Father, Family & Friends

Ah. Father's Day huh? Hmm.

Father's Day means nothing to me. I mean, I have quite a few friends who are young fathers or are soon-to-be fathers and I am genuinely happy for them because they are good people. Proper good, decent people, loving fathers and good friends. I've even held some of their babies recently and marvelled at the way they look at the world and how they struggle to communicate and understand what is going on. Amazing little creatures and it must be fascinating to be their father and watch them develop. It's not for me, fatherhood, but I appreciate what an amazing thing it must be to be a parent.

But father's Day means nothing to me.

The story of my father... There was a father figure in my story The Funniest Man In The World Tells A Funny Story, but I'm not sure if that was an accurate portrayal. I remember my grandmother being troubled by that story when it was published because she thought it was an honest account, so maybe it was. There was also a father in Remembering Argos and I also discussed family in a story called Finding Davey, and there was the ghost of a father in Blue Angeline who was actually the ghost of my grandfather. Other than those occasions, fatherhood just doesn't feature. I don't miss my father. I don't feel like anything is missing.

So. My father. Pretty funny story actually. I remember him as being a fun kind of guy, even if, looking back, he was probably a bit immature. Loved his music and I thank him for introducing me to glam rock at an early age. I'm probably a bit like him in my hedonist attitude towards life. I remember him being drunk quite a lot, the kind of drunk I avoid, even if I am drunk quite a lot. Unlike him, I don't cause scenes, don't punch holes in walls, don't smash gifts on Christmas day because I can't do what I want to do. These are my hazy memories of him when something causes me to remember, which is rare.

I last saw my father when I was about 15 years old. For a couple of years before that he was a bit of a character. The parents had split when I was about 10 and I do remember being a bit traumatised by that and having to make a choice. I find that funny now, given how little I care about the idea of family.

Somehow he seemed to suddenly have a bit of cash, and he was flash about it. I remember cowboy hats and flash clothes. Real suburban dandy stuff. He had a Leyland P76 that he had spray painted to look like the car in the TV series Starsky & Hutch. It takes balls to do something as publicly ridiculous as that. Sometimes when he visited he would show us (younger brother and me) the gun he had started carrying around, even fired a couple of rounds into the air. I didn't know what the fuck was going on. This was what fathers were like, as far as I knew.

Then at about 15 years old at a new high school in my old suburb (we had moved around then moved back), some of the tough, older guys befriended me. It was the weirdest thing. I had my group of friends who were big into getting into trouble if that's what it took to get a laugh, then some of the coolest guys in school, a couple of years ahead of me, started being friendly. It started when the main guy came up to me one day and said "Someone tells me you've been saying you know the guy who drives the Starsky & Hutch car. I don't think you do because he's a mate of mine."

I was shitting myself because I wasn't a fighter and I was absolutely sure this guy was about to fight me to death. My friends were watching from a distance but were not going to do anything because Tough Guy's friends were also watching from a distance.

"I do," I said, getting all Mandrake The Magician and pulling some attitude out of my arse. "He's my father."

Tough Guy thought about this for a bit and slowly decided not to fight me to death just yet.

Shortly after this, Tough Guy started saying hello to me in passing. Friendly nod. Friendly wink. Yeah, I thought, head held high, who's the dude? I'm the dude.

Still not really knowing what was going on.

The last time I saw my father is a moment I regret. He was visiting when I arrived home from school. I snubbed him. I have no idea why. I was confused about a lot of things. He was there in his shiny shirt talking to my mother and I just had some kind of attitude and ignored him. Didn't say hello. Sat down to listen to what he had to say but I basically totally fucking snubbed him. I regret that because in spite of everything I don't think he was an overly bad person, just a bit of a fuck up out for a good time, and in many ways I had made the wrong decision about who to stay with. With so much about what was going on, I had no idea what was going on.

Actually, that was the second last time I saw my father. The last time... the last time was when I was sitting with the rest of my family, the mother, the younger brother and the grandparents, eating our typically early dinner around the dining table, watching the evening news. I don't remember conversation ever being a thing. We just ate in silence while the sun was still shining and watched the 6 0'clock news.

And suddenly there he was. My father in handcuffs being lead to the police car while a voice talked about the biggest drug bust in Sydney Airport's history. It felt like a massive, still moment that was over all too quickly. What the hell just happened? What the hell was going on?

I had a lot to deal with (pardon the pun) in the following days at school because everyone else had been watching the news as well. A lot of the kids thought it was funny and had fun with it. I laughed along but not being the kind of kid who liked any kind of attention, I fucking hated it. I especially didn't want this kind of attention. We had our name changed which was probably not necessary, and even that drew more attention and was the source of more amusement.

I have no idea what became of my father after that. I know he went to jail but he would have been out after a few years, I guess, and everyone just kind of got on with their lives. I got used to the name change and actually prefer it to the old one.

So there it is, a story I've told a handful of times. I don't feel in any way bitter or resentful or think that celebrating fatherhood is a bad thing. Quite the opposite. When I see the happiness family brings to the lives of my friends, I feel genuinely happy for them, and I feel grateful to have my friends as my family because they are a pretty cool bunch of people who probably don't want to fight me to death.

Miley Cyrus And That Fucking Tongue

I know there are serious issues to talk about like Syria and which of The Two Knuckleheads will become our new Prime Minister, but my newest fascination is with Miley Cyrus and that fucking tongue. She has apparently been doing this for years. Does she really think it's her best look? Has she not seen the millions of photos of her and her tongue and not thought maybe I shouldn't do this quite so often?

Perhaps I'm being too harsh. Perhaps she is afflicted.

Or perhaps it's about time she just put that fucking thing away.

Reviews: St Clarity by Paper Kites, Waste Of Time by MØ and Tim Winton's The Turning

Looking for what's hot in new music? Look here at Soot mag. A bunch of reviews by me. My faves are probably St Clarity by Paper Kites and Waste Of Time by Mø.

It was such a funny thing, but I was asked if I want to do a few quick music reviews and I said yeah sure, I used to do these things all the time. Then when it came to doing it, I just couldn't. I actually told the editor sorry, no can do. I totally choked. There was just nothing there.

The editor said just give it a go. I understand this attitude because I often don't get how people can't write. I've often encouraged people to write. Writing is just thinking out loud, through your fingertips. But in this case I really felt like I'd forgotten how to do it. I mean, I liked the music, but what do you say about it?

Anyway, because she expected something I gave it another go and suddenly it came back to me. I really enjoyed it. It re-awakened my love of new music. And it made me realise that aside from psytrance, I haven't really kept up to date with new music for quite a while. And I love it. I love new music more than I love wine, and I love wine a LOT.

I also loved writing my first movie review. The Turning by Tim Winton is a bit of a masterpiece. Like, a three hour stunner of a masterpiece. The review is actually 17 movie reviews, because the whole thing is made up of 17 short film adaptations of Winton's short story collection. I've never been a big fan of Tim Winton's but this movie makes me want to read the book.

Hmm. Why does 17 stories ring bells?

Fewer Emergencies, Elbow Room, Owl & Pussycat

Fewer Emergencies

Reviewed by Lee Bemrose

Fewer Emergencies marks a break in tradition for theatre company Elbow Room in that it is the first time they have performed a play not created within the company. With tight performances and minimal set design, it packs a punch; I think Irish playwright Martin Crimp would be happy with this production.

An hour in length, Fewer Emergencies is three acts looking at dysfunctional lives. It's all pretty straightforward – a husband, wife and child and their regrets; a mass murderer at a school shooting; and the same couple in the first act, later in life, at the edge of the world with their distant son trapped in a dire situation they cannot help him out of.

It's a disturbing trio of stories not told in a traditional story-telling way. The psyche is given voice here – or voices – so that the dialogue is not simply the dialogue that the actors speak but also the dialogue of the mind. The stories unfold in lyrical layers so that from the start the audience is engaged, and you wonder what, exactly, is going on here. Possibly it's an exploration of how much of what we say is actually how much is going on.

All is not well in the worlds of our tight-knit team of characters, played by Dean Cartmel, Emily Tomlins, Edwina Samuels and artistic director Marcel Dorney. The dialogue overlaps and repeats to create a dream-like quality. In the school shooting act, it's a brutal dream. We get into the mind of the shooter, and as you'd expect, it's a troubled mind. This act was played mostly in darkness, and there was an explosive vibe in the air. Amazing what you can achieve with a good actor, a few boxes and a torch. Although dream-like, it felt very real and quite harrowing. It appeared to be a time after the event, as though he was re-enacting the shooting and being interrogated by psychiatrists.

The third act was quite surreal, unexpectedly amusing with its strange musical interludes, and quietly disturbing. In fact that applies to the whole play.

I'm not sure I completely understood exactly what was going on. But that's the appeal of this kind of theatre; it stays with you. It haunts you the way good theatre should.

I'm Not There Anymore

i'm going to write a poem

the poem will be called

i'm not there anymore

because I was always there for you

through your good times

and your bad times

and your bad times

and your bad times

and your bad times

and your bad times

through your dramas

and your dramas

and your dramas

and your dramas

and your dramas

and your dramas

and although it drained me sometimes

and left me tired

and nothing left to give

i was always there for you

because that's what we do

for people we love

but now in my bad times

you are not there

so i'm not there anymore

Botanica, Momix, Melbourne 2013 Review

Botanica

Reviewed by Lee Bemrose

If you've seen the trailers for Botanica and you've thought that it looks pretty wonderful and might be worth seeing, just go with that feeling and go see it.

The title of this hour and a half dance spectacular is a little misleading in that it's not just about dancing flowers, as I jokingly described it to friends prior to seeing it. Certainly there are allusions to the ever changing cycles of plant life and the seasons, but there is so much more to this sprawling, magical, often surprising tapestry of life. There are also, mammals, birds, insects, sea creatures, the often forgotten aquatic plant life...

And in fact this is obviously why the title is not so misleading after all; mammals eat them, insects pollinate them, birds live in them. All life is connected to botanica.

Botanica is a collection of dance vignettes drawing on a wide variety of styles from classical to modern, as well as a variety of visual and technical devices that truly dazzle. Some pieces are lengthy and sweeping, others are short comical stabs. All rely on the impressive and graceful physicality of these 10 or so wonderful performers working together as a tight-knit team, or solo. The dancers also work brilliantly with the sound and lighting team to produce a magical visual feast. Sometimes what is taking place on stage messes with your senses and your logic so that you can't believe that what you are seeing is a result of dancers and lighting.

The black light section is the perfect example of this. Parts of the dancers' bodies are covered in UV reactive material with the rest covered in black, invisible to the UV light - at least I think that's what was happening... perhaps the black-clad dancers were holding UV reactive shapes that they moved about in synchronisation, or perhaps it was a combination of both. Either way, what unfolds here is mesmerising as the floating shapes in the dark morph from what seem to be microscopic life forms to birds, human facial features and everything between. It is dizzying, dazzling and wonderful in the truest sense of the word. I suspect I was not alone in watching this entire section agog and with a half smile on my face.

Which is the reaction pretty much to the entire show. Gossamer material wafts and shifts shape and becomes a screen sometimes for colour-rich projections and a human shape with large wings morphs into a giant flower... there is lots of wafting and morphing. But sometimes it's just the dancing that entrances. There is so much grace up there on stage, so much fluidity, so much strength and agility.

Highlights are hard to pick. There was the previously mentioned black light dance. The huge Triceratops skeleton puppet – designed by Cirque du Soleil's Michael Curry – was impressive and probably the closest any section came to being narrative as the lone dancer riding its back became its prey. There was the Whirling Dervish-like dancer with a headpiece of beads that almost touched the ground, and which, due to centrifugal force, became wings or petals; a striking feature of this piece was that the several minutes of spinning was done without spotting, making one wonder how the performer did not topple over with dizziness. There was the simply executed section with a near nude performer dancing horizontally atop a slanted mirror so that her jagged, angular movements resembled strange sea creatures, or moving Rorschach shapes. There was the centipede-like conga line that broke up and became preening Centaur-like creatures... and there was all that wonderful wafting and morphing.

The music was as luscious as the visuals and mostly comprised the oddly tagged genre of 'world music', contemporary beats drawing on diverse traditional ethnic sounds. Ear-candy to accompany the eye-candy.

Botanica is not narrative. There is no message. What it is is time out from a cluttered world of deadlines, meetings, the mindless drudgery of nightly TV and the problems of the world. It is beauty for beauty's sake. It is going to the circus. It is stopping to smell the flowers. It's a brief escape from our mundane modern life to appreciate the beauty and wonder of life.

 At The State Theatre, Arts Centre, Melbourne until August 11.

From Real Life To Fiction

Interesting experiment. Soot magazine asked me to talk about five real life people who were the inspiration for five characters in my short story collection 17 Stories Of Love & Crime. Go here for the result.

Also, go here for my new website.

Fuckity Fuck All The Way From Collingwood To Kensington

So what happened was, I saw a post for an online magazine looking for new writers. I thought what the hell, I'll give it a go. I had just joined the Yawp family and the Warhol's Children family, both editors apparently very keen for more of my stuff. I needed this because I have been unemployed for a while now and had been feeling pretty down, so this was good. At least I'm writing again, and funny stuff too.

So I see this call for submissions for Soot mag. The editor writes for Rolling Stone, Australian Penthouse and more and appears to be rock chick uber cool. The other contributors also seem pretty cool. I am not too worried by this because I have the runs on the board by now and think I have a chance, so I send some samples in and very quickly I get a positive response and am welcomed to the Soot family.

I am asked what I'd like to contribute first up. I had just receieved a press release saying that David Sedaris is coming out on tour, and I had just finished reading Max Barry's new novel Lexicon (fucking brilliant read). Max also has a Hollywood film coming out based on his first novel, Syrup. I say I wouldn't mind interviewing both these guys.

One thing leads to another, the Soot editor is remarkably well-connected and she makes the Max Barry interview happen. He wants to meet over a coffee at his local coffee shop - coincidentally a few doors down from a coffee shop The Dreaded One and I considered taking over a few months ago.

Thing is, I've gotten lazy lately and have only been doing email Q & A's. It's just easier to write up the questions and get them to do all the writing. I've done loads of phone interviews in he past but they are a bit of a pain, getting the words from the tape recorder (yes, I have an actual tape recorder) onto the computer. Also, I don't have a landline so recording isn't really possible.

Also, I feel out of practice, and when your confidence is taking a beating (plenty of resumes sent out, not many nibbles) you don't really want to interact with people.

And probably the biggest also, I haven't ever done a face to face interview. It seems ridiculous, but even after writing features about performers and writers for about 10 years now, I have never sat down with someone and interviewed them. I don't consider myself a confident, outgoing person, and surely you need to be both these things to do face-to-face interviews.

Weirdly, I find myself thinking what the hell and agree to meet one of my current favourite novelists in person. I test out my tape recorder and it makes pretty lousy recordings. It's okay when hooked up to the phone line but crap when it just sits there taking in ambient recording. My phone, on the other hand, is brilliant. How good are phones? Is there anything they can't do?

I'm about to do a new thing. I think you put up fake barriers when you've put something off for long enough. I think I really felt I'd be awkward and awful at face-to-face interviews. I'm not a professional. I have no training. I don't have this particular skill.

But I decided not to bother thinking this way. I've had no training in any kind of writing, have never done a single writing course, yet here I am 10 years later still getting away with it. Besides, it's not going to air. We're just going to chat exactly like we would if it was a phone interview, and they are easy. Time for a new experience, to learn a new skill.

I'd like to say it all went smoothly... well it did, aside from the fact that I was late for the interview. This is a writer with five highly regarded novels under his belt, film options on all of his books and a big screen version of one of them out in the Northern hemisphere now, out here later in the year, he's agreed to meet me for a chat, and I miss my tram and stuff up my train connection so that the next train arrives in 20 minutes and I am due to be at the cafe in less than 15 minutes. You are supposed to arrive at these things early to test your recorder and just make damn sure you don't keep the interviewee waiting. Thus the title of this blog post.

Standing on the platform, I realise that the next train, due in two minutes, is going to North Melbourne, with Kensington being the train station after that (but this train is not going on to Kensington). Rather than wait the 20 minutes for this train, I'll go to North Melbourne and catch a cab from there. There must be a cab rank at North Melbourne Station.

There is no cab rank at North Melbourne station. There is nothing at North Melbourne station. There is a busy road a few minutes walk away which I could walk to and hope that a cab comes by... and that might happen immediately or not at all. I have so little time left that if I commit to this plan it will need to happen immediately. I can't risk it. I have to go back and wait for the Kennsington train and just accept that I am going to be late for my first face-to-face with a reasonably important person. I am such a fuck up.

In the end, I am 15 minutes late and Max is texting his agent to get my number to find out what is going on as I walk in the door. I apologise, and thankfully, he seems chilled and not too pissed off. I set up the phone recorder, and we start talking and it seems to go all right after all. 45 minutes later we finish things off and after much indecision I ask if he would mind signing my copy of Lexicon. I need to ask someone about this - when interviewers interview famous people, is it accepted or frowned upon as being uncool to ask them to sign things? I don't know such things because I just don't hang around with journos. I am a lone wolf, a loose cannon... or just a bit of a twat.

Anyway, I thought I'd rather regret being a bit of a twat and have my signed copy than regret having the opportunity of getting a signed copy and not taking it. He seemed pretty cool about it.

You can read the finshed piece here at Soot Mag. Looking forward to doing more with them. I think both they and Warhol's Children might be doing something with my 17 Stories Of Love & Crime. Stay tuned.

I still haven't got a job but I did sign up with an agency and worked all last week and I think there is more coming up next week. It will be very nice to be working again. Nicer still to have our own cafe. And I really am enjoying having current writing out there again. These three editors have been really cool and enthusiastic. Soot even posted something the other day telling everyone who had submitted samples to be patient as they'd had hundreds of applicants, but here I am with my first piece live, and my bio up there with the other contributors. Happy pants.

Ubu Roi, Review

Ubu Roi

Reviewed by Lee Bemrose

A raw version of Ubu Roi was written in the late 1800s by three teenage schoolboys with Alfred Jarry considered the author of the final version. It was originally written as a parody of one the boys' schoolteachers and was performed as a puppet show in an attic for the boys' own amusement.

However, Jarry persisted with the central character of Ubu and the play opened on stage in Paris in 1896, with a riot breaking out in the theatre upon the opening words from the lead character. The audience was eventually calmed, only for chaos to erupt again shortly after, so shocking and vulgar was the content to the sophisticated French audience. The play polarised critics, and theatre of the absurd was born.

Naturally, more than a hundred years later contemporary audiences are made of more robust stuff. The play now presents itself as more of a curiosity than something to be shocked about and is presented by various theatre groups in a variety of settings. Which is not to say that this theatre goer and his plus one, The Dreaded One, didn't approach this performance with some trepidation. Just how absurd is absurd? Would it make any sense at all? And in this case, there is mud... lots of mud.

Chatting briefly with director Jason Cavanagh before the show, we joked that given that we frequent multi-day dance festivals in the bush, we are not afraid of a bit of mud. “Yes,” he replied, “it reminds me of Confest.” Precisely. He also asked casually if we'd be sitting in the front row. Erm... no.

Not that there was anything to worry about, mud-wise; protective sheets were supplied to the front row and clear shower curtains were drawn whenever a battle scene erupted, flashing swords replaced with mud balls. As the actors became more covered in mud, it actually looked like an awful lot of fun.

The story feels very Shakespearean and indeed is given something of the Shakespearean treatment by this cast of very fine, if muddied, actors. The script doesn't quite have the finesse and the poetry of Shakespeare, but you do recognise a bit of MacBeth in the motivations and actions of the characters. Largely at the urging of his wife, Mama Ubu, Papa Ubu hatches a plot to kill the king of Poland and install himself of that country's ruler. Why Poland? It would appear that Poland wasn't on the map in 1896, so Ubu was effectively taking over and ruling a non-existent place. Absurd, no?

Co-conspirator Captain Bordure's men are killed after being offered food which looks a lot like shit on a toilet brush. The mission is successful, Ubu acquires great wealth by simply killing all the noblemen and taking their money, and much double-crossing, treachery, plotting and fighting ensues. The language is as infantile as the motivations of Ubu, a huge, lumbering man-child driven largely by his animal needs.

In creating Ubu, Jarry was having a go not just at the ruling elite (though he was definitely doing this) but also the common man. Ubu started out being a parody of a loathed teacher, but in reworking and reworking the character over the years of his short life (he died at 34 after complications from his various addictions, not the least of which was absinthe), he was also attacking modern man and society generally. Given the antics of Australia's current gaggle of politicians – Rudd comes to mind with his earwax-eating and his juvenile look-at-me-I'm-just-a-regular-schmuck tweets – Ubu Roi still feels relevant. Especially given the apparent lack of ideology in politics today; our political leaders seem more driven by their desire for fame than anything.

If I went into this production from 5pound Theatre with trepidation, The Dreaded One did more so. Given it's absurdist reputation, she wasn't sure if she was going to enjoy it at all. I was relieved to hear her laughing throughout and tell me afterwards that she thoroughly enjoyed it. I think she was a little relieved at just how much she liked it.

Nicholas Dubberley was superb as the grotesque Ubu, as was Amy Jones as Ubu's ruthless wife and Andi Snelling as Captain Bordure. In fact the whole cast, playing multiple roles, was pretty damn good. Although occasionally played for laughs, overall the text appeared to be taken quite seriously, which is often the best delivery for humour. Lighting and set-design enhanced the whole experience to make it something quite unique; strangely thrilling, weirdly compelling.

5pound Theatre continues to do interesting things at The Owl & Pussycat. It really is worth checking out this little mud-fest, the piece of theatrical history that is Ubu Roi.

At The Owl & Pussycat, Richmond, Melbourne until July 27

Man In Black - The Johnny Cash Story, Review

Man In Black – The Johnny Cash Story

Reviewed by Lee Bemrose

Appallingly, although I've been a bit of a fan of Tex Perkins since the first Cruel Sea release, I've never seen him or any of his bands perform live. So naturally when I heard he was doing Man In Black again, I jumped at the chance to finally catch him on stage.

Man In Black tells the Johnny Cash story from start to finish in a laidback blend of spoken word and song. Tex and Rachael Tidd tell Cash's story in their own voices sometimes in conversation with each other, and occasionally slip into character throughout. We hear about Cash's early years doing it tough in Arkansas; the death of his 14 year old brother from which he never truly recovers; his early singing career, the meeting of Vivian Liberto, his first wife, and the thousands of pages of love letters they wrote while he was on military duty in Germany; his prolific song-writing and performing; the legendary performances in Folsom and San Quentin prisons; his prolonged love affair with co-performer June Carter; how drugs and alcohol kept taking over his life; and we follow him into old age and his eventual death just three months after Carter's.

The story runs the gamut of emotions, obviously. But the overall feel of the show is one of joy. This is a celebration of a flawed artist who in the end made a massive impact on music history and brought a lot of happiness to a lot of people. As moving as certain parts of the story are, the smiles and happiness are never far away. This show is loads of fun.

The rapport between Perkins and Tidd is charming and casual. There appeared to be quite a few mistimed gags in the banter, but far from detracting from the dynamics it actually served to capture what the vibe was probably like on stage between Cash and Carter; it probably wasn't a highly polished performance in real life.

Except for the music. Tex Perkins does a superb Johnny Cash. It's quite uncanny just how perfectly he nails it. He opens with I Walk The Line, then every few minutes throughout breaks out into all the Cash favourites as well as – to this punter – some lesser known ones and he is just so good. Clearly Perkins enjoys this role and the audience lapped it up. There is much laughter throughout as we learn of Cash's obsession with train-related songs and novelty songs like A Boy Named Sue. But musically, even if there is a gleam in the eye, it's all taken quite seriously so that even the most sincere of Johnny Cash fans won't be disappointed. The crowd really got into the music, and the band – The Tennessee Four – were very impressive in recreating The Tennessee Three sound.

If you are not overly familiar with the Johnny Cash story, you'll no doubt learn a few things. I was intrigued by the fact that Johnny and Vivian wrote 10,000 pages of love letters in three years... you have to wonder about the true nature of their relationship compared to how it was portrayed in the 2005 bio flick Walk The Line. Interesting follow up reading there.

But the main reason for seeing this show is for its entertainment value. This is a stage full of engaging performers telling a fascinating story. The medley at the end will leave your hands saw from clapping and your face in a permanent smile. Johnny cash is unlikely to be touring any time soon, but if you want to see what he might have been like in his charismatic prime, check out the next best thing.

At the Athenaeum Theatre Melbourne until Sunday 21st July. Click here for details and future performances.

Dark Thirst

I can't believe it. I appear to have lost another passport. I wasn't even looking for it, I was actually looking for my food handler's certificate, which I haven't needed in the 18 months or so since I got it. Suddely I'm going to a hospitality agency tomorrow and they need to see it and I cannot find it anywhere. And along the way I realised that my passport was not in the passport place. I found the one that I thought was missing three years ago when The Dreaded One and I went on the big trip (TDO had removed it from my passport place and put with her stuff because she thought it was safer there... and not knowing this, three days before we left I had to get an emergency passport replacement. I found that the original had been in with her stuff a year after we got back from that trip).

But now... I have no idea where the food handler's certificate is or the passport. It's not in The Dreaded One's stuff... it's doing my head in.

But I did find this advertisement. That's me at the end of the table, lots more hair than I have now and much more cheeks. I was a bit chunky back then.

And if you know me, you'll appreciate how funny it is that I am some kind of poster boy for alcohol restraint. It is deeply funny. I have been uber booze monster at times.

I have a story brewing called Dark Thirst. Companion story to the one about the time I overdosed on drugs. Booze, when it gets its claws in, it ain't funny. Hangovers? I laugh at them. Hangovers are nothing compared to proper addiction. Hangovers are a walk through a field of daisies. Booze addiction... it's a monster in a cage. It rattles that cage and jangles your nerves and fucking owns you, and the struggle to get through that is a kind of hell. You don't sleep it off. It's just not that easy. It really is fucking awful.

But if you are lucky, you get through it. You find a kind of peace. You appreciate being in control. You say goodbye to the anxiety attacks and the fear and the constant nausea and feel happy that you can just pick up a fucking glass of water without shaking so much you spill it everywhere.

Mostly, people haven't suspected a thing. I am nothing if not a trouper. Some days, some weeks, when I think about them, I really don't know how I made it through.

So yeah, the poster above, it's funny because when booze is fun it's the best. But the poster is also uber ironic given what I have been through.

Life. Funny old thing.

I'm hopng to write Dark Thirst soon. It won't be light-hearted (though there might be funniness in there), but I feel the need to write about it. There's no point going through this shit if you can't use it.

Two Days

two days

lee bemrose

two days of sanctuary

two days of isolation

of protection

from the alienation

from the frustration

and the non stop electric jangle

the constant grind

the futility

the stupidity

the chaotic screech

the cash register crash

the lust for cash

the vocal noise

of vacuous pseudo-thoughts

the negativity

the futility

the stupidity

the one day at a time

mindless crawl towards death

with no appreciation

no comprehension

no deviation

from the chatter and the chase

of the meaningless

the pointless

and the gratuitous

two days sanctuary

two days away at home

make it last forever

the peace

the silence

the music

the kind words

the love

the laughter

I want these two days

to last forever.

Tied Up by Jessamae St James, Review

Tied Up | Jessamae St James

Reviewed by Lee Bemrose

Cabaret is cabaret – life experiences told through song and spoken word – but each show has its own schtick. Tied Up's schtick, as you've probably guessed, is sexual fetish.

Clad in heels, stockings, corset and ropes, Jessamae St James makes her entrance with a Tori Amos song (Leather) unless I am mistaken. She doesn't care about the weather, she just wants her leather. It's a smouldering entrance and the audience is immediately struck by our star's commanding presence and that powerful, pitch perfect voice. And she looks stunning, like a slightly darker version of Cabaret's Liza Minelli.

It was hard to tell, at this stage, which way the show would go. Was it going to use fetish as titillation? (Judging by the very mixed crowd I'm sure some audience members hoped so). Or were we in for something a little darker?

At the conclusion of the intro song, Mistress Jessamae decided her seat had not been prepared and dragged an obliging male onto the stage, commanded him to get on all fours, she sat on him and, and it seemed it was going to be a show of titillation and giggles.

Not so, as it transpired. A quick audience quiz about what we think about when we hear the word 'fetish', and bondage was the general consensus. BDSM, and indeed these are common fetishes, or commonly recognised ones. St James walked us through some stories of BDSM, but what followed were some lesser known but well-documented forms of sexual fetish.

St James tells us stories of suffocation; the fetish of dolls; of being aroused at the idea of one's partner being with someone else; the need for a partner to cry to be aroused... the list goes on.

St James inhabits these stories convincingly so that you don't doubt these are all very real fetishes and she has done her homework. So engaging is she as a story teller that I think she could have thrown a few made-up fetishes in there and you'd believe every word she said. Who knows? Maybe she did just that. I doubt it though, having just done some of my own homework about fetishes. It's a big, wide, weird world behind closed doors.

As St James struts up the aisle and makes eye contact, sizes you up and down, oozing superiority, you can't help but squirm as you think of the chair-guy at the beginning. Is she going to drag me up on stage and make me do humiliating things? You quickly realise that maybe you've made the rookie mistake of sitting in an aisle seat. So does she drag hapless males onto the stage? Not telling.

The four piece jazz band works perfectly to create varying moods, from the melancholic to menacing to the uplifting with the Weimar sounding section towards the end – although here the band totally drowned out the vocals in parts.

The music never worked better than when St James dragged out her harmonium and played the darkest song of the show. This was perhaps the show's titular song, a song about being tied up and neglected, and it was slow, haunting, disturbingly real, lush and beautiful. It was, for this dark soul, the highlight of the show. The piece Pussy Got Your Tongue? was a close second with its manic anger. Loved it.

Some humour would have been welcome, and after chair-guy it was, I think, expected. But overall there were very few laughs, with St James playing it straight, so to speak. And that was fine; the focus was on her stunning voice and the subject matter.

Jessame St James is the alter-ego of singer Jessie Upton. Jessamae has been around for less than a year, but with her smouldering confidence she has already made a herself right at home in the cabaret and burlesque scenes. I have a feeling we'll be hearing a lot more of her.

July 6th & July 7th at The Butterfly Club, Melbourne

 Edit: I actually had no idea the opening number was by Tori Amos. Thanks to Lola Lopez for the heads up.

Confessions Of A Control Freak by Belinda Raisin, Review

Confessions Of A Control Freak/Belinda Raisin

Reviewed by Lee Bemrose

First up, The Butterfly Club at its new(ish) address in the CBD retains every bit of its quirky charm and magical weirdness. Can't wait to go back.

As for the show... it opens with some very pretty piano and our star, Belinda Raisin, unexpectedly going through a ballet routine. Well, perhaps not so unexpected given that she is a trained ballerina. As fluid and graceful as her movements are, she has a bit of a breakdown, and the comedy begins.

Belinda plays Frances, a modern woman obsessed with making lists and making confessions to an audience she manages to keep enthralled from start to finish. She will also keep you laughing, possibly make you shed a tear, and she keeps the booze flowing whilst roller-blading around the intimate theatre. It's okay though – she has an RSA. It's a show of perfectly orchestrated physical chaos and angst and sweaty yoga because we have to fit yoga into our busy life because Frances wants it all and she wants it now. And lists – did I mention lists? It's a show of engaging story telling, music and song.

There is lots of song, not the standard cabaret fodder – although if Raisin went down that road I don't doubt it would be just as wonderful an experience as this was, such is the quality of her voice. She can play it soft and seductive as effortlessly as she belts out the loud ones. The whole show is a completely engaging marriage of graceful, gangly physical humour and moving honesty.

There was teamwork at play between Raisin and pianist Jamie Teh. Perfectly on cue he would hand a prop to the songstress without missing a note on the piano... but why did he look so earnest throughout? Why was he concentrating so much. And where were his music sheets.

Perhaps I'm a bit slow but I had no idea until the end, until the wonderfully talented Belinda Raisin lead her cohort in cabaret comedy to the centre of the stage to take bows, that he is completely blind. When he broke out in that smile of appreciation at the applause, the applause grew even louder. Wonderful stuff. So much talent on such a small stage.

When I asked my plus one, The Dreaded One (because of the coloured dreadlocks) what she thought of the show, she said simply. “I love her.” Uh-huh.

3rd & 4th of July at The Butterfly Club.

Sexual Perversity In Chicago, The Wilde, Review

Sexual Perversity In Chicago

Lee Bemrose

The question has to be asked: can a play written and set in the early 70s that deals with gender conflict possibly be relevant in 2013? It just doesn't seem possible. Surely we are more enlightened now than we were back then. Surely there is no such thing as conflict based on gender any more. Surely we respect each other as equals regardless of gender... don't we?

Alas, this play, given the current state of Australian politics, football sexual predators and our appalling parole system, is depressingly relevant.

Brief and punchy, the play is a conversation between four characters. Bernie (Sam Burns Warr) is a bit of an Alpha male pig (is there any other kind of Alpha male?); Dan (Jordan Fraser- Trumble) is his confused co-worker and drinking buddy; Deb (Steph Lee) is the feisty chick Dan hooks up with; Joan (Carly Jacobs) is Deb's femmo friend who doesn't think very highly of Deb's choice of partner. Deb and Dan get it on and move in together but soon realise that a relationship based on great sex isn't that much of a solid thing. We watch their version of love briefly blossom, then wilt.

It sounds pretty flimsy really, but this production by Mellow Yellow is utterly engaging from beginning to end. The characters, in lesser hands, could be caricatures, and basically they are stereotypes, but the actors here go all out whilst still managing to pull off some subtlety that makes them human. That thing about a story not working because the characters are not likeable? I don't know about that in this case. I didn't particularly care about any of these characters, but I recognised their humanity. I guess that's the genius of Mamet's script, matched perfectly in this case with the talent on this small stage.

And the space is intimate, as I think it needs to be given the personal nature of this play. Staged in the function room at The Wilde on Gertrude Street, patrons were sometimes confused about whether they should sit on the couch in case the couch was part of the set. Everyone wisely decided not to take the couch (though there was discussion), and the cast flowed in with the last of the stragglers, took the couch and the action started. There was noise from downstairs (it's a popular pub with a DJ) but such was the strength of the story and its delivery, it didn't matter.

In this world, the characters do the sex and relationship thing but end up being victims of their gender. It's actually quite confronting and pretty fucking sad (expletives, get used to them, as well as some pretty graphic sex talk) that after all these years we haven't gotten our shit together. Oh sure, maybe some have, but why is there still so much sexism? Why do so many of us judge each other based on gender? Will it never end?

These, I think, are the questions David Mamet's tight little play asks. It's my favourite kind of theatre; it's genuinely funny, but with an after taste of something very real.

Until June 29 at The Wilde, 153 Gertrude Street, Fitzroy. $15.

Writing, life etc etc etc.

For a long time there I could put up with doing shitty jobs with the knowledge that I could say I am also a performance arts writer, theatre reviewer and humour columnist. And while I can still say the former, the mag/website that published the column folded, so I could no longer say the latter. It was just a cool little thing... how many people can say they have their own humour column? And that little thing had been going for almost 10 years and survived five or so editorial changes. Not only did writing the column frequently bring me out of dark moods, it gave my pathetic self confidence a bit of a boost, just by existing.

And then it was gone.

However, I recently sent a couple of samples out - without the usual cover letter telling them about interviews with Bill Bailey, Laurie Anderson, Warren Ellis et al, the usual brag stuff. I basically just said I like to write funny stuff, what do you think of this?

Within days one pretty cool website got back to me telling me how much they liked my stuff and that they wanted to use it. They had my first column up within a week of reading it. Then another website - this one's contributors all, as far as I can tell, being stand up comedians - accepted another piece, with equally enthusiastic feedback.

Then the first website wrote to say they had also posted the second piece I sent to them, a bit of a situation because it was the same piece I had sent to the second website. So I sent another piece to the second website, hoping I hadn't pissed them off by pulling the first piece, and they said they loved this one as well. The editor made a couple of suggestions to improve it but said it was perfectly fine to leave it as is if I felt that way and that she would still run it. The suggestions were spot on. She is an excellent editor and I hope we have a lot of contact to look forward to.

So it's back to looking for some kind of work. A grind because I have no qualifications and no specialist skills. But at least I am a theatre reviewer, performing arts writer AND humour writer.

None of which are particularly lucrative (biggest understatement ever?).

I think when I'm gone, if they write about me they'll read my funny stuff and say, "Hey - he really was pretty good at the funny stuff. Bummer he was stuck doing shitty jobs and died broke."

Oh the life of the unrecognised artist. Oh the pain and tragedy and the woe of it all...

Grumpy With Out Of Office Auto Reply

Only once before have a lifted a Facebook conversation and directly used it as Grumpy material. Strangely enough it was a conversation between a certain BVV, a conversation about her mum's undies that amused me a lot.

Below is another such Facebook dialogue. This is how my Grumpy material starts out so often, either me doing something I consider out of character, or some random idiotic musing. This was one of the latter. Part of the way through, BVV ran with the ball.

If I write a reply to an out of office auto reply message, do you think they would find it funny, or do you think they would think I was a bit slow?

Especially if it grew into a lengthy conversation...

"Yes, I understand that you won't be back in the office until Monday the 13th. I really understand this and there is no need to keep telling me that you won't be back until then and I'm more than happy to wait until then to further our conversation."

"Please stop telling me you will be out of the office until the 13th. It's starting to get really annoying. What are you - bragging about all the leisure time you manage to have while the rest of us slave away at our meaningless jobs?"

"Oh I get it. You're so fast with these replies that you're gloating about actually having an actual job to return to, knowing full well that as of today, I don't have a job. Ooh - aren't you so so cool with your office and your job and your officey paraphernalia like a desk and a... a computer and probably some pens in a jar and a photo of the tropical paradise you've been away at until the 12th... ooh ooh ooh look at you..."

"Okay - stop! Just stop with this out of the office until the 13th thing. I'm sick of it. I really am. And I've changed my mind about you. For a while there I thought we might get along nicely. I really did want to work for you and thought it could all work out well. But you've changed. Or maybe I've just seen the real you... a condescending, gloating, smug person who thinks potential employees are fair game for your... erm... condescending, gloating smugness. Let's just end this now. I don't want your job (as perfect as it sounds) and I certainly don't want to hear from you again. Ever. Period... whatever that means. So please, please, please don't write back to me to inform me that you are out of the office until Monday. Thank you and goodbye."

"All RIGHT already. I've GOT IT - YOU'RE ON HOLIDAY! If you say it one more time you can consider our business relationship terminated."

“Christ on a BIKE. You really did it. You sent it again. I'm really starting to doubt your sanity now. Five times was enough.

"AAARGH! You just did it again? What did I say would happen if you did it again? What does it take to get through to you?"

“RIGHT. That's it. You think you've won, but I'm simply going to ignore you. Don't bother emailing back.”

"I said don't bother... oh never mind. You just don't get it, do you."

"It's been seven exhausting days now... why do you persist? I feel drained, beaten, worn down like Tom Hanks in Castaway... why are you doing this to me? I'm sorry but I just don't understand. Can we stop this now please? Please?"

“Oh God...I'll just contact you again after the 13th when you're back and we can take it from there. Sorry if I got reactive, I'm just really passionate when I'm enthusiastic about something.”

Meanwhile, Back In Barcelona...

The Dreaded One and I are going through a bit of a rough patch right now. Just normal, shitty stuff to do with work, uncertainty etc. No worse than anyone else but we have been having sleep issues due to stress etc. We're trying to stay positive but it gets hard sometimes. We haven't felt the urge to go out at all and we have been a little less social than usual. You tend to get like that when things aren't going well and your esteem is taking a bit of a belting. I'm kind of used to the low self esteem thing but it's shaken me a little to see The Dreaded One go through it. Very unsettling. But things will work out.

But how is this to restore your feeling of worth -  this photo? A dear, dear friend in Spain took a three day trip to my favourite city, Barcelona. We travelled with these guys on the last trip... in fact both last trips to Europe. But the last one saw us travel for about a month through Spain and Portugal. Interesting times. There were arguments, or rather one big argument. It was a doozy. But we pulled through and overall I look back on that road trip in a good way. We are still friends and I would do it again, knowing what we were in for and maybe with some precautions/agreed rules or whatever. Maybe the argument (in reality, a massive dummy spit on my part) served to clear the air. Maybe we know each other a little better. Certainly the rest of the road trip after that was smoother. Maybe you need these flare ups to strengthen the relationship.

Anyway, our friend Annye made a little cut out Ann & Lee to take with them on their trip to Barcelona. She took pictures of them all through the city - on the beach, by a platter of paella, next to a plate of jamon, me diving into my favourite iced coffee concoction, hovering above the city with Sagrada Familia in the background, all captioned in a very amusing way. Apparently she laughed a lot as she staged the photos, and onlookers also laughed.

It is an hilarious collection of photos. We sat in our home in Melbourne and laughed and giggled over the album. And just behind the laughter, we were both quite moved. This was a lovely, lovely gesture. It was a reminder that although our recent work situations were/are not ideal, when left with the friends we love so much, we seem to do something right. If you can't reach across the world and hug someone when they're feeling down, little cut-out versions of you taken on a road trip have the same effect. Very amusing. Very lovely.

I wish my very close friends were not so far away. But I'm glad I have them in my life at all.

Grumpy With Mark Gambino

Grumpy With Mark Gambino

By Lee Bemrose 

Say hello to Mark Gambino. A random contributor to a magazine I once worked for when I felt like a fraud with no qualifications... primarily because I was a fraud with no qualifications. But I did seem to have a knack for spotting good writers. Lord knows whe had some terrible contributors, but one of the joys of that job was sorting through the  endless hopefuls and finding those few that really stood out.

What I liked most in potential contributors were the people that weren't afraid to do something different. That outside the square thing? That slightly not-what-I-was-expecting thing? If they did that, retained integrity to the topic and managed to make me smile, they were in.

In keeping with that ethos, here is an interview that didn't take place. Mark sent me a hastily written bio which answered all my questions before I asked them, therefore making the entire task of actually asking questions somewhat redundant. So what you have here is a series of imagined questions to real answers to unasked questions.

Read on. It's a rollercoaster of a ride.

 

Would you say the way you have been living your life has been very fulfilling?

Like many smart people, I’ve been able to comfortably get by in life by not doing very much. I realised recently that this is not a very fulfilling way to live. Since then I’ve focussed on following my passions and working my arse off, to very inspiring results. But where did it all begin?

That's a really great question, Mark. I was just about to ask you that very same thing. So tell us – where did your creative life begin?

My creative life began around 2001, after picking up a free street mag called Drink. It was about Melbourne bar culture. I thought I could write for it, so I pitched the editor. 

But wait on just a minute... did you have any real idea of how this writing business worked? Had you studied journalism?

At this point, having studied performing arts at university, I didn’t know how this writing business worked. But I could ACT like a writer.

I like your style. So you pitched to the editor of a booze mag. What happened?

She gave me a shot, and I began writing bar reviews. For free.

And then what happened?

I then picked up a Sydney dance music mag called 3D World.

Ah. 3D World. I think I've heard of it. What happened there? I hear they worked their staff and their freelancers like Trojans.

I pitched the managing ed, who passed me onto the editor - a guy called Grumpy - whereupon we started a nice conversation about Withnail and I. A friendship was born. I honed my craft working on this mag, writing everything from social commentary to a short-lived section of Melbourne bar reviews. I was given more credit than I deserved, but I worked like a Trojan for it.

Then what happened?

Then shit got real.

Oh no. I once saw that on a bumper sticker on the back of a ute... “Then Shit Got Real.” But you are a creative type. Can't imagine you driving a ute around.

I pitched a local fashion magazine (in Melbourne) and picked up some freelance work. It was then that I bought my first digital camera, and started taking photos to go with the articles I wrote. The publisher loved that they got two jobs for the price of one from me, and brought me on board to write, edit, shoot and distribute (I drove a fucking ute around and hand delivered the first issue)of a new sports magazine, Cinq. The irony is, I knew nothing about sport. In fact, I hated it. With a passion. You could say, when the subject of sport came up, I was passionate. It was certainly the best of times.

What else were you doing around this time?

During this time I also worked on General Pants’ Our People magazine. A thinly veiled marketing tool designed to pump what little money kids had out of their pockets and into the coffers or a corporate entity masquerading as a ‘youth brand.’ They weren’t the first. They certainly won’t be the last. See also: Monster Children.

How long did this gig last?

This lasted until the team employed to sell advertising in Cinq couldn’t, and I was turfed into the world of freelancing.

Do you have any stories about rollercoasters? I like stories about rollercoasters?

Years passed and I rode the rollercoaster of freelance writing.

I also like stories of scandalous love, pimps and prostitutes. Got any of those to share with us?

I worked part-time, then fulltime, at Borders. Fell in love with a married woman. Moved into a suburb where prostitutes would regularly fight with their pimps outside my window (“Why did you have to shoot him?!”).

How good would you say life was at that time?

Life was good.

And then?

Then came the call again: a fulltime job managing a team of people to produce web content on a ridiculous budget, to be sold to big companies for a ridiculous price. Out of fear of being litigated by one very large organisation that bought from us, I shall omit the finer details. Suffice it to say, I witnessed the worst in some people while in this job. It made me question my craft. I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion…

But I digress. 

That did sound like a bit of a digression of Haueresque proportions. Anyway. So what did you do? And do you have any more rollercoaster stories?

I quit. I dove into freelance life, and once again the rollercoaster began.

Oh no. Were things different this time?

This time, I was armed with a camera. And a shitload of experience shooting some of the world’s top music acts; interviewing some of the world’s most inspiring musicians and actors; and armed to the teeth with industry contacts.

And how is the rollercoaster of freelance work treating you these days?

My freelance ‘business’ has grown since that day - albeit with many growing pains - and now allows me to work anywhere in the world. As long as I have an internet connection, I’m always working.

 And rather than finish off with a final question, I'm going to predict that you are about to conclude with a statement I can relate to and which makes me doff my cap to you.

I've felt like a bit of a fraud most of my writing life. I may not have studied writing or journalism (I'm now a member of the Australian Journalist's Association - ZOMG!), but I have now made a career of it.
I've spoken on creative panels, giving advice to people way more educated than myself. I've quit jobs most people would step over my cold corpse to do. Most of the time I find all this hard to reconcile.

Cap doffed.Go here for more of Mark's work.