Concussion Review, STC

Here's a review of Concussion that I wrote for Australian Stage Online. I saw The Removalists at the same theatre a few weeks ago and thought it a far superior play. But Concussion wasn't all bad. I just couldn't shake that feeling that the writing was trying to be too clever for its own good.

Going to go see what the other reviewers are saying about it now.

And yes, given that I've started writing a play of my own, it feels very odd to be reviewing other plays. It also feels odd saying negative things about a play when I met most of the cast after the play and think they are all pretty cool people.

Friends & Clouds

Okay, the layout is a bit sloppy but I like the pics. This is part of Sunday in Perry Park, Alexandria March 2009. Pictured in no particular order are Lizzy, Ann, Barry (aka Third Drop Reflection, Harry, Jocie and Bindi. All good people... although I don't know Harry so well.

Favourite quote of the day? Someone was telling a story about a kid who broke his jaw.

"He broke his jaw doing what 15 year olds do..."

"Wanking?" said my friend. "He broke his jaw wanking?"

Perfect comic timing.

Jim Jeffries Review, Sydney Comedy Store

I wasn't sure if the mag was going to run my review of Jim Jeffries. I thought they'd at least asterisk a few words out because it's a bit, ahem, fruity. Bit sweary. Bit potty-mouthed. But totally in keeping with the show. Gawd bless 'em though, they're a bit rock 'n roll after all.

Anyway, click on the image to make big and read... but not if swear words make you cry.

Funny show and I'd write more about it here but this week's starting to freak out on me a little. I'm due in at work at 6am tomorrow morning and my very long chat with Warren Ellis has to be made into a 650 word story by Thursday and there's another one due on the same day

Metamorphosis at the STC

I'm interviewing Warren Ellis from The Bad Seeds tomorrow night. We'll be talking about his score for the STC production of Kafka's Metamorphosis.

The soundtrack is spilling through my brain right now and I don't want it to stop. Insanely good stuff.

Come back later for more about the interview.

Not I, Said This Writer

I've just read a magazine review that I wrote of a music gig I saw last week. I really enjoyed it and I had fun writing the review because I love it when I get to open the floodgates of gush. If I think something is good, I want you to know about it and I want you to know why I thought it was good.

Hilarious thing though... the editor clings to some antiquated style nuance about not referring to yourself directly. They think good editing means there is no such thing as "I". Even when you are writing about your personal experience of a performance.

Hang on. Let me demonstrate. I'm going to re-write what I've written above using the style guide this particular editor uses:

"This writer just read a review that this writer wrote of a music gig this writer saw last week. This writer really enjoyed it and this writer had fun writing the review because this writer loves it when he get's to open the floodgates of gush. If this writer thinks something is good, this writer want's you to know why he thought it was good."

Sadly, I'm not joking. All these "this writer thought" and "this writer believes"... Eh? Wot?

I wrote a line about a guy on stage tweaking knobs on his mixer who was being very extravagant with his knob-twiddling, and I said that I was mightily amused and that from now on my reviews would be written with Beethovenesque flourishes.

Ed changed it to, "From now on, reviews will be written with Beethovenesque flourishes."

Wot? Not just this writer's reviews but all reviews everywhere throughout all the lands and kingdoms?

Okay. That's all for now. Clearly I have to go beat myself about the head repeatedly with a 1956 edition of The New York Times to see if some of this shit sinks in.

HALPHONE

My new phone... I'm calling it HAL.

Friends are coming around for dinner tomorrow night. One of them asked what she should bring. I started to write back "Just bring a bottle of wine."

HAL had other ideas. I like predictive text, but this was taking things to new levels. I got as far as "Just bring" and HAL suggested "some".

I got curious about what HAL had in mind and accepted "some".

HAL's next suggestion was "ppl".

Curiouser and curiouser, accepted ppl. The next predictive suggestion popped up: "around".

I really wanted to know what HAL had in mind so I accepted this and the next suggestion was "for".

I'd gone this far, what the hal? Next suggestion? "dinner".

So I had been going to write "Just bring a bottle of wine", but my phone in all its hospitality generosity had typed out "Just bring some ppl around for dinner."

How does that work? How does it manage to string a sentence together like that? Why is it so generous?

And how the fuck did it know I was planning to have friends over for dinner and not lunch? Has it been eavesdropping on my conversations?

Creepy, man, really creepy.

grumpy

The good thing about hitting your head against a wall is how good it feels when you stop.

I give up.

Reviews: Tattoo, and Late Night Lounge (And A Non-Mancrush)

Couple of brief theatre reviews. Very different productions. Tattoo was unsettling, Late Night Lounge at The Opera House was just a lot of fun. Not sure why I was asked to keep that one to 200 words, but that was the brief.

Off to see Lady Windermere's Fan tomorrow night at Darlinghurst Theatre.

Oh and last night I watched the movie Step Brothers. I giggled like a fool through the whole thing. I haven't read what the critics are saying but I suspect some probably think it's a bit infantile. Me no care. It is a very, very silly movie, the running joke of 40 year olds Will Ferrell and John C. Reilly acting like a couple of kids just didn't wear thin with me. Writing and acting nailed it. There's not nearly enough of this kind of silly on our screens. When it's done well, it's the best.

And there was a little bit of heart in it too, a nice dollop of optimism.

Alsotooaswell... check my Unabomber mugshot. Makes me laugh. I'd be scared of me. The very cool BVV at farrangirl pondered whether my skinheaded hirsute look wasn't in fact a subconscious desire to look like musician Paulmac. Oh ha-fucking-ha.

The joke here is that a looong time ago when we were both editors of a dance music mag, she was over at my place for dinner and I mentioned that I had just bumped into Paulmac in an elevator in another friend's building. We had chatted a bit because I think a few nights earlier he had made some really funny comments at a music awards night I was at. There was something about a broken trophy too. Anyway, I must have appeared untypically excited about the elevator encounter because BVV was all, "Oooh... Lee's got a mancrush on Paulmac."

Goddamn people with good memories.

Bloody Stupid Clock

If all of my neighbours look so normal when I see them in the corridors or out in the streets, why the hell do things like this happen?

Door buzzer rings. I pick the handset up.

"Hello?"

"Yes - hello," comes the slightly grumpy voice.

"Yes?" I prompt.

"Yes. Are you the one who gave me the bloody stupid clock?"

"What?"

"I said are you the one who gave me the this bloody stupid clock. Someone gave a me a clock and it's broken."

"No, I'm sorry, I didn't give you a clock."

"No? Oh."

"Goodbye."

They all look so normal, yet...

The Removalists Review

Saw this last week. It was funny taking my seat in the theatre because the audience was such an old one. Right behind me a little old lady said to her little old husband, "These are good seats."

"Whaaat? he replied loudly.

"These are good seats."

"Whaaat?"

"I said these are good seats, aren't they."

"Yairs."

Fuck me, I thought, if he can't hear her what's going to happen during the play? It amused me, and once the play got underway they were quiet.

I was almost as amused when at a climactic point in the (very violent) play, someone boomed in a rasping voice the observation, "Ooh! He's killed him!" Said into the silence with the conviction of someone completely absorbed, it caused quite a few stifled giggles.

Good to see so many old people out and about. Mostly they enjoyed the play although looking around occasionally I think some of them weren't expecting the violence and they didn't seem to understand why so many in the audience were laughing.

Oh - this amused me too. I posted a photo of myself elsewhere on the interthing because it makes me look like a dangerous mo'fo', which in itself is funny. A friend left a comment saying "I LOVE your headshot more than I can express... but I always have had a thing for the unabomber."

Zakly.

Gary Numan at The Enmore

Review of last night's gig below. I'm not sure if it was 1979 or 1980 when I heard Cars on the radio, and I know Triple J back then was Double J, but this (below) is a first draft review written late at night without the luxury of fact-checking.

This youtube clip is, as far as I can tell, the original version of Are Friends Electric. I think around the same time I was into Mi Sex, Ultravox, Debbie Harry's Blondie, Bowie (natch) and ACDC. See? I have always lacked focus.

I was very impressed with what Gary Numan did last night. I've seen none of the other artists I just mentioned except for Bowie twice. Laurie Anderson was to come a year or two later and then live around 20 years after that. I also remember The Church around the same time. It kept going, I kept hearing new stuff that had a big impact. Mixed bag.

But hearing Numan in a bland suburb on my shitty radio in my grandparents' house... it was a memorable moment. What the fuck is this? I wondered, cranking the volume. Next day at school, about three or four of us were all oh my God did you heard that song Cars on the radio yesterday? The rest looked at us like we were freaks.

Happy times, last night. Numan is gruntier with the same soaring synths. The guitar playing was masculine, and Gary knew the crowd loved him. I never knew he could smile such a high beamer.

Anyway, I know it's not everyone's music, but for me it's stirring music. It's electronic and it's like he was always going for escape from emotion or something, stripped wires and sterility, but there's actually shitloads of emotion in there.

I had a fucking great time last night.

GARY NUMAN

Indulge me for a couple of seconds... back in the late seventies when I was (probably not) doing my homework, Triple J played Gary Numan’s Cars. Everything stopped for me because this was a sound I’d never heard before. It was lush synth, rich, layered with some kind of detached yearning in the lyrics. I think my friends were into The Angels at the time (they were good too) but for me, Numan was where everything was heading.

It’s been more years than I’d like to think since that afternoon, but Gary Numan was in town and I wondered if he still had that thing. Most recent album I listened to was Hybrid, a blend of his ethereal electric synth and gutsy rawness of Trent Reznor from Nine Inch Nails. I liked it a lot.

So how was the 50 year old guy who wanted to do punk but discovered the synthesiser keyboard and went electro-goth instead? Pretty fucking awesome, actually. He’s said he wasn’t going to do his old stuff, but he did do his old stuff. He just twisted it in gutsy style with some of the most muscular guitar work you’re likely to hear.

Support band Pivot did an admirable job. I’d not seen them before but they were good. Drummer was exciting, vocals were ordinary but willing, and the guy on the lap top and mixer was pretty fucking funny in how much he was putting into it. From now on, I type my reviews with Beethovenesque flourishes.

But Numan, baby. One old one, one new one, one old one new one. The nostalgia freaks had a blast with tracks like Down In The Park, and oh my God the impromptu singalong to Are Friends Electric was just beautiful. I caved and smiled a lot and also joined in.

Numan was flanked by two synth players and two guitar guys, one kick-arse drummer behind. His voice was as fresh as it was a thousand years ago. He prowled the stage, played guitar, and sang his songs with very obvious enjoyment, whether in that detached tone or menacing whisper. For me, this was not a nostalgia trip. Numan knows music, knows it has to move forward, and he’s doing an excellent job.

LEE BEMROSE

I Loved You Yesterday

I loved you yesterday
When you weren’t expecting it
You didn’t even know
I was watching you
Didn’t know
I was thinking about you.

And truth is
I wasn’t expecting it either
But in those moments
Buried under countless other
Millions of moments
I loved you yesterday.

All over again.

Chins, Cellos, And Everything Between

Here is a couple of stories out in the current issue of Drum... with photos of chins. Both productions sound good to me.

And as chins go, I think both ones pictured are fine. They are fine examples of people's chins.

I'll be seeing Tattoo tomorrow night and hope to catch Travesties. I did see David Williamson's The Removalists the other day and really enjoyed it. Blackly funnier than expected. Will post review later (with a shot of someone's chin).

Also saw something called Late Night Lounge at The Studio, Sydney Opera House. Wonderful show. Highlight for me was cellist Zoe Keating. I was insto-fan. Lots of great stuff, some really funny stuff... crazy sexy woman called Julie Muz Atlas did a weird thing with getting her gear off while getting inside a big balloon. Loved Amanda Palmer too. And Meow Meow... hilarious as ever. Oddly, she sat down at our table for a bit (right next to me and everything) and I was about to ask what in the hell is going on with my song, but some clingly guyfriend came between us. Probably a good thing because I don't think she had a clue who I was, but if I reminded her of the song my stalker status would have been confirmed.

Really loved Zoe's cello playing. Really.

Seriously, really.

Oh and PS etc... really don't understand why editors think it's okay to insert their jokiness into your writing. Have only just now had the chance to read the printed pieces properly, and I just don't get why you would do it. I didn't write the (luft?) balloons bit and have no idea how that adds anything to the story. Yeah - it was a German pop song, but wot? I just don't get why people feel the need to do that kind of thing.

Here's an idea - run your joke by me first before you think it's a good thing to try to jolly up my writing. I mean, my name is on it, I'd like to be responsible for the good and the bad.

Why? Why?

The Refrigerator Of Fame

One I like most? The one of Chloe aiming her finger at me.

Not Stalking, But...

It's taken a couple of weeks to get back into the theatre thing, but this week's looking pretty full. And full of not-stalking Meow Meow... even though...

Drum asked me to review something anything because the mag was short a review. They suggested a couple of things that I didn't like the look of, then I noticed that David Williamson's The Removalists is playing at Sydney Theatre. I suggested that one because it sounds like one of Williamson's better ones; it's gritty with humour and I haven't seen it. The mag said go get 'em.

Later, after she'd finished work, The Dreaded One told me that she'd heard on the radio that Melissa Madden Gray is appearing in a drama. "Think it could be a David Williamson play."

"That's funny," I replied, "I'm going to see a David Williamson play on the weekend. The Removalists."

"That's it! That's the one. She's in that."

Melissa Madden Gray is, of course, Meow Meow in another guise. I don't know how but I'd missed her name in the credits altogether. But I'm seeing the play at 2pm on Saturday.

Then today, someone in the company we work for calls the kitchen and asks if we'd like a couple of tickets to see Justin Bond (Kiki from Kiki & Herb) and Meow Meow on Saturday night. The Dreaded One took the call and naturally said yes.

So. Although I wrote a love song to - I mean for - Meow Meow, and although I've interviewed her and reviewed her each time she's been in town, and in spite of hearing from a theatre critic with a high profile that Meow Meow thinks of me as one of her stalkers, I am not stalking her.

Even though I am taking in two of her live performances in one day.

I'm really not stalking her. Really.

However if I was to stalk someone I could have much worse taste.

Also on over the next few days is Tattoo at SBW Stables on Wednesday. I have to review that and I'll post the interview I did with with the director when it comes out next week, then on Thursday I'm seeing Gary Numan, so-called Godfather of electronic music at The Enmore on Thursday night. He really was a synth pioneer and I loved his music first time around. He's taken on a grittier, more industrial sound lately but also uses lush orchestral sounds, as far as I can tell. It's going to be fun.

Also stay tuned for an interview with comic actor Jonathan Biggins about his role in the forthcoming STC production of Tom Stoppard's Travesties.

Will You Still Need Me, Will You Still Feed Me...

When I'm 45.

Yairp. I turned 45 today. It's strange just as I guess it is for every 45 year old who loves new music, new stories, new people. You still feel like you did when you were 25. My body shape is pretty much the same when I was 25. I'm still as stupid and silly and as smart and dumb and as sad I was at 25. I don't think I'm any wiser.

I'm as much of a loner as I was at 25, just with better friends. I have some beautiful friends. Have had a few beautiful friends pass through. I will miss them, but I'm not big into going into the past.

When I was 25 I thought I was going to be a successful novelist. One short story under the belt, another shortlisted, then a couple of meetings with publishers about novel manuscripts. Still thought I was going to make it. I got a few short stories out there and that was nice.

At 45 I pretty much doubt I'll ever write another novel. I don't have the stamina. A novel is like a marathon. Takes a lot of hard work. At 45 I well know the pleasure of the get in and get out adventure of magazine writing.

At 25, I didn't know I'd ever be a magazine writer. Or one time dance music mag editor. Or Theatre reviewer. Or even a chef at The Sydney Opera House. At 25 I didn't know I'd have my own silly little humour column. I had no idea I'd have written, by 45, for a ridiculous variety of magazines.

At 25 I didn't know I'd spent my 45th birthday alone. Wandering through some farmer markets to soak up the vibe because I was asked to write some copy for a website. I didn't know that my 45th birthday would be spent finding my new mobile phone and realising I'd lost all my phone numbers in the corpse of the old mobile phone (yeah, send me your numbers, please).

Oh - not alone all day. At 25 I didn't know I'd be having dinner on my 45th with the same gorgeous 25 year old I was seeing back then, just 20 years later.

The 25 year old me would probably think I was old now. The 45 year old me doesn't feel old. And the 45 year old me, knowing how fraught with shit the 25 year old was, would probably say chill dude. You've got some shit to work through, but you'll be fine.

The 25 year old me would probably have said in response, fuck off weirdo.

45 year old me would probably slap the cheeky fucker across the ear, because that's what my now 92 year old grandfather once did to me when I was a boy and accidentally I bit into a goose egg. The raw kind in its shell. (Don't ask, really).

Maybe 45 year old me would tell 25 year old me be careful - you will have at least one close death encounter so you should be careful with swan-diving into the abyss. Try not to be so reckless.

25 year old me, I know, would shrug an be non-committal.

45 year old me might say something about the music, and both of us would probably settle down into a very cool conversation and realise we have a hell of a lot in common on the music front. 25 year old me would talk excitedly about Gary Numan. I would talk about psytrance. 25 year old me would ask what the hell is psytrance. 45 year old me would say man you have fun stuff to look forward to and by the way, I'm seeing Gary Numan at The Enmore next week... remember when you missed him last time around? Don't worry about it - you'll see him at his best one day.

25 year old might ask who the image is in this post. 45 year old me would say click on the image to enlarge, and oh fuck you have no idea of the music and the people you are going to encounter. You're not going to be great, by any means, but you will meet some pretty amazing people and hear some amazing music. Remember when you were into Laurie Anderson?

Yeah, and the others were into Cold Chisel.

Don't sound so glum. One day you will hear Laurie Anderson play sublime music in the Concert Hall of the Sydney Opera House - your office, by the way - and you might even get to make a bit of a twat of yourself in her company.

No way. Fuck off.

Trust me. Anyway, Happy 25th.

Happy 45th, old guy.

Things I Really Like

Penguins, obviously. This was Flappy. The rest of the penguins just blobbed about, but this guy flapped about and tried to get all the attention.

Strawberries that fill your mouth with STRAWBERRY!

Ripe paw paw.

People who send a message via whatever media saying "Been thinking of you."

Vodka.

Going commando.

Russian accents in the local supermarket.

Stories.

Music... oh fuck I really like music.

Bass.

My speakers. Oh fuck I really like my sound system. I need the music.

But what I really like at the moment is when some guy, not doing well in life, stands at the shopping centre exit with a hat out asking for money. And sometimes you give them your change, other times you don't. And one time when you don't - because you actually don't have coins and handing him $10 would be extravagant and asking for change seems a little silly - the fucker abuses you.

That's right. He hasn't got a clue about your story, but he wants your money and he's all smiles until you say sorry mate. And then as you walk away he shouts at the distance between you that you are a selfish cunt.

I fucking love that. Makes my day.

Kings Of Silly

I spent hours at Melbourne Aquarium pushing children out of the way for shots like this.

I like penguins.

The Hotness The Hotness

Three friends I like. They're pretty hot, huh?

Reminded me of a stupid anecdote another friend who is not so hot (sorry Nick) told me.

He was snoozing back at his campsite when a mate came back and woke him up with these words: "Dude. Dude! The hotness here! The hotness."

And passed out.

For the rest of Rainbow 'The Hotness The Hotness' was on high rotation, in various forms. Like, if I was hungry? "The hungriness the hungriness."

Or when we used our pumpy shower thing in our melted esky ice, "The coldwetness the coldwetness.'

The tentness the tentness.

The messiness the messiness.

The doofness the doofness.

Really, a lot of fun. There was a lot of hotness.

Things On Acid

One of the things I've groaned about in reviews every time I've read it is that dreary little drug reference. You know the one... 'This show is so zany it's like it's been written by [insert name of writer] ON ACID!'

'It's like Mary Poppins ON ACID.'

"This movie is so violent it's like Quentin Tarantino ON ACID.'

What the fuck, I usually find myself wondering, do these halfwits actually know about acid? It's a lazy attempt at sounding hip to the thing. I think the first person to have used the phrase came up with a good, original description and all who have used it since are lazy imitators.

Then, to be fair, I have probably used the phrase 'high-octane' without having much of a clue about what high octane actually means. I guess it means something like, 'It's a liquid that makes your car work just like petrol... ON ACID!'

Still. This drug thing. Muppets. I recently received the press release for the forthcoming Russell Brand tour and it had this bit of giggly brilliance:

“He can conjure the situational absurdity of a Monty Python sketch in just a few exaggerated pantomime moves and wield the observational wit of Oscar Wilde after an amyl nitrate hit. Brand exudes a Jagger-esque rock star charisma mixed with an undercurrent of David Schwimmer’s ‘Why me?’ neurotic twitchiness” said the LA TIMES.

Excuse me, Mr LA Times - "The observational wit of Oscar Wilde after an amyl nitrate hit." What the fuck are you on about? Brand is a funny, funny man, but I'm sure even he shat his pants with laughter at the absurdity of that description. Do you, Mr LA Times, have a clue what amyl does to you? It turns you into a monkey. It turns you into a very stupid person having a fun time time on the inside of your head while reducing you to a bug eyed sloth on the outside. It doesn't make you witty, you numbskull. You might mumble something through your drool that you think is observational wit, but those around you will just be going, "Hmm, he's pretty fucked up right now."

Please, Mr LA Times, stop trying to be cool. Go back to the on acid thing because at least everyone knows what you're trying to say, in your lazy way. If you're going to try to get edgey and go beyond the on acid thing and use amyl nitrate, use amyl nitrate. Actually use it and see what it does to your observational wit. Just once, just so you have a bit of an idea of what you're talking about.

And I think that's probably a good idea because amyl is a stupid drug for stupid people. And you, Mr LA Times, are a wanker of a stupid person. So maybe, in the end, you do have the observational wit of a "journo" after an amyl nitrate hit.

Fucker.

Speaking of being on acid - check this out. It's a series of drawings done by a guy on acid as an experiment to chart the progressive effects of the drug. Very funny.

I also just read about an experiment in 1962 in which a scientist injected an elephant with LSD to see what would happen. Tusko the elephant reacted to the injection immediately, trumpeted a bit then fell over and died. They concluded that elephants are apparently very sensitive to the drug. Problem is, the heartless bastards injected poor Tusko with 3,000 times the dose a human takes. I'm not totally sure just how big an elephant is in relation to a human but I'm pretty sure it's not 3,000 times bigger. I'd have gone for something like 10 or 20 times bigger.

Nut jobs.

Oh yeah - the picture was taken at Rainbow Serpent. The girls were frolicking in a field, laughing their asses off like a couple of doof chicks... on acid.