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The other day I went and saw Antony & The Johnsons at the Opera House. It was the first time I have ever been inside the Opera House as far as I remember, and it was plenty fun. The orchestra was interesting to see, even though I had little idea what was really going on. It’s definitely worth seeing the Opera House form the inside.

If you like the idea of seeing an overweight and overly camp man wail away like some poor man’s Jeff Buckley – except that Jeff Buckley would then turn around and shake the foundations of a pub, before backing that up by mesmerising a stadium the following night – over lyrics about his mum and the ocean while occasionally playing something fairly vague on the piano, taking breaks to opine (did I mention this guy is excessively camp?) about very ill-informed political and evolutionary (what the?) ideals that have absolutely nothing to do with his music no matter how hard he tries to draw a link, then you’d probably love Antony & The Johnsons. You’d probably be one of the twenty people in the venue who cheered his drivel and laughed at his apparent jokes while everyone else smacked their foreheads. It wasn’t my cup of tea though.

Girl Talk on the other hand, was a sensational gig. Mr. Talk, or Greg, or whoever he is, jogged onto stage at The Enmore Theatre like some gangsta, up to his desk that had two laptops on it, and two feedback speakers. One laptop was just a backup. He quickly went from gangsta to pasty white man, but proceeded to crank out a little party for himself, much like I do when I sit in front of my computer with nothing on my screen except iTunes. Except that every now and then he gets to look up and notice however-many-hundred other people also at his party. On these occasions where he looks up and notices the party going on he would stand on his desk and dance around, crowd surf, throw confetti, et cetera. Pretty much the best job in the world. Everyone was fair drenched in sweat early on, and not many shirts stayed on. My night was capped off by him playing the first verse of Juicy in the closing moments of the gig.

And pretty close to the top of the must-see-before-I-die list, The Mountain Goats are playing in this harbour city in April. Who wants to come with?

Acquitted

You know what I don’t do quickly? Move on.

KFC’s Racist Advertising, America’s Myopia

Some excellent developments from the United States of the World to-day, that demonstrate why reality is far funnier than fiction, people are far sillier than we think, and satire will never die.

KFC Australia, who hold a sponsorship deal with Cricket Australia, have been running adverts during the televised cricket coverage. The ads cover cricket survival tips, such as how to score a decent seat at the ground, or how to stop your in-laws ruining your day of sitting in front of the television to watch the cricket. The advertisements are clearly tongue-in-cheek. One of the adverts features the usual star, Mick, stuck in a crowd of West Indian fans at a game. West Indian fans are known as a fun-loving, boisterous, and noisy group. They are adored by cricketing nations worldwide for being such. Mick offers them a bucket of KFC to distract them from supporting their team. What do Americans see when they watch the advert on YouTube? They see a white guy offering black people fried chicken to shut them up. Speaking as one who has watched the cricket for the last four days, and hence one who has seen the advert as many times as anyone has, it never occurred to me once that the advert was racist. And so news outlets in America are kicking up a fuss. On the one hand, this is hilarious. On the other hand I almost feel ashamed to share a planet with these people, to be part of a race that offers up America as the height of our civilisation. That sounds extreme, and it’s clearly hyperbole, but the daftness required to be so short-sighted is huge.

It reminds me of the episode of Extras where Maggie starts seeing a mixed race actor. She gets so caught up in trying not to be racist that it’s all she can think about. She ends up trying to sneak a gollywog toy out of the room and getting caught, and the guy leaves her to sort herself out.

And while we’re on Extras, here’s a back-and-forth between Andy and Maggie from the aforementioned episode, which I relived with a friend the other day;

Andy: Well, there is that test I can give you.
Maggie: What test?
Andy: The racism test they give you when you join the Council to make sure you’re not a racist.
Maggie: I’ve never heard of it.
Andy: Yeah, do you want to do it? Just ten questions–You’ve got to answer totally honestly, okay? Just relax, you’ve got nothing to worry about… unless you are a racist. Okay, question one: Who would rather see with their shirt off, Brad Pitt or Sir Trevor McDonald?
Maggie: Brad Pitt, obviously.
Andy: Obviously?
Maggie: What?
Andy: I can’t say anything until the end. Right, question two. This is about racial awareness, cause often you catch out a real racist because they don’t know or care about any black issues. Who is the prime minister of Great Britain?
Maggie: Tony Blair.
Andy: Correct. Who is the Prime Minister of Namibia?
Maggie: …I don’t know…
Andy: Ooh, you knew the white one… okay, um, oh dear. Who is the Queen of England?
Maggie: Queen Elizabeth II.
Andy: Correct. Who is the President of Djibouti?
Maggie: Oh, this is ridiculous! I’ve never even heard of blubbin’ Djibouti!
Andy: Oh! Please do not ridicule the totally valid African language, please. Alright, next question. Who would you rather have waiting for you when you get home tonight, Johnny Depp or OJ Simpson?
Maggie: Johnny Depp, because of the murder thing.
Andy: Because of the murder thing? I think you’ll find that OJ Simpson was acquitted, but in your eyes because he’s black, he’s still guilty!

When Friends Are Gone I Know My Savior’s Love is Real

On the weekend my close friend of many years, Sylvia, was married to my good friend Sly. The wedding was sensational. Roseability Inc., congratulates them.

Where The Wild Things Are

I watched Where The Wild Things Are. (Semi-spoiler-alert.) It is a good movie, though nothing new really happens throughout the movie, nothing eventuates. And I don’t mean that it doesn’t have an acceptable ending, I mean that nothing actually develops–the things that are happening at the end are the same things that were happening at the start. But that’s okay.

It’s a story about a little world that is falling apart. Both the lives of the inhabitants and the environment they live in is in a downward spiral of disrepair. And so they long for a king who can make everything okay again. It is surprisingly funny. And I think we should all sleep in a pile.

Zoo Station

Saturday night I went as a friend’s ‘plus one’ to her work Christmas party. Which is mighty nice, ’cause if provision is made, you’d be wasting a decent meal by not taking anyone just because you’re single. And a decent meal it was, the whole shebang would have cost upwards of ten grand to put on.

The meal was prawns and salad, followed by chicken with pine nuts, and a dessert of chocolate fudge and fruit. Not bad, but also far from amazing. There was, of course, free beer.

The evening panned out much like an episode of The Office, right down to the company name having suspiciously similar air to ‘Wernham Hogg’. This is a tribute to the genius of the television series, I guess. The occasion was dinner, with a ghost tour in what used to be a quarantine station between the early nineteenth and late twentieth centuries. People arrived on a company bus and in taxis, dressed in smart casual–perfectly middle class. I was introduced to various people, however people seemed not to know the names of folk who didn’t work on their floor or in their department. I sat on the table of receptionists so conversation wasn’t the sharpest, but equally it was never dull. Everyone acted according to script. Half of middle management got drunk and loud, while the other half remained invisible. The factory boys were all matey and down-to-earth to start with, but soon started groping any lady they could while simply pretending to be matey. The plebs all seemed to enjoy themselves, but made sure they didn’t do anything outrageous.

The ghost tour was awful. The crowd was split into groups of 25, and our guide was a big scary looking man, who was funny and did his job well and would have been great had our group not been such a bad audience. As we walked around we got the back story–how many hundreds of people died and where and why, plus specific stories at each area (the shower block, the morgue, the galley, et cetera). After going through each area the guide would tell us stories of ghost sightings within the last year (“Hey, I’m just telling you what people who live here have said”), and times when people have ‘felt unwelcome’ in certain buildings. Highlights included stories of ‘The Matron’ and ‘The Doctor’, and the wandering Chinese man with a lantern, however I did not manage to spot any ghosts. At one point our guide told us a story of young girl who had been spotted standing against the wall of the kitchen, and as he did he shone his torch at the wall, only to illuminate a chef chatting on his mobile phone. The obvious jokes ensued–”Oh yes, I see the ghost!”, followed by laughter. Similar incidents made the tour more amusing than scary. The other problem was Will (from marketing), one of the members of our group. He was tipsy enough to be making up stories about hearing noises and feeling ‘like there’s someone watching’, but at the same time he would burst out laughing at the end of each story the guide told, effectively ruining the spooky vibe the guide was trying to create. At the last stop on the tour we could hardly hear the guide because they had started pumping Billie Jean back in the function room…

With danceable music like Brown-Eyed Girl and I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles) playing, the middle management demographic were in their element. The inebriated half thus entertained the factory boys, by then beyond embarrassment and otherwise thoroughly bored. Outside on the grass the teetotaller middle management and the plebs chattered in the cool and ghost-free fresh air. Exactly how such a Christmas party is supposed to end.

I think it is well within one’s capabilities to legitimately crash at least two or three Christmas parties each year. I think the office Christmas party is an essential.

Bad Romance (Filter That, Baby Bump That Track)

Everyone sits very still listening to the music. The music is stopped, Lady GaGa freaks out. In a bath house, slippery-looking, white, blind beings hatch from pods. Lady GaGa sits in a bath in her shoes, with earbuds in, which incidentally, can be bought online. Lady GaGa, considered an endangered species and hunted for her eyes, is abducted form the bath and forced to drink Vodka (it has to be Vodka, right?). Her pain is highlighted by some kind of strange Christina Aguilera poses, with tears. She’s held in a cage, and forced to entertain a man with a beard made of solid gold. Devising a plan, she seduces seedy Russian golden-bearded man, thus… winning his trust. With a brief stop off to sell a million records. She distinguishes herself from the other dancers, who look dressed for synchronised swimming, by performing a trick with diamonds in what appears to be some Matrix meets James Bond episode which also demonstrates her interest in space travel and Tim Burton films. Dressed in a bear she just caught and skinned, she approaches Mr. Goldbeard’s bed. Tim-Burton-film-GaGa pulls the trigger, and the bed goes up in flames, engulfing her tormentor. She pauses to pose in front of the inferno for press photos. Unfortunately a happy ending is not forthcoming, as Lady GaGa later succumbs to drugs, and pathetically clings to her one trophy (being remembered for her clothing that spurts fireworks), while in all other senses being indistinguishable from Amy Winehouse.

I can’t decide if it’s the best or the worst music video I have ever seen.

The White Russians at The Excelsior

It’s exam time. Some days in exam time are great, others are lame. At one point last week I was having a terrible day. And by terrible I mean that I wasn’t revising anything. And I was tired. My brain wasn’t working, and I fell asleep in the middle of the afternoon. A similar occurrence the day before, incidentally, was the reason I was so tired–long afternoon naps and very late nights are not ideal. I woke up during the evening to discover via Twitter that Pinky Beecroft was playing a gig at The Excelsior, for the launch of The White Russians new album. With my brain feeling like mush nothing useful could happen if I stayed in. So I called Crin, who I don’t think ever turns down an invite to a gig. We headed into the city, a touch early to the venue as we needed door tickets. After securing tickets we went for a wander, we both wanted a beer and Crin wanted cake for some reason. We found a muffin at a dodgy convenience store, where the Arab clerk made jokes about it being my birthday cake, and offering to sell us candles as well. Those muffins look like they have been in a deep-freezer somewhere for years.

Crin’s cake-craving sated, we wandered into a kitsch looking pub, where I were promptly pounced on by a lass who wanted to know if I would like, “a free beer to start off my night”. She definitely looked like she was gonna try make me sign up for something though, but after establishing there was no catch I was all heck yes. So she led me over to a machine that had ‘ABM’ (Automatic Beer Machine) on it, and said that if I inserted my ID in the slot, a beer would come out. I found this somewhat astounding, but also quite hilarious, and was trying to figure out how on earth that could work, but she kept talking to me and also wanted to take our photo, which I didn’t really question as by this time the night was turning out to be full of unexpected hilarity. I inserted my ID, and sure enough a beer came out. Unfortunately it was a Pure Blonde. Free is free. But we were still pretty curious, so Crin walked around behind the machine and discovered a man inside it, whose job it was to check IDs, grab a beer out of his Esky, and drop it through the chute. Of course.

Back at the gig I figured I’d buy a copy of the new album at the merch table. Lucky I did, turns out there is no physical release of the album, aside from 200 signed copies sold at gigs only. I got number 5.

Turns out it’s a great album. Very different from the first one, this one is much more mellow. But like the last one, it’s a sensational blend of wit and heart.

They played two full-length sets, back-to-back. The first was an acoustic set, which was made up mainly of material from the new album. The second was a bit louder, and was mostly material from the old album. Like last time I saw them, Pinky was very funny, and the rest of the band just did a good job of looking funny. The last song of the encore was Fabulous Driving, which I enjoyed immensely, and as Pinky went to sing the very last word his voice gave out. he croaked, “Ya gotta be kidding”, and tried again. Could have been faked, but I felt like I had got my money’s worth.

On our way out Crin tried to ask the guest trumpet/harmonica player a question, but he kept squinting funny and didn’t answer the question properly. No idea what was wrong with that kid.

You can buy the album from iTunes. Or you could just buy one of the songs. In fact, go look under the cushions on your couch right now. Now, see that $2 coin? Good, now, buy any one of those songs (I recommend Letter From Ward Five, True Love Lies, You Make Me Nervous, or Roses Under My Feet), they are only $1.70. Okay, now, I have just made you 30 cents richer. Yeah, you can thank me later. Now, listen to the song a few times. Now you know that you want to buy the whole album! Or if you don’t want to buy the whole album that’s okay–we can stop being friends now.