and discussion of worldwide cultural and artistic diversity. It seems perfectly fitting that this observer of both the wonder and tragedy of humanity should be taking part in such an event, and she sounds excited to be there – albeit it her measured and quietly intelligent way.

“The context is quite interesting. It’s a big forum about culture and technology and politics, and so for three months all these people come to Monterrey to talk about all this kind of stuff. It’s great because we don’t have anything like this in The States... where everyone kind of drops things and says, ‘well you know, where are we going here?’ We have a lot of those high tech events where we’re supposed to be talking about things like that, but people just talk about the new iPod.”

It’s a modest conversation opener but from what I can gather, it’s pure Laurie Anderson. She’s a political artist with a human heart and the cold eye of the observer. She loves New York but doesn’t think twice about telling things as they are, so if something is done better outside America, that’s just the way it is. No blind patriotism here, it would seem. Quite the opposite.

While much of the former NASA Writer In Residence’s work is filled with off-kilter whimsy and even occasional heartache, it is also laced with scathing irony and hard-hitting political and social commentary. She is quite appalled with America’s obsession with money and laments where the hunger for the dollar is taking society.

“The amount of privatisation and the role of corporations has really changed everything in the sense that the war in Iraq is being run by companies who have zero interest in stopping it. I think the best example of how corporations have changed things is prisons. 10 years ago there were something like 350,000 people in prison. Then they were privatised and now there’s 3 million people in prison.” Point being – it’s in a private prison’s interest for laws to be as absurdly tight as possible.

These criticisms of American politics and economics flow as freely in conversation as they do lyrically in music. Check out the film clip of Only An Expert – dark, almost savage humour swirls with lacerating commentary on the discussion of climate change and the search for weapons of mass destruction in Iraq. It pours scorn on the cult of The Expert, as well as our willingness or even eagerness to always seek out the opinion of an expert when maybe – just maybe – we don’t really need an expert’s version of what’s going on. We’re not that stupid... are we?

Laurie Anderson is a political artist and a social commentator, no question. But she is also a pure artist in that she understands that joy and tenderness and anger and sadness and tragedy and harmony and discordance are all part of the human experience.

It’s such a fleeting conversation in which we touch on such topics as the nature of story telling; optimism versus pessimism; the inevitable fall of empires; NASA stories; the repugnance of the recent APEC meeting; the garden of Eden; the human tenderness that emerged from 911; the current court battle over who owns the moon...

“Okay... they are coming to pick me up,” I’m told as reception starts to waver and fade. “I’m going to take my cell phone with me and hope I don’t lose you in the elevator. Is there a final question you’d like to finish with?”

Erm... there are thousands.

“Um – Homeland,” I say, wondering why I left it so late. “What’s it going to be like? What are we in for?”

“Well... it’s... show... ut... and kind of... on... and... you know?”

I want to shout into the phone, “Laurie you’re breaking up - please get back out of the elevator before it’s too late...”

But with that she is gone. The line is quiet. But I think I know. Her shows – her projects – are always dazzling multi-media affairs incorporating the electric hum of technology with the warmth of human story-telling; the punch of politics with sensual musical delight; gentle anger with wry humour.

And unlike her angels being blown backwards into the future, she doesn’t look back at her past work very much. We probably won’t see Homeland in Sydney again.

WHO: Laurie Anderson.
WHEN & WHERE: Sydney Opera House 21 & 22 October.

An interview, Of Sorts, With Meret.

DRY & SWIRLY

Meret may not be a household name here, but in Germany and wider Europe she is showbiz royalty. As she brings her latest collaborative act to Australia, LEE BEMROSE didn’t quite manage to catch up with her for Drum Media.

A few interesting facts about Meret Becker: She is a very successful singer and actress. The 39 year old’s acting career started with a feature film at the age of 17 and there’s been no turning back. She has a string of features under her belt including Spielberg’s 2005 release Munich. She’s worked with a wide variety of artists and directors including Wim Wenders, U2 and industrial noise makers Einsturzende Neubaten – this last showing that the German band generally known for sounding as musical as a box of hammers being slowly tipped onto a tin roof does have a sensitive side.

But what to expect of her latest collaboration with musical trio Ars Vitalis? The show is called Harmonie Desastres and features a trio of musicians who have been described as musical clowns. One is a drummer, another a guitarist and the third plays the clarinet. They play their own compositions, they play covers, they apparently play found objects if the opportunity arises. Chaotic and surreal are two adjectives you will almost certainly stumble upon in any write up of their performances.

So. Kooky cabaret from Berlin, a multi-talented uber-babe fronting a trio of absurdist musos... who wouldn’t want to know more? I phoned Meret’s Berlin number at the agreed time... and phoned and kept on phoning. An hour and a half later more calls were made involving publicists and agents and it transpired the international telephone network had not gone into meltdown as suspected, but Meret had simply switched off her phone because she needed to sleep in. As you do.

Still, who could bear a grudge? Perhaps that’s exactly the way all us mere mortals would act if we were so breath-takingly gorgeous and head-bendingly talented.

Plan B was launched, fingers were crossed that the artist could stay awake for long enough to answer some questions by email at her convenience (provided it was immediately because deadline was already fading deep into last week).

Answers finally arrived. Yes they are short. Yes they get to the point. Yes they carry a few factual misconceptions that are actually quite charming and possibly intentionally flaky. Certainly they are funny and do reveal a very Meret way of seeing the world. Much debate still rages about the existence or not of a German sense of humour. Read on and I think you will believe...

Have you been working this weekend or relaxing?
"Sleeping, all day, now I need to relax."

What do you do to relax when you are not working? What ís your favourite thing to do with your time?
"Sleeping, all day. Sleeping, all day."


I’m having to email these questions to you because it seems you switched your phone off to sleep in. Did you have a big one last night?
"Yes I had a big one. A big sleep. I like to sleep. All night, all day, sleeping sleeping."

You’ve had a successful career that combines several areas of creativity, especially singing and acting. Which of the two do you enjoy the most and why?
"I do not enjoy. It's hard work."

When did you start working with the trio Ars Vitalis and how did that collaboration come about?
"We started 15 years ago in a cabaret in Berlin. It was love at first sight."

Why do you like working with this particular group?
"They understand me and there’s not many of them."

Isn’t three a crowd?
"What? No. A crowd is a crowd. Three is a trio. You are a bit silly, but I like you."

Cabaret seems to be have been taking an increasing turn towards anarchy and humour in recent years. Does humour play a big part in Harmonie Desastres?
"Yes, but WE are playing the bigger part!"

What does the title mean?
"In French "harmonie des astres" means the sound of the atmosphere, the stars. If you take the sound of those words, it includes the words "harmony" and "disaster". We think it describes our sound very well."

Can you tell us a little about the show itself? The kinds of things to expect to see and hear? What styles of music will we hear?
"It's a violent mixture, without any concept, except that we and the audience should enjoy. We are doing cover versions and our own music, and we are coming from very different backgrounds, such as free jazz, cabaret, theatre, circus... whatsoever, and this you can hear through the music."

You’ve been touring the show for a year or so now, is that correct?
How much does it develop and change, if at all, with time?
"We toured it for one year. Now we are playing it in stages and developing it. Especially for the different countries."

Rightly or wrongly, Germans have a reputation for having a strange sense of humour. Some would say no sense of humour. What are your thoughts on this?
"It's dry, it swirls."

Do you know much about the Australian sense of humour?
"You eat crocodiles."

In which parts of the world have you been getting the best audience reactions?
"Tokyo, Paris, Barcelona, Kongsberg, Berlin, Budapest, Wädenswill... look out, it's a high competition!"

Is this your first visit to Australia? What are your expectations of the Australian people?
"Yes, first time. They are wearing hats and throwing didjeridoos, no?"

And what about the country itself? I read somewhere that you are pretty scared of all of our dangerous animals and insects. Is that still the case?
"Yes... huge rats hopping around..."

What would you say to Australian fans of cabaret to encourage them to come along to your Harmonie Desastres?
"What good is sitting alone in your room, come hear the music play, life is a cabaret..."

WHAT: Harmonie Desastres.
WHEN & WHERE: Sydney Opera House 11 & 12 October.

A Bit Of Whimsy

Two Shadows

Lee Bemrose

Eliot had been alone for so much of his life that he’d all but forgotten there could be an alternative. He was a drifter, and that was that. People tried, occasionally, to befriend him, but it always became apparent that he was not interested in their friendship. He was alone, and content enough to be so.

It hadn’t always been that way. There had been the almost bright years of tentative hope, the times when he dreamed of it being another way. The cosmos had always whispered a promise that there was another for everyone. Eliot saw it in nature, in the most unlikely couplings, and it created an ache inside. He searched their eyes, offered them his reluctant smile, but he could not find his promised other. In time he accepted that the cosmic whisper was a lie. For some, Eliot knew, there was simply solitude.

Eliot sometimes thought that if had been a different type of person, a more robust character, he might have handled his secret differently, and that could have made the world of difference. Instead of hiding it like a thing of shame, another person might have held it up with pride. They might even have had the temerity to present it to a disbelieving (and dare he think it – awestruck?) world as a gift from God. Why not? Some are adulated for their talent, but what was talent but an oddity fate had bestowed upon them? Searing beauty, a heavenly voice, insatiable curiosity or skill with a ball, these were nothing more than chance results of genetic fate, and yet those blessed with such oddities conquered the world.

But there would be no world-conquering for Eliot. When his peculiarity had first been noticed by someone outside the family, his father had taught him the tricks of concealment, and thus ushered in the shame. If only during those sensitive years when he saw kingdoms in the clouds and marveled at the mystery of a creature as alien as a lizard cocking it’s head to look a boy in the eye, when he was a soft and unshaped thing, if only his father had treated it all with less reverence Eliot might have conquered the world. Or at least been a part of it.

But he had been told by his father that it was a thing to be concealed, so Eliot concealed. He learned the tricks, learned how to appear normal, he learned to deceive. When that period of his time had passed when he hoped there might be the luxury of another, he wandered.

And eventually he wondered: If I can’t be me, why am I here?

Eliot decided that there must be another place for him. No place on this Earth, but some other place. He eventually decided it was time to leave.

On a clear, still night exposed to the white glare of a full moon, Eliot climbed the disused bridge. He climbed the rusted iron with the same stoicism he’d performed all his tasks through all his life. Each task was simply something that must be done.

Eliot was not expecting to see someone else on the bridge. He had intended to end his life the way he had lived it, but here was this other peering out into the void, and Eliot could sense somehow that she too had had enough of life in this world. And where Eliot had considered his own solitary departure the most natural thing, he felt a shock of unbearable sadness that another could feel the same.

She saw him in the moonlight, just as she was about to leap, and it was just as though Eliot had caught her, caught her in his arms, caught her just in time.

The full moon stared blankly down at them, and when Eliot had somehow convinced her that there was more left to be done, she noticed Eliot’s secret, and she was puzzled.

“You have two shadows,” she told him. “How is that so?”

And Eliot, gazing down, smiled with a joy he’d never felt in his entire life.

“You have no shadow,” Eliot replied. “How is that so?”

They moved closer together and looked down at their two shadows, and saw a new beginning.

O Thor

I chatted with Laurie Anderson. Holy fuck that is funny. Me. I did. I have a tape with me and Laurie Anderson talking to each other. I wish I was cooler and was not impressed with this, but I am not cool and I am impressed and just in love with the fact that it happened.

She is a lovely person. Christ - so thoughtful and considerate and a total brain and I think I only asked one really stupid question.

Anyway, I'm a bit impressed that it happened at all especially given the lack of sleep... I can't even remember what sequence things happened in today. I know I got home from work around 11pm, stayed up reading and checking my questions until about 3am, then realised that I needed a phone number to call at the arranged time of 8.30am. There were some emails flying around the planet. Mix ups with telephone prefixes. My brain dreamed me awake at 6am with some silliness about talking to Laurie's agent. There was an email from him saying try this number and it's now going to be 9.30 instead of 8.30 and I went back to couch clutching my phone only for The Dreaded One to wake me up because it was 8am and didn't I need to make the call in half an hour and fuck it was hard not to be cranky.

In the end, I talked to Laurie Anderson while she was in Monterey, Mexico. For me, she is up there with David Bowie and Tom Waits and others I can't think of right now because I am way tired.

Just finished story and sent it off. I think it works. I think it's okay. I hope it's okay. I think it's okay. Will post it here when it comes out in the mag.

Got to try to sleep. Nighty night.

Live From The Mental Asylum Of Love.

Because some of you asked, here are the rest of the lyrics of my love song to Meow Meow.

Comatose With Desire

By Lee Bemrose,

For Meow Meow.


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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

Long Arms Of Time

Once upon a long time ago, I heard the song O Superman. Must have been in the same year it came out. I bought the vinyl single. I shared it with friends, some of whom laughed. I understood their initial amusement, but what I didn't get was why they didn't get why this was such a great piece of music. I was quietly amazed. Young guy from the shitty suburbs hearing this amazing music... just amazed. Spent many nights alone in my dingy one roomer falling asleep to Big Science. Awake and dreaming of the possibilities of imagination.

If I went back in time from now and told me that one day, long time from now, things will be different and you will be speaking to the creator of all this gorgeous and sad musical storytelling that you love so much, I would have said get the fuck out of my dingy one roomer you deluded fuckwit.

Funny how things can change.

Hayfever Man signing out.

How Many Germans Does It Take To Be Funny?

Had to do an emailer with German cabaret performer Meret because she switched off her phone at the arranged time because she wanted to sleep in. Wasted an hour an a half of my time while I kept trying to call, but at least she got to sleep in.

Thing is, I totally don't mind. She seems cool and she might even be funny - in spite of the German thing. You know, German version of the light bulb joke is "How many electricians does it take to change a light bulb? One." It's actually funny.

I asked her about the German sense of humour:

Rightly or wrongly, Germans have a reputation for having a strange sense of humour. Some would say no sense of humour. What are your thoughts on this?
It's dry, it swirls.

Next question was :

Do you know much about the Australian sense of humour?
You eat crocodiles.

I dunno, but I think that is pretty funny.

Hoping the story goes to print as is because I had a bit of fun with it too. Here's a bit of the intro:

DRY & SWIRLY

Meret may not be a household name here, but in Germany and wider Europe she is showbiz royalty. As she brings her latest collaborative act to Australia, Lee Bemrose didn’t quite manage to catch up with her.

A few interesting facts about Meret Becker: She is a very successful singer and actress. The 39 year old’s acting career started with a feature film at the age of 17 and there’s been no turning back. She has a string of features under her belt including Spielberg’s 2005 release Munich. She’s worked with a wide variety of artists and directors including Wim Wenders, U2 and industrial noise makers Einsturzende Neubaten – this last showing that the German band generally known for sounding as musical as a box of hammers being slowly tipped onto a tin roof does have a sensitive side.

Will post the rest when the story comes out next week.

2007 is my year of Promising Stuff That Didn't Come Through, so I'm not telling you about what else is happening at da mo. But stuff is happening. Good writing stuff. Will let you know when the time is right. Tired of getting excited and then disappointed.

Also, Laurie Anderson is coming to Sydney. October 21 & 22. I crapped my pants with happiness when I got my tickets.