Trouble Waiting To Happen

The DC3 album launch. In the mid-eighties to late-nineties Australia (and Melbourne in particular) were plagued by a balaclava-wearing band who spouted a unique combination of vitriol, wordplay, humour and catchy music. TISM. They wrote on all topics, be they current politics, suburban life, lovelife injustice or football teams, and they did so anonymously. The attached song was a minor hit for TISM, the above-mentioned group known for never revealing their identities, taking to the stage in outrageous costumes and provocative lyrics that were often abrasive, critical, and deeply funny. After a decade and change of releasing their particular musical vitriol, they split up, identities unknown. Well, sort of unknown - they appear right at the end of this video, the last of many bands, but one member actually appears without his balaclava in that video, dancing - GO FIND HIM!!! Over the years, most members were identified and found not to be a) AFL players (a topic often written on), b) members of other, more socially accepted bands, c) members of children's entertainers "The Wiggles". In reality, some were teachers, some were musicians. One was Damian Cowell, the "DC" in "The DC3", who has continued to make interesting music peppered with his own distinct wit. On Saturday The DC3 were heralded to the stage with a pre-recorded intro, mocking a Triple J announcer and popular music.  Each song featured a re-write of lyrics that always came back to the question of "The DC3 - who are they?". As that joke ran it's course, the stage was taken by three men in suits, two lanky and packing stringed rock apparatus, the third shorter and manning the keyboard. This was the eponymous trio, well-presented, unassuming. The set kicked off with the white-collar dance dirge, "Station To Station", pointing out how our lives have taken to revolving around station-suffixed places, and ideas. DC took the spotlight as they launched into "Shitdancer", with his rapid (sometimes german) lyrics proclaiming that coolness was to claim uncoolness, and yes, he's a shitdancer. As the set continued, this felt more like DC's own mantra: dodgy dance moves being mixed with an ironic point-of-view on normal life. With a musical style that can best be described as light rock with electro pop stylings, the vocals ran a fine line between spoken word poetry and a laid-back rap. It takes a sly sense of humour to deliver the following with a gravitas that could convincingly pass for honesty: "I'd like to apologize to everyone who I should apologize to. Whatever it was I said I never meant it And to everyone who really liked what I said...I meant it" Topics hit upon ranged from the urbane to the satirical, the crowd quickly being lifted along with the infectious sounds, regardless of the subject matter. Still displaying the caustic wit and cynicism from his earlier work, a song on actually being a former member of TISM was revealed as not being an ego trip, but rather a dissection of fame. A quick aside from DC revealed he was only nasty because of the mistaken belief that it got the girls. Then he wondered about the pronunciation of "Gotye" (thank you for sorting that one out for me) This was brief, the reveal of the real DC being a quick glimpse behind the curtain, but a nice one - he knows he's just a normal guy, but he's having a lot of fun with it. On that note, it's worth mentioning the performance itself. TISM often wore outlandish costumes, or utilized bizarre sets. During the DC3's performance, DC wandered the crowd whilst singing, on one occasion taking up residence on the side stage whilst delivering a well-rhymed, wryly timed diatribe on the GFC. Most of the audience grinned, the remainders looked awkward, like their wacky uncle was pushing the extent of "wacky". On stage, the crew regularly brought on flat panels, which they gradually connected and built into what appeared to be an office set, complete with a clock and whiteboard on the wall. During the penultimate song, this enclosure was completed on all four sides, the band within. A projector illuminated the front wall with the message "A bit Brechtian, isn't it?", before the band punched out pre-weakened geometric shapes, providing us the audience with peepholes into this absurd setpiece. And then it was over. Get the album, it's damn good fun.

dallydoll replied to your audio post: Today I had the fortune to stumble across a tweet...

Only you could compare music to robots & have it make sense! The mixtapes my friends made me were my main source of finding new music as a teenager. I still have some of those pieces of paper with the tracklisting. Good times.

Today I had the fortune to stumble across a tweet making a short but pertinent point in regards to the ongoing war that neither side can ever really win, and yet they continue to fight. That pointless battle that wages in the grey, heavily contested somewhere that sits between the record shops, and the mp3 player. That no man's land that equally depresses the artist, and frustrates the money-weaving doom-engine that is the record labels. The timeless question of studio-crafted album versus it's Frankenstein-like sibling, the mix tape.

Well, okay it's not really timeless. In some respects we could say the upstart only really roared into life when Phillips lit the fire with the compact cassette in the early 60's, because whilst the 8-track raised the idea, it failed to deliver...but I'm digressing, and I haven't even started writing. Geez. In contrast to my tendency to discuss all facets at once, in a morass of half-thought commentary, the tweet that sparked my thoughts was succinct. Like an opinionated bullet, it struck the mark and left all of us peers nodding in agreement (even the German judge, and he's harrrrrsh). It was a fine example of the structure of content Twitter demands by virtue of the concept itself. It stated, without the hyperbole or syllable gymnastics I am so enjoying, something like this: "Albums vs mix-tapes - it's apples and oranges" Now I like fruit. Maybe not as much as Carmen Miranda because I'd never wear it, but it's pretty ace. It's delicious, most of it is good for you, and without it the Boost Juice people would be forced to find other avenues to channel their ungodly cheerful natures. I am also very much of the opinion that apples are not relatable to oranges, even outside of the oft-stated comparative idiom. One is citrus, the other is not. One is great in pies, the other should steer clear of being baked. It is a dumb idiom. However, in this case, I also think it is being used incorrectly, as it misses the key attributes that separate these two forms of musical collection. One is not citrus, but rather it has other exemplary qualities that make it a standalone, don't-compare-yourself-to-me prospect. In fact, I am strong enough in this opinion, that I have fashioned my own, possibly more considered statement: "Albums vs mixtapes - it's Terminator vs Voltron" No. Hear me out. (My point will make the most sense to people who partook of the various robo-centric film and television outings of the 80's, but you know what? You can google anything that doesn't sound like it's a real word.) An album is the result of a dedicated project group (artist and technical crew), whose goal is to create a cohesive musical recording that showcases the performers' work, highlighting their abilities to the best possible level, and entertaining you in an audible fashion. It has a single purpose, and exists solely to achieve this. The Terminator is the result of a world-wide computer network project, whose goal is to create an infiltration robot to wipe out humans. It can't be bargained with. It can't be reasoned with. It doesn't feel pity, or remorse, or fear. And it absolutely will not stop, ever, until you are dead.

Not an exactly identical concept, but it's the single-minded purpose that I'm hinging this on. Yeah? Still with me? RIGHTO! A mix tape lacks the overall production an album has. It is a patch-work creation, assembled from various sources of differing sound, quality and origin. Because of the broad nature it may possess, it can very well result in a finished piece that is far greater than the sum of it's parts.

Today I was going to write you a delightful entry on how the world of comic-book films just keeps getting better and better, when two things came to pass:

1. I met a group of French people, and

2. I saw two episodes of The Big Bang Theory.

Ordinarily, either one of these phenomena, would have bounced off my pop-culturally toughened skin, like...funny-looking bullets, I guess. Maybe it was the combination of the two? Maybe it was my lack of warning? Maybe it was the supreme level of inebriation? I cannot answer this question.

I cannot answer any of those questions. Answering questions in general, is a little outside of my area of expertise right now. Don't ask me what is within my area of expertise, that'd get embarrassing for both of us. After much coaxing and encouragement from "friends", I bowed and watched The Big Bang Theory. "You'll love it" they said. Because I'm "into comics, and computers and all that geeky stuff". There is some truth to that, except computers hate me. So I acquiesced, and watched this clever sitcom that I was bound to love. I hate it. It is the single most embarrassing thing I have watched. The writers assume that not only are all geeks like those boys, but that we all think that archtype is hysterical. You know who finds that kind of nerdishness turned up to 11 funny? I don't. Not me. I adore my comics, I play Xbox like it's a religion, and I work on websites - this is all true, but I am talk to anyone about most anything. I don't want to say anymore. The show was upsetting, unfunny and reinforced my belief that sitcoms in general are not for me. *deep breath.*

*1...2...3...4...5...6...7...8...9...10* The French Girl Incident was a lot more tame than such a title might suggest. Such a title suggests a 70's gangster film with Michael Caine, or a Guns'N'Roses album, or at best an episode of the Goon Show (RIP, Spike Milligan). It's far more tame than any of these. We were out drinking, Chief started talking to a bunch of girls dancing, and then with the speed of an intercontinental viper, one of them lashed out and dragged me into the arrangement. This action did of course take me completely by surprise, and drag me well and truly out of my comfort zone. I have no problem with confident women named Carolina - I have a problem with dancing.

Dancing is something I have submitted myself to voluntarily for the last decade. I use such phrasing, as for me it's akin to a more coordinated individual volunteering themselves for shock therapy: it's not a fun experience, and you often spend the majority of your time during it, wondering what on earth you were thinking. So we danced, like a ship on the ocean, romanced. The remainder of Carolina's tribe were mute, leaving me to assume a language barrier that would prevent any discussions not based on arrhythmic movement to music.

So the dancing continued, and Chief laughed at my predicament - he had no intention of being involved, and was thoroughly amused at the social situation he had engineered. It had all been a ruse, a honey pot of a trap to get me, the professional recluse, to breach my comfort zone and do something I'd not do on my own volition. Why he laughed like a maniacal evil-life-creating scientist, I don't know, but he did. Probably because he's EVIL.

When surrounded by beautiful women time does not stand still, but rather just passes in a far more surreptitious manner. Sooner rather than later (due to sneaky time-dilation, I'm sure), my internal organs were flagging that the battle against scotch was beginning to be lost, and I thought that I should make tracks whilst my legs were still loyal to my cause. Chief did similarly, but not likely out of sympathy to my legs. A member of the French ensemble headed outside to smoke at the same time, and we talked with her a while. Wait. Go back a step. Yep. Talked.

It wasn't until the next day that my scattered thoughts were carefully shuffled back into order like a scribbly-design on a 1000 piece jigsaw, that I realised we had most likely been taken for a ride. - Yes, Carolina had a French accent. - No, none of the others talked whilst in the bar. Outside, she spoke fluently, and in fact was a Kiwi. (accent recognition, not a disparaging remark on Kiwi's and the english language) - Kiwi girl said she was here visiting friends. - The time range in question for the "dancing" is questionable, but potentially of a period where silent communication could have sufficed.

My thinking is thus - Carolina was French, but the rest were not. They were taking her out for a night on the town, and she provided a cover story that allowed them to not socialise with the stupid boys. The Kiwi girl almost said as much. Ah well, duped by dancing women.

ithappenedhere replied to your post: dallydoll replied to your video: Watch this guy...

Well, not really. Other than that we all have genes, the only criteria for being Australian is wanting to be one.

dallydoll replied to your video: Watch this guy prepare a regular Swedish dish in a...

Oh my gosh, that video was hilarious and intense! Buy you guys eat sharks?! That’s hardcore!

(I didn't make that picture, but I'm really wishing I had) Hello Robert, I read an article today about an Amazonian tribe that has recently been found, who have no concept of time. This idea intrigued me, as it means that along with having no concept of having an age, they would also have no idea of time-related punctuality. Consider for a moment, a world where the constraint of late did NOT equal "free", and you are now imagining a world without the speedy delivery of pizzas that we all enjoy. Depending on whether Domino's delivers to the Amazon, this point may be moot. They don't deliver to parts of Pascoe Vale (established over 150 years ago), so who can determine where they draw their boundaries? Dough-wielding bastards.

dallydoll liked your audio post: So I’ve been convinced to give tumblr a chance....

So I've been convinced to give tumblr a chance. I'm not sure it's going to be up to my needs.

I use such confrontational language to describe it, as I'm a social-media apocalypse weary cynic, with a tremendous array of content at my finger tips, and dextrous hands long used to firing them off in various directions, like abstract electronic shuriken of pop-culture.