:: Thursday, July 16, 2009 ::

ROBOTOSAURUS + HOSPITAL THE MUSICAL + THIS CITY SUNRISE
LIVE @ ENIGMA BAR / Friday July 10th 2009

As you may know, digital cameras have a very short life expectancy here on Spoz's Rant. In the past three to four years alone I've gone through five of them. This here is the fourth: the Canon IXUS 950 IS, also known as the PowerShot SD850 IS, or "Gizmo II" (if, like me, you're prone to naming shit). As its namesake suggests it's the second unit I've had of its kind. The first, "Gizmo", imploded after two short months thanks to what could only be called a "freak jägerbomb incident" (only replace the redbull with beer and the jäger with.. well you get the picture). Not only was it the dumbest stunt I'd ever achieved with a digital camera, it was also the most expensive beer I'd ever drunk at $500 a pop; but I digress. Before it too was destroyed Gizmo II had a "long" and illustrious career in the Adelaide music scene. From November the 3rd 2007 to October the 17th 2008, it reigned supreme: not just for its 8 megapixel sensor, its ISO 80-1600 light sensitivity, its dynamic image stabilisation or its 4X optical zoom but for the speed, accuracy and vicious efficiency at which it nailed its targets; for all intents it was truly death incarnate. As for why I'm mentioning all this shit now? glad you didn't ask! Many of you may remember the circumstance in which it met its untimely demise: Saturday October the 18th 2008 at The Crown & Anchor, when it was crushed into a cube in a Robotosaurus moshpit (many of you may also remember that night with a small measure of relief). What many of you may not realise however, is since then, thanks to a freak combination of mad science, satanism, serial soap opera contrivance (and whatever laughable excuse for a plotline powers the second Transformers movie), it has been brought back from the dead. For the past six months it's been sitting on a shelf, seething, scheming, waiting for that fateful night when it could return. And tonight at long last it'll get its chance.. OH YES PITIFUL MORTALS, FOR TONIGHT IT SHALL SEEK ITS SWEET REVENGE!! WOOOHEHeHAhaHAhAHAHA!!



I mean don't get me wrong I personally have long since put this "Robotosaurus" incident behind me as little more than a slapstick comedy routine. In fact for the past eight months me and their lead singer Izzy have been laughing it up silly over a few too many brews at Supermild like it was nothing.. *pfft* shit happens right? me armed with a digital camera is just like a fraternity house stocked with an aquarium full of goldfish: just add alcohol and watch the hiiilarity unfold! But we all know what digital cameras are like, they're much less forgiving: cold, calculating, a few circuits short of self awareness, nuclear annihilation and world domination; look into that lens and you'll see true terror. These machines will stop at nothing and I mean NOTHING (not even death) to get their own back if ever they've been slighted. So OBVIOUSLY I just had to bring it along with me tonight didn't I? how could I possibly refuse a rematch: Robotosaurus!? FUCK YEAAAH!! Of course it's not the ONLY reason why I'm at Enigma Bar, of all places, for the first time in over six months (ever get the feeling you're getting far too much folk, semi-acoustic and sadsack shoegazer shit in your diet of late? I SURE AS SHIT HAVEN'T!!) but still it's a damn good reason all the same!



So it won't matter to me that I'm at the one and only live venue in all of Adelaide that serves up everything else on tap OTHER than Coopers Pale Ale. In an alternative reality where the whole Seattle scene never happened, like I'm stuck in Waynes World where the late 80's refuses to die in wailing falsetto, feather mullets, denim, hair metal, spandex, cock rock, skate punk and wrist slashing emo. It won't matter to me that I'm here extra early on a Friday night for a dreaded all ages show, for four bands showcasing a subgenre of music I know next to nothing about (fuck I dunno.. is it post hardcore, thrash, grind, screamo, metalcore or the ninth circle of hell!?). I won't even matter to me that the camera I'm using to take all these live photos tonight, Gizmo II, is ever so slightly shoddy on the focus: when I could just so easily use my current camera instead (I mean how ELSE did I get that first photo? leprecauns!?). None of this shit matters. Into the eye of the storm I will go, into the cold and the driving rain, to the very cusp of the apocalypse itself because I know this will be one fuck of a survivor's tale: it will be nothing short of kill or be killed, fiery retribution and blood on the walls! FUUUCK! who could ask for more from a Friday night?



MARLA SINGER (***) myspace ::
You may recognise our opening act by their lead singer Phil Meakin: the howling bloodclot with the blond dreds formerly the drummer for Tony Font Show. You may also remember them from two other "live reviews" I wrote back in September and March last year (if in hindsight they could actually be classed as such). The rest however is more or less unintelligible, especially for one as blissfully oblivious to this shit as I am. Marla Singer. A quick search on their unearthed site reveals that they're inspired by such luminaries as "Everytime I Die", "Cancer Bats" and "Maylene & The Sons Of Disaster" which I think we can all can agree (ie: those of us without an overabundance of facial piercings or full body tattoos) doesn't say squat about this band. As such, and as much as I can gather, they're either thrash metal or metalcore with a sprinkling of skate grind. Their live set consists of a series of three to five minute volatile outbursts in nonstop screaming, shredding, blood curdling and disembowelment cranked to eleven intersperced with brief interludes of awkward silence as they attempt to remember how to tune their instruments. And it's fascinating shit to watch as they all take turns running about the stage in a mad panic but there really isn't a lot of structure to it; especially not from first impressions. There's no identifiable verses or choruses, just double kicks, drilling riffs and LOTS of retarded screaming. Still, there ARE ways to decipher this seemingly impenetrable murk for further appreciation. The first is to get hilariously drunk and throw yourself around a room until your neck snaps limp and your head goes missing (which considering I'm stone sober right now may explain the slightly ambiguous score I gave them). The second is to treat them rather like a magic eye 3D puzzle. Simply twist your depth perception into knots and let all your inner ear equilibrium go limp and it's amazing what you'll hear! Everything from Ministry, Soundgarden, System Of A Down, At The Drive-In and what I could've sworn was a pig being thrown into a woodchipper hooked up to a megaphone. Fuck, maybe if you play this backwards you might even hear Christmas carols!? Unfortunately however, there are no dolphins fucking sailboats; unless of course you take a lot of acid (which I highly recommend you DON'T DO unless you want to see a pantheon of pagan deities pissing into your eye sockets). Yup, that's Marla Singer. They're just like being repetitively punched in the face, whilst overdosing on fifty redbulls at once with both nipples clamped to a charged car battery.. but no less enjoyable!












THIS CITY SUNRISE (****) myspace ::
When I first saw our second act and the hirsute sight of their lead singer Alex wailing on the mic I couldn't help but think Tiny Tim. Or more accurately Tiny Tim getting all his teeth punched out by an amateur dentist in a back alley of Calcutta, using nothing but a pair of pliers and no anaesthetic. I'm also couldn't help but think what would happen if we could reenact the classic 1974 version of "The Texas Chainsaw Massacre" only with one of the main characters replaced by Robert Plant from Led Zeppelin (and when Leatherface hacks him to bits and he hits all the high notes? aaah it's like a sweet symphony to my ears!). Yeah I know, clearly this shit ain't recommended for my mental health (wait.. you mean it hadn't already been legally declared dead to begin with!?), but you gotta hand it to them they DO let your imagination run riot all the same. This City Sunrise, quite like Marla Singer before them, are a befuddling mix of cheese grating ear bleed and explosive gastroenteritis (equal parts thrash and shred) but that's only their endoskeletion. On top of that they add so much more meat, blubber and an ocean of noise to make them float; and it's in this endless layering and intricate interchanges that I appreciate them the most. From the harmonised screaming between Alex on guitar and Sam on bass. To the wall of guitar fuzz and feedback that builds around you. To the peaks and troughs of Sam and Reuben's rhythmical attack as they beat it all into shape. Or in other words just like a pod of whales being thrown into an exceptionally LARGE woodchipper hooked up to a megaphone. It's confusing I know. They're equally as widescreen, psychedelic, extraterrestrial, almost operatic in their approach as they are gritty, gutteral and visceral. And once again I'm at a total loss to give you any specific examples as to what they actually sound like: only to say they're reminiscent of a whole spate of hair metal concept albums from the late 70's to early 80's that I couldn't hope to name even if I tried. Or fuckit maybe they sound like Muse, Mudvayne and The Mars Volta all rolled into one. Or maybe they sound like a bag of cats fighting in an Afghan sandstorm. Or maybe they sound like none of the above. All I do know for certain is that I dig this shit something fierce. This City Sunrise, as murderous as they are meditative: with both headphone blasting this shit loud as fuck on your ipod? you could totally make a bonsai out of a butcher's shop in next to no time!













HOSPITAL THE MUSICAL (****1/2) myspace ::
Still as wildly entertaining and eviscerating as our two opening acts have been (no shit, I'm still trying to relocate half of my spleen when it pissed out like a popped balloon halfway through the second act) it pales into comparison to our third act when they declared all-out war on the audience. There was really no mistaking it with this band, they truly had a weapon of mass destruction on their hands. His name was Drew. His designation: lead singer and demolitions expert. His range of attack: pretty much everywhere and anywhere. Your only option as a live photographer: RUN LIKE HELL. Yup, you couldn't miss this bearded goon even if you tried. The minute his band hit the stage, he flew straight off it and into the crowd screaming, punching, swinging, rolling about the floor, lunging at passers by and pulling backward somersaults off the foldbacks. Like a wrecking ball, like a Rottweiler let loose; nowhere was safe from his rampage. It was just like the Running of the Balls at Pamplona, Fight Club and Danny Boyle's "28 Days Later" all rolled into one. And faced with either a fight or flight in response to this rising hysteria, most of the audience could only chose the latter and all but scattered in his wake. I swear it was the funniest shit I'd seen all year and the only reason I'm saying that now (instead of eating through a straw and blinking yes or no answers to the nursing staff) is because I too scrambling halfway up a fucking wall to save my camera from sprinkling like confetti dust before me. Hospital The Musical. Without a doubt the most psychotic band I've seen all year. I don't even know where to begin in describing their sound. Thrash, metal and hardcore barely covers it. Terms and practices since outlawed by the Geneva Convention wouldn't even come close. Facing off against such a primordial, unholy and diabolical rage as this, one could only hope to decipher momentary glimpses of it lest they'd go completely insane. Think guitars hacking like blunt axes into bones. Think drums and bass punching like jackhammers into skulls. Think of a grown man giving birth to an elephant through the eye of his pee pee in accompaniment. And the weirdest thing? as much as we may've been plunged deep into the blackening heart of hell, as much as we may have seen and heard things that no mortal soul should experience in five lifetime let alone one; the minute that wacky Stockholm Syndrome kicked in: duuude it's like we never wanted them to leave!










Still, if we all but ignored the trivial fact that we were fearing for our lives, Hospital The Musical were actually genuinely funny. Dave their prime antagonist for one was downright "hysterical" in his frequent outbursts between songs. He'd constantly tell us how shit it was to be a band from Wollongong, with nothing but Tumbleweed cover bands to look forward to. How this was the first time in ages that he's played with some half decent bands. How he needed the money so he could spend it all on McFlurries. Only to bitch that he's a "fat bastard" because of it and probably needs to get into shape. Only to take a swig of his beer (a West End Draught mind you) almost choking as he remarks "South Australia.. wow you certainly done yourself proud with this one!". And when someone asked him what he'd prefer he simply shot back with "Toohey's New.. it's like mother's milk!". Granted it wasn't much, he was hardly a standup comedian, but this wacky repartee did keep us endlessly amused throughout what would've otherwise been a "blank spot" in our memory accessible only through hypnotherapy. So that by the time they hit the finale, and in celebration dismantled their entire drumkit and reassembled it in the audience: we couldn't help but grin from ear to ear in spite of ourselves as they proceeded beat the living shit out of it mere inches from our face. Yup, that's Hospital The Musical. Just like a fullblown prison riot, only twice as fun!





10:29PM - Which brings us to that momentous occassion we've ALL been waiting for, or perhaps some of us have been waiting for, or perhaps only my camera's really been waiting for: when at long last it gets its payback, its fiery retribution, its sweet sweet revenge, when it finally faces off in a battle to the death with Robotosaurus, and give this band all that it truly deserves! OH YES, FOR TONIGHT IT WILL TRULY UNLEASH THE FURY!! WOOOHEHeHAhaHAhAHAHA!! or utterly failing that it'll simply take a few photos maybe a video and not get shattered into a million pieces. I mean shit, it's only a proverbial bar of soap with a 2.5" LCD screen and a retractable lens attached; what's it gonna do? make menacing shutter clicks!? "OOOOOH I'M FRIGHTENED!!". Yup I believe this goofy looking "tattoo" of Dave the guitarist that Izzy the vocalist has scribbled on his leg, pretty much says it all doesn't it? "Huh.. what the fuck you on about!?" my thoughts exactly!



ROBOTOSAURUS (***1/2) myspace ::
Yup, clearly our headliner has one hell of a diabolical reputation to live up to. We've all heard the story: that this was THE band that destroyed Spoz's camera. A reputation not in the least bit trivialised by the simple fact that I've owned more than one camera, five of them to be exact, retired one and destroyed three of them in circumstances more or less unrelated to the bands that they may've been shooting. I mean we can hardly blame Bachelorette from New Zealand for causing me to accidently drown my third camera in a plastic cup of beer back on November the 2nd 2007, just as we can hardly point the finger at Fire! Santa Rosa Fire! for fucking up my second camera's ability to focus properly on August the 18th 2007 (when clearly a drunken game of "frisbee" at The Crown & Anchor in March the same year was the contributing factor) just as we can't hold Robotosaurus entirely responsible for the untimely demise of my fourth camera Gizmo II (despite how much it may thirst for revenge). Still with that being said if ever you DID want to give your camera a true "warrior's death" in battle: THIS would definitely be one the best bands to do it for you. For Robotosaurus like many of the bands before them tonight aren't exactly "shy" in expressing themselves. When one of my friends saw them for the first time at the Adelaide Big Day Out early this year he summed it up rather succinctly by describing them as being just like "World War III". Oh yes, they're the definitive "hardcore" band. If you could imagine Rage Against The Machine teaming up with Nine Inch Nails to cover Ministry's "Psalm 69" album you'd barely even cover it; there on a whole other level. They're a cow carcass shot repetitively with a machine gun. They're a kinetic kamikaze swing to a stab of adrenaline. They're all your innards microwaved to a fine mush moments before your head explodes. They're the end of civilisation, society and all of sentient life as we know it as our planet spirals into the sun. I mean shit dude, what MORE could you want from a Friday night short of toe tag and a stainless steel box to sleep in!? And yet for all the undeniable carnage they've unleashed on stage tonight, something's still "missing". The band's not quite "feeling it". Only a few songs in, barely fifteen minutes through a set they stop dead and simply walk off stage. To the howls of protest from everyone present screaming for more, their only excuse is: "we played like shit!". Arguably they're hardly THAT tonight but considering the last time I tried to review them: when it was nothing short of hell on earth, followed by Izzy being carried off to the hospital hours later bloodied and bandaged (after beating himself upside the head with a bottle of scotch on a mad tab of acid) THIS shit tonight is nothing but the tip of the iceberg. Yup, with bands like Robotosaurus it's all or nothing, it's kill or be killed and to their credit they couldn't possibly accept any less than bloodstains on the ceiling tonight!









11:06PM - Against all odds Gizmo II survived to die another day. Although truth be told I really didn't take any chances either, there was no way in hell I was gonna leave this boxing ring without all units accounted for. I brought in two cameras, I didn't drink a drop all night, I left the house wired on caffeine and adrenaline and I treated this shit like nothing short of a warzone. Crazier still? the bands were the least of my troubles. Robotosaurus were nothing but a pushover, Hospital The Musical I could see coming from a mile off, those other two opening acts!? *pfft* I practically laugh in their faces (actually no.. that'd be kinda weird). What REALLY kills you are the crowds, the same crowds that claimed Gizmo II back in October last year. From all angles they'll attack, with no rhyme or reason. They'll charge from end to the other, windmill fists flying, they'll achieve flight and they'll crack skulls. They'll jump you when you least expect it, you never see the rat bastards coming, and as much as it's next to impossible to get "revenge" on them when essentially they're an adversary without a face, the fact that I went into the deep end with these lunatics tonight and got out alive is victory enough. It's all the closure this camera needs; its work here is done.



11:13PM - And so here I stood lost in thought for what seemed like an eternity. Pondering the deeper mysteries of life, death, the universe, consumer electronics and the many whimsical ways in which I have violated their terms of warranty; and not just with the many cameras I've killed either. Take this guitar for instance: what life has it lived? has it been a fullfilling one? what stories does it have to tell? why is it a guitar and not bass? why a bass and not a banjo? what purpose does its singular existence (or anyone else's for that matter) serve outside of it's own perpetuation and perception? is free will a myth? is it all predetermined? what is the meaning of all this!? and then it suddenly hit me like an epiphany: clearly I'm way too fucking sober to be thinking any of this philosophical gibberish and the sooner I get outta here and get hilariously drunk the better.



11:29PM - Enigma Bar had all but shut down on a Friday night, I was practically the last one standing when I left (aaaah dontcha just love all-ages shows?). Stepping out into Hindley street however I soon discovered that it was like this everywhere. For all I knew, moments earlier there could've been blaring sirens, screaming, pandemonium, people donning gasmasks, a rolling fog and bodies dropping like flies (I gotta hand it to Adelaide City Council though, they did a wonderful job hosing out the "evidence"). Now all I had to accompany me was dead space, drizzling rain and deafening silence. I considered my options in what was surely a lost cause tonight: should I hit the west end? should I hit the east end? (nope, there's a good chance the looters have already made quick work of those two extremities) fuckit I'll head down south instead! As long as there's still beer and canned goods to be found? I'll simply bring a crowbar and have myself a little party!



11:37PM - It took all of three songs from "Era Vulgaris" by Queens Of The Stone Age before I arrived at The Metro. I was all set to bust down a door with my crowbar and break my way in, only to realise the lights were still on and it was still open for business; but only barely. In the back room The Battery Kids were playing to all of four people, a flock of fangirls dancing up a storm to a cover of "Foxy Lady" by Jimi Hendrix. The rest of the venue was all but empty save for Ben the bass player from Antony Of The Future spinning some tracks, a few stragglers in the beergarden, and a scattering of barstaff stifling a yawn. I know, awesome huh!? and yet compared to what I'd seen elsewhere in this "winter wonderland" tonight? duuude we've pretty much hit the jackpot!



KYTES OF OMAR (****) myspace ::
When the next band hit the stage, they found themselves performing to even less people than The Battery Kids before them: accompanied only by the light crackle of a loud speaker, a choir of "crickets" chirping in the corner and me doing my very best to get ridiculously drunk at the bar as quickly as inhumanly possible.. aaaah good times! (the crowd may've even hit negative figures if it was at all possible). In almost every way it was a total bust for the band, they couldn't even hear half of what they were playing through the foldbacks; but to me it was still one of the best gigs I'd heard them play all year. Kytes Of Omar. From beginning to end it was a solid set. Showcasing some of the old: "Sally", "She's Special", "Not My City" and some of the new: "Just So Sorrow", "Hide In The Trees", "Happy, Suicide". All of them rife with gunning riffs and rhythms, an extraterrestrial overload of reverb and the distinctive yammering of Anthony Candlish; thrashing about on the mic like a wet dog drying himself. Of exceptional note besides the always killer closing number "Soldier" (a final act of desperation that sounds all the better when its all too real) was a new song they tested out tonight, which with its frenetic guitar chords swinging back and forth very much reminded me of a dirtier, grungier version of Children Collide's "Marie Marie Pt 2"; and it killed in every conceivable way that the video I recorded, totally doesn't do it justice. By the end they couldn't get off stage fast enough, but if this was indeed the last show on Earth (and tonight certaintly seems to be heading that way) Kytes of Omar still delivered one helluva sendoff!












2:01AM - For the next hour or so we all huddled for warmth around the gas heaters in the beer garden, shivvering our arses off in the rain and wondering just where all of the scenster swarm had fucked off to tonight (Swine Flu outbreak? the Rapture!?) when we all knew the answer was staring us in the face. With The Metro spending all of the last three hours subtley dropping hints that it wanted to close for the night, we figured we'd cut our losses and continue the "party" elsewhere at The Ed Castle. If worst came to worst? we could at least drink all of Azz Strangelove's rider.



2:36AM - Back in the west end moments later, I soon found myself following a trail of bread crumbs down Currie Street. Subtle at first then bleedingly obvious as I tripped over an increasing array of loaves, rolls, buns and whatever-the-fuck scattered in a mad panic all over the pavement on my way to The Ed Castle; for what exact reason it was entirely unclear. By the time I arrived at my destination, everyone had already left, the bar was closing and I was on my way again.



4:12AM - And since I clearly hadn't got the hint that I should've gone home HOURS ago I ended up at Supermild just like I always do, where for the next hour or so before I finally left, absolutely NOTHING happened. Yup if I was proving a point in all this shit, I'd long forgotten what it was.



Yup, for all the five bands I'd seen tonight, for all the insanity, the chaos and the carnage, for all those bullets that I dodged whizzing past my ears, for the simple fact that I survived to the very end of this kamikaze adventure with my camera intact.. it still ended up being the quietest nights I'd had all year. I'm still here, but everyone else has long gone? awesome huh!? They say on a long enough timeline the survival rate for everyone drops to zero. Maybe I discovered there's a damn good reason for that. Maybe I should simply accept it. Maybe there's a time and place for everything. It's the dead of winter, it's raining, it's freezing cold; why the FUCK am I still out here!? why the fuck else!? Natural order be damned! There's still life to be lived and you stayed home? *pfft* just think of all that you missed by playing "dead". No shit dude, sucks to be you!

:: Spoz 2:34 PM
...

RADIO SPECTACULAR!!! + TIGER ET GHOST + PABLO LIBIDO
LIVE @ THE GRACE EMILY / Saturday July 4th 2009

Nerds. They live among us. We've known them by many names: goobers, geeks, grinds, dweebs, dorks, squares, swots, wimps, wusses, wonks, drips, preps, propellerheads, programmers, pencil necks, pocket protectors, eggheads, mensa, mouth breathers, boffins, trainspotters and four eyes. They inhabit our libraries, our laboratories, our pharmacies, colleges and chess tournaments; they're suspended in trees by the waistbands of their underpants. We know them as proud purveyors of all things World Of Warcraft, Unix, Linux, Livejournal, LAN, LARP, MMORPG, IRC, Apple, Google and Microsoft. We recognise them in the bespectacled faces of Bill Gates, Steven Spielberg, Milhouse Van Houten, E.T. and Rick Moranis. They're a stereotype as old as time itself. Ever since the division of labour, even before we had names for them, we have ridiculed them. They're our intellects, architects, accountants, engineers, scientists, priests, scribes, our socially inept specialists and purveyors in all things vitamin D deficient. And as much as you may laugh now thinking your waaay different from all of those crater faced kooks that surround you, I have news for you: thanks to the information revolution? we are ALL nerds now! If you own an ipod, an iphone, even a conventional phone and have found yourself prone to SMS, MMS or GPS: you are a nerd. If you own a Nintendo, a Sony, an XBOX, downloaded music or bought yourself a DVD boxset: you are a nerd. If you have a youtube, myspace, facebook or even a twitter: you are a nerd. In fact, the minute you get a University degree, an occupational specialty or even a literary inkling above that of a third grade reading level? YOU ARE A NERD. There's really no point denying it, simply embrace your inner Poindexter and join your brothers and sisters in celebrating it!



Still I know what you're thinking: you've got a rock band, you've got Triple J high rotation, you're the very definition of "cool" with all your scensters, hipsters, fashionistas and sycophants following your every move; so you've gotta be immune riiight!? wrong! Take away all the hysteria, the goofy drug paraphernalia, the music videos, fashion labels and the lucrative record deals and what you've got left is a kid who learnt to play the piano, violin, drums, guitar, bass or took up singing lessons for five years instead of doing something infinitely more badass like blowing up letterboxes. If you can read notation, tabulature or time signatures, if you know the intricate histories of the greats from the 60's, 70's, 80's and 90's, if you spend most of your time in rehearsal spaces and studios, if you can speak the same language as the dude who's mixing your album? YOU ARE A NERD! If you doubt me still, I have two words for you: "band camp". And yet still we keep pretending, still we keep putting them up on a pedestal. We even designate safe zones like The Grace Emily where we can still rule that line in the sand to keep all the "freaks" out. You can see it in that sticker proudly plastered above the bar fridge spelling it out in capital letters: "DRUM MACHINES HAVE NO SOUL" *pfft* like THAT'S gonna make a difference! There is no black or white here, people! merely shades of grey! What's the difference between a drum machine, keyboard, effects pedal and an amplifier? it's nothing but semantics dude.. we are all nerds!



It's a sliding scale of denial. The Grace Emily may put its walls up and post guards (Clanger's a top team master in Brazillian Ju-Jitsu dont'cha know?) to protect their hallowed turf from the crass extremities: bug-eyed goons, bashing their 8bit beats, square synths, laser beams, diodes and blinking lights; but that's just the visible spectrum, the tip of the iceberg, all those shrinking ultraviolets and radio waves can still slip through just fine! You see them all from those solo-acoustic pipsqueaks, countryfried hillbillies, sixties revivalists to gangly giraffes geeking out on microphones: nerds by any other name. Yup, once you see the truth, that we may be many separate branches and yet we all sprout from the same tree: you see that we're one and the same maaan! As such, I know it may not look like it, but I won't be ridiculing these bands in following for their whimsical devotion to all things "nerdly". In my own "special way" it'll be nothing but a celebration (yes that's right Radio Spectacular!!! a celebration) of all that unites us! So, hold that oversized head up high: bring your sinus tablets, car sickness pills, busted spectacles, retainer and your recorder and let that geek flag fly.. cause it's gonna be one hell of a wild ride tonight!



PABLO LIBIDO (***) myspace ::
Our opening act may not be familiar to most of us at first glance, but the minute he makes misty eyed mention of The Grace Emily's "Open Mic" policy on a Monday night, or better yet the minute he starts "singing"; we instantly identity with him. We see people just like him playing in shopping centres, country fairs, chook raffles, political rallies or better yet winning scores of accolades at the Adelaide Fringe Festival for boundless reasons that we can never quite fathom just by looking at them; and nothing short of a silver bullet, decapitation or fire could possibly kill them. Oh yes, we're witness to a genuine performing busker! On the one hand they're the absolute scourge of society, but on the other they also provide endless hours of entertainment in what would otherwise be a torturous half hour of free-to-air television. I am of course speaking of Australian Idol. The minute you see one of these lunatics skipping gleefully into a live audition you know you're onto a real winner. With boundless enthusiasm they'll tear into their chosen instrument, shrieking at the top of their lungs with all the passion and gusto of a malfunctioning smoke alarm. You'll laugh, you'll cry, you give your TV a standing ovation, Dicko will give an exasperated expression.. and yet they will still KEEP ON PLAYING until all three judges are forced to leave the room, jump on a plane and leave the country. In fact, if only there were more "suicide bombers" quite like these fronting up to auditions there would be NO MORE AUSTRALIAN IDOL. Just think of what we could achieve if that happened!? They're just like a loaded gun, all we need to do is inch them in the right direction and victory will be ours! Pablo Libido is one such shining light for the music industry. He is both astoundingly brilliant and utterly horrendous in equal measure, I don't know whether to give him five stars or none at all, he is truly an inspiration! He takes a stage by its throat, he treats a live set like a hostage situation and with a shrill singing voice as powerfully emotional and its jarringly off key he will spit, howl and shriek and make you feel every one his songs as your intestines twist into knots. Imagine something akin to standup comedy routine, a children's television show and cruise ship performer mixed in with Weird Al Yankovic, They Might Be Giants, Dave Graney & The Coral Snakes, and what appears to be the sound of Abu Graib set to a Louisiana swamp groove; and you'd barely cover half of what he had on offer tonight. No shit, I quite simply couldn't get enough of Pablo Libido, I could have listened to this shit all night long.. ENCORE! ENCORE!!












But no review of Pablo Libido would ever be complete without addressing the rest of the "band". And no, I'm not just speaking of the trombone player Ben Lambada who joined him on stage for the last few songs, nor am I referring to the "audience participation" bit where he handed out a tambourine, triangle and maracas and got the crowd to play along for as it turns out the full name of this act is in actual fact "Pablo Libido & The Wild Robots". The only reason I never mention the "Wild Robots" bit up until now is simply because I couldn't fit it in the title (and quite possibly for "dramatic" effect) but they're no less important. Throughout the set this humble combination of drum machine, effects unit and mixer (aka: The Wild Robots) would provide all the bass and beats (froggy, squelchy rhythms tied to basic 808 kit) with a vibe very much reminiscent of a Nintendo Gameboy mixed in with a cheap Casio keyboard and a little bit of Berlin's "Take My Breath Away" from "Top Gun" to boot (an obscure 80's reference I know but I swear it was in there somewhere). Throughout the set Pablo Libido would also address it as if it were an actual person, took great offense in anyone who claimed otherwise (ie: DRUM MACHINES HAVE NO SOUL), even had a song prepared where he attempted to emphatically disprove that theory, and generally did his very best to "workshop" us into believing it was no less the lively stage presence that he was. I know, clearly he had a few screws loose but it definitely gave a new spin on the whole solo-acoustic schtick; and for that you just had to applaud him, check where the exit signs are, then applaud some more.



TIGER ET GHOST (***1/2)
For those of us in the know our second act came as a bit of a shock. Not only because I'm told that as recently as "Winnerfest" back in May they were a two piece experimental act, but also because the lead singer of this band is none other than Morgan Read, otherwise known as "Belittle League": Adelaide's answer to LCD Soundsystem (and also a person who bears an all too uncanny resemblance to Rowan Atkinson). Seeing him perform in a three piece rock band tonight is rather akin to that moment when Moby ditched the synths and picked up a guitar back in 1996 for that weirdly experimental punk rock album "Animal Rights" (or rather akin to seeing Mr. Bean front The Vasco Era). While many critics would later slam Moby's album as one of Rock & Roll's greatest disasters right up there with Bob Dylan going "electric", Chris Cornell teaming up with Timbaland, The Black Eyed Peas releasing "Elephunk", or when the Kings Of Leon were inexplicably replaced by a boy band for "Only By The Night"; Morgan Read's "reinvention" definitely fairs a whole lot better. Tiger Et Ghost. Weird name I know, but as a three piece band they truly mean business. They're a vicious bass riff that sets your teeth on edge, a reverb drenched guitar that fills a room, and a beat that alternates between languid and menacing and makes you think of long stretches of desert highway filled with nothing but poverty and ruin (and quite possibly the plotline to the next David Lynch movie). Immediate comparisons make me think of everything from the abrasive blues of Grinderman, the staccato punk of The Hives, something rather akin to 60's surf, maybe a little bit of the swagger of Elvis Presley, a whole lot of Johnny Cash's jailhouse desperado and the chicken fried twang of The Rolling Stones. Either way it was a definite one-eighty. Where Belittle League was known for its wry, sardonic take to songwriting and lyrics, Tiger Et Ghost is much darker in its agenda; desperate even to gnaw its own arm off and get the fuck out've dodge the minute the last beat drops. Vocal duties alternate between Morgan Read: who's thin lisping register conjures up everything from Brian Molko from Placebo to Fred Shneider III from The B-52's (especially in that one song near the end where he went apeshit with a cowbell) while the bass player Declan Reck: possesses a somewhat grittier register, closely resembling that of a Tom Waits. There's the occassional burst of sly humour, not least of which is a song entitled "Space Dennis Hopper" but for the most part they keep a poker face, form a protective circle away from the audience and play like their lives truly depend on it. Sure it's not the least bit welcoming in its tombstone delivery but it's no less powerful. No shit, who knew Morgan Read had it in him!?














RADIO SPECTACULAR!!! (***1/2) myspace ::
A second review of our headlining act has been a long time coming, not the least of which because it's been well over a year since I'd written one (their first back in February 2008), but also because it got such a "rapturous applause" from their fans that I was half expected to find swarms of red laser dots tracking my forehead wherever I went. Yup, as far as ill-fitting support acts went last year, they were definitely the most memorable. There I was at the Jade Monkey all set to soak in the solemn shoegaze aesthetic of both BrotherSister (for their album launch) and Mr Wednesday (for their triumphant "comeback"), a journey not unlike Dante's Inferno in that it would surely lift my world weary soul through the very minutia of existential angst and ennui and take me to a place where gravity has no grip.. only to get sucker punched in the face by the spastically happy NERDGASM that was Radio Spectacular!!!. It was just like a mad hit of the bends, my brain totally bluescreened and of course I just HAD to give them shit for it (aaah what can I say? I do LOVE this blog!). I believe the line that stuck with them the most was: "I'd love to douse them in gasoline, strike a match and run" (although in my defense I DID follow that up with a compliment). In the end I wished them well with what would surely be a wildly successful career performing to preschoolers that'd easily rival that of The Wiggles (enthusiastic handclaps, spirit fingers, glockenspiels and songs about ice cream anyone!?) and hoped like hell we would NEVER cross paths again. Little did we both realise however, but we'd both missed the point. As much as I've discovered since (especially with fans of The Smashing Pumpkin when I dissed Billy Corgan back in April 2008) that not everyone gets MY "sense of humour" (or worse still confuses "the dumbest prank I've ever gotten away with for three years running" with legitimate journalism) I too confused THEIR warped sense of humour as being deadly serious as well. In time I came to appreciate them for what they really are (nerdcore to the EXTREEEME!), curiousity got the better of me and I just HAD to take another look. A quick scouting mission back in January proved quite fortuitous (ie: they didn't have to call my next of kin to identify the remains) and SO here we are tonight..







Make no mistake: Radio Spectacular!!! are THE nerdiest band I've ever seen in the Adelaide music scene (and considering I've seen most if not all of the bands that Ben Revi has ever featured in? that's saying something!). They truly wear their "dork" on their sleeve. If you're the sort of pasty faced shut in who snorts when you laugh, has a pet turtle or an axolotl, keeps oldskool Commodore 64 cartridges ("Skate Or Die" anyone?), wears SNES game controllers like jewelry, sneakers with velcro, socks with sandles, can solve a rubik's cube in less that ten seconds, rides a bicycle with a basket, has to change pants anytime Steve Jobs makes a keynote address (and you're STILL scouring the fan forums speculating over his "life threatening illness"), then let's not kid around here.. if you're the very epitome of Napoleon Dynamite or Ugly Betty!? you'll absolutely LOVE the shit out of Radio Spectacular!!!. To their credit, in the year or more since last I saw them, they've earned every one of those exclamation marks: not least of which for scoring the soundtrack to the latest Canon IXUS commercial (which I think we can all agree is the ultimate in über-goober) but also because they've solidified their sound in leaps and bounds. Although they still feature a few of the cute and clunky nursery-rhymes of old ("Vintage Piano" and "Wendy" instantly spring to mind), they've also come up with a plethora of dancefloor friendly slammers that'll be sure to get any tongue tied Nobel Laureate or button down librarian busting a "Molly Ringwald" in next to no time. In Radio Spectular!!! you'll hear everything from Hot Chip, Chicks On Speed, Le Tigre, Devo, Datarock, The Ting Tings to Architecture In Helsinki; and all of it without a hint of irony. In Phebe Rendulic and Harry Worth (with accompanying YMCA moves and start/stop 80's guitar riffs) you'll picture everything from a kindergarten teacher bopping the night away with Norman Bates at a Blue Light Disco (pom poms to boot), a Monday night game of Bingo with your grandmother, to a Countdown audience having an exploding hissy fit over Plastic Bertrand. Sure I may be clawing my own eyes out screaming right about now, pretending I'm having an allergic reaction to this shit but we all know it's an act. We're one and the same, I can see that now. We've all been that same knock kneed spaz back in highschool (the same we've all spent years feverishly hoping to forget) only this band is shameless in rocking that shit out loud and proud with superpowers like Peter Parker. Yup you know it, don't deny it, you SO you want to cut sick to this. Radio Spectacular!!!. They've come a long way, and admittedly they've still got a long way to go, but as long as they keep embracing their inner Urkel like this? duuude the sky's the limit!









12:15AM - Feeling like a weight had been lifted from my shoulders: "was that guilt you were feeling Spoz? GUILT!? OOOOH YOU SHOULD BE FEELING GUILT YOU BLACK HEARTED BAAASTARD!!" I suddenly realised that this voice wasn't just in my head but standing right in front of me, all around me and blocking all available exits. "Oh how cute.. inflatable animals!" I said, only to see them glaring right back at me. They didn't need to speak to get my attention now, I heard them loud and clear. They were the ghosts of rants past. In inflatable form they represented every one of my victims from Kittyhawk last week "you gave us 2.5 stars!? YOU ARSEHOLE!!", Clue To Kalo, Quest, New Translation, Penelope Suicide, Love Zombies and Mayday Fair even Jump! You Revolutionary, Ricochet Pete and Circus Arcade. "What.. you too Morals Of A Minor!? but your album was freaking gold!! I even gave you 5 stars!?". Oh, they remembered; they'd been waiting for this moment their entire lives. I thought I was a goner for sure as they inched ever closer, their binky squeaks growing ever more menacing. And then it hit me: "dude, they're fucking inflatable!". So I gave them a swift kick, they all went flying and then I made a mad dash for the door..



1:09AM - And so they gave chase as I ran screaming down Waymouth, took a sharp turn down a side street, hit a loose rock with my foot and went flailing face first into the tarmac. FUCK! Dusting myself off I realised I was still brandishing a pint glass from The Grace Emily, possibly as a keepsake, possibly as a weapon "hmmm.. that's weird!?" only then did I notice a powdery white residue circling around the bottom. It was clear that I'd been drugged, by who I couldn't say (hmmm maybe I did it to myself!?). There was only one thing I could do, any minute now I those inflatable terrors would catch up to me and who knows what would happen if they did!? And so I handed my five dollars to this dude in the "pie cart", he handed a foamy concoction right back to me that he swore was a "floater", I downed it in one gulp, both my horizontals and verticals did a little dance, everything went crosseyed, my ears popped and then I was back. Awesome! I looked both ways, realised nothing was coming at me, grinned sheepishly and I was on my way again.



1:22AM - Next stop The Ed Castle. Walking into the band room just now I'd almost forgotten it was "Plus One" tonight and there was an entry fee involved. Turns out I must've pulled a Jedi Mind Trick with the doorbitch to get here. Either that or she was so distracted by the pool party equivalent of The Battle Of Helms Deep amassing before her with murder in their eyes: "what the fuck!? is that a Macy's Thanksgiving Day balloon!?", that she didn't even notice me slip by. Either way I'd made it just in time to catch the last band of the night: Lions At Your Door (and yes.. I'm aware of the irony). Sure I might've only seen the last two songs, but they were well worth the entry fee (that I apparently skipped out on). Think of them Operator Please! mixed with The Rapture and Young & Restless; only unlike the first one I mentioned they don't totally blow. Better than that they're actually kind've awesome: shredding violins, shrieking, shouting, burning a hole in the dancefloor!? Shit damn, I might have to catch a full set of theirs next time they swing by here.



2:06AM - Thinking that I could finally relax, I slipped quietly into the beer garden, beer in hand to soak in that sweet sweet smell of freedom; only to be ambushed by MCs Dedz and Jahmin here from Poetikool Justice. OOOH MAN did they look pissed too! With two hooked finger prodding me in the chest and accusatory glares burning holes deep into my skull they demanded to know why I kept giving them such glowing reviews, why I kept giving them so much praise, time and time again.. WHY DAMNIT! WHY!? They even took issue with the video that I shot at Queens Theatre last year that made them look so wildy popular and took pains to list all the people who gave them so many compliments about it. And that wasn't the end of it either. They took turns screaming at me like drill sergeants, a spray of spit, telling me how they thought I was such a positive influence on the Adelaide scene. They even bribed me with beers trying to get answers out of me, like: when was I gonna drop by WOW FM for a radio interview, or when I was gonna see them play next, they even had shows lined up at Fowlers Live with Mammal and at HQ with Blue King Brown. I couldn't stand it any longer. I broke down, I bawled like an infant, I promised them my outmost that I would give them my absolute WORST review next time, so horrible in fact they wouldn't even want to wipe their own arses with it. I wouldn't even take photos either, I'd simply draw shitty stick figures with giant dicks on their foreheads and throw in a few insults about their mothers. Satisfied that they finally got the answer they were looking for, they let loose my shirt collar and slinked off into the night *phew* I know huh? you think I would've learnt by now!?



2:42AM - Just like I always feared, it's happened. After all these years cracking jokes at the expense of all the goobers, geeks, grinds, dweebs, dorks and squares that inhabit this scene (and worse still, all those glowing reviews!? what the hell!?) it's finally come back to haunt me. I needed a place to hide but there's nowhere to turn. I need a place to run, but there's nowhere to go. Thanks to this site they know what I look like, they know where I've been, they can even track me on my twitter account. I'm doomed, I know it, what the HELL DO I DO!? And so clearly panicking, and with no time to spare, I grabbed the first thing I could find and I threw my head under it..



"Spoz? which Spoz!? *pfft* I'm not Spoz.. I'm errr.. Luke McKay from the Femme Fatales. Wait.. what do you mean I look nothing like him!? I'm TOTALLY him, I just.. dyed my hair? yeaaah that's it! and I grow it really quickly too, I'm just like The Wolfman! Yesiree Bob that's what they call me in the band too: "Wolfman McKay". And it appears I'm a few inches shorter too!? well look at that! I know ha ha ha ha.. I'm always cracking funny shit like that. I'm Luke "Wolfman" McKay, I'm like the craziest damn bastard around. What's this about Spoz? oh yeah pfft.. he's a total douche!".



3:27AM - And that's the hand I played too. Sure I didn't exactly fool anyone, with the possible exception of that grinning twizzle stick in the background giving me the two thumbs up (wait, didn't you ever SEE Luke play guitar!? duuude!) but at least it stopped people coming upto me now, as they were pretty certain I'd simply taken two tabs of E, lost my fucking mind and started a nu-rave band with Tom Hannah instead (I mean how awesome would that be!? wait.. where'd everyone go!?). Finally an hour passes, and with the crowds thinning at last I make my daring escape to Supermild (ie: the last sactuary for the damned and deranged); a plan all but scuttled the minute I run smack into this exciteable dweeb with the oversized glasses who was standing outside..



This is Matthew Gorgula: you may recognise him from his brief appearance as a drummer for Munchkin back in late 2006, by reputation as the current drummer for Monkey Puzzle Tree (or by appearing drunk in my blog). And if ever you're "Spoz" and you're looking to get rid of people like this in a hurry? especially if they know you by reputation!? simply tell them that you'll do your utmost to catch a gig sometime and they'll be sent scurrying for cover in next to no time! No shit, it totally works! Would you believe that Trent Worley from Isle Of Vision once bought me a beer back in August 2008 under the condition that I promise to NEVER review his band!? true story!



3:40AM - At long last I made it into Supermild alive and in one piece, although from the looks of it I'm "not entirely there" either. Where exactly am I then? aaah who cares! Hey wait.. I know! maybe if I stay close to Lucy here and stand really still nobody will know where I am!! "Hey Luce you seen Spoz, I'm looking to yell at him some more for giving Kittyhawk two and a half stars last week". "Spoz!? nope sorry Dave, haven't seen him all night". Rock musicians, little known fact: awesome hearing but their eyes can only sense movement: they're kinda like lizards that way..



4:26AM - Still I had little to fear by this point as I'd finally found my kind of people, here in Supermild, somewhere past four in the morning. Although you could easily argue I'm pretty much at home ANYWHERE past four in the morning because by then everyone's as blitheringly drunk as I am. There's really no point in poking fun at anyone now, as I'd simply be poking fun at myself. Take Tom Krieg from The Battery Kids for example, playing the ever popular game of "Tom Krieg Makes A Total Dick Of Himself". I mean who HASN'T played this game on Saturday night only to find themselves published on a blog the following week!? *pfft* that's shit we can all relate to!





Yeah y'know what!? I SO gotta stop making appearances in my own blog..



FUCK! that's it I'm putting my camera away!



4:31AM - Clearly we've gone waaay too far. It's just like in "Being John Malkovich", or more accurately it's just like that bit when John Malkovich goes inside of his own brain and all he sees is John Malkovich, and there's literally hundreds of John Malkovichs and all they ever say is "Malkovich.. Malkovich, Malkovich? Malkovich!! MALKOVICH!!". Except they're all Spoz. Sure I know they all LOOK different but I ask you.. WHERE have you seen those facial expressions before!?



And so, like so many nights before it (and always rather conveniently at this time of night) I take one good look in the "mirror", recoil in horror at what I see, and run screaming out that door..



4:41AM - It was somewhere in the carpark behind Jive where I finally come to my senses. I find a long neck bottle of Coopers Pale Ale resting on an electrical box (possibly left here by one of many "Spoz clones" spawned in my wake). I pick it up, take it with me, and once I find a suitable stretch of road before me, I hurl it with all my might. I figure by destroying it (some may say symbolically) I might verily return this fucked up world to its natural order. And yet despite a similar bottle shattering into a thousand pieces in Supermild after a drop of only ONE metre just last Friday: even after THIS bottle is hurled a good ten to fifteen metres and collides with the cement? duuude it didn't even dent the label! I was clearly through the looking glass now and there was turning back! (an observation made no less ironic when mere moments later, a car pulls up, it's Paul Belial: formerly from Circle Clan and NFI, and he offers me a lift home). Yup, if I'm insane then surely the entire universe is insane with me. One and the same dude. ONE AND THE SAME.



We are all nerds now. We can all thank the internet for that. We may travel in different packs, sects, cells, and cliques and think we're all cool for belonging, and ridicule those who don't but it merely proves it ever more emphatically that we are all nerds under different names. Thick rimmed glasses or a leather jacket; it's nothing but semantics. I for one am a nerd who likes to collect music, take photos of music, talk about music and listen to music to the point where I can't escape music. Maybe you're a fashion nerd. Maybe you like to collect stamps, spoons or parking tickets. Maybe you like to manufacture porn, miniature poodles or bucket bongs. Or maybe you're really good at firing a bazooka. We all speak the same language duuude, you just don't know it yet!

:: Spoz 6:24 AM
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