The Adelaide music scene: to many of you it might be little more than a touring speed bump between Melbourne and Perth but to us it's a way of life. Feast within, on all its dysfunctioning splendour, as we bring you the highly satirical, laughingly fictional and intellectually imbecile tales from our rock & roll wasteland...
BING GOES TO MONACO + KITTYHAWK + THE HONEY PIES "INTERSPECIES BACKUP" LAUNCH @ JIVE / Friday June 26th 2009
I think we've realised by now that every episode of Spoz's Rant is essentially the same story told a thousand different ways: "Spoz goes out. Spoz sees live bands. Spoz gets drunk. Spoz goes to Supermild. The end" (and wait till you see it as a pop up book!). As much as it's a definition of insanity, I also like to think of it as a creative challenge. For somewhere in this non descript mess of sensory imput distilled into photos, videos and SMS notes there's a story I can write that ties it all together; one that distinguishes itself in some small way from every other story I've written up a billion times before. It's an occupational health hazard, it really is, to bring this music scene to life each week; but it hasn't always been like this. Years ago when people asked me what I did on the weekend, I didn't tell them shit. It didn't matter if I'd been thrown arse backwards down a flight of stairs, if I'd been flying tackled by a nudist at a Queens Of The Stone concert, headlined a rooftop rave, watched a car explode outside of my house, fronted up to a 21st birthday in a gorilla outfit, jumped into the ocean with all my clothes on, survived a car crash, appeared in a music video on Rage, mooned a police search helicopter (only to feature as a cartoon on the back of the Sunday Mail), or if I got so horrendously drunk at an engagement party that I woke up on a mattress, surrounded by my own vomit, in a backyard, IN the rain, only to go to a gig the following night; I'd still give the same nondescript answer: "shit-fuck-all", it summed it all up brilliantly! It didn't matter if was a story worth telling, to me it was simply too trivial to talk about. Visit the same venues, see the same bands, talk to the same people every week and it's funny how your brain can come to the same abrupt conclusion. After all these years living in the eye of the storm, it's just like falling asleep to white noise, it's ever so soothing! Or at least it would've been if I hadn't decided to write a blog about it. Now it drives me screaming up the walls trying to come up with new ways to tell the exact same shit. Spoz's wacky adventures in the Adelaide music scene? *pfft* since when did THAT become newsworthy!? and yet here we are at it again. Awesome huh!?
The fact is there's probably a billion different stories to be told in this city, I know there is, I just haven't been seeing them. Stare at anything for long enough, you lose focus and it becomes nothing but an abstraction. Listen to any sound for long enough and it becomes nothing but noise. Walk into Jive often enough on a Friday night and it becomes nothing more than a blue box. You walk in, you walk out with all these photos and then you wonder why you struggle to string two words together. I'm told many people live their entire lives like this too. Ask yourself to recall in detail what YOU did on a Tuesday afternoon three weeks ago. Can't remember can you? and you do this EVERY Tuesday!? It's all in the details and the differences; THAT'S where the real story is. Take this jager machine for example. Every time I walk into Jive it's the same: the same three bottles upended into a refrigeration unit by the bar, claiming pride of place for reasons few of us could ever hope to understand. I mean just WHO in the hell drinks all that jager? If you've done one jagerbomb, you've done them all! but have you ever heard of the "reverse jager": one shot of redbull dropped into a glass of jager? or better yet the "absinthe bomb": one shot of absinthe dropped into a glass of red wine!? (we invented that last one two years ago and barely got out of it alive). It's all in the subtle differences. Even in jager there's countless combinations to be explored, even in a venue you've visited a thousand times over, there's a new story to be told..
Take this mixing desk for example: an integral part of ANY live music venue. Most of the time you forget it's even out there, save for frequent requests to turn the foldbacks up or better yet if one of the speakers catches on fire. And as much as I appreciate the magic our resident knob jockeys pull with this shit, lest we forget Matt Hills at Jive, Alex Ciaravolo at The Ed Castle, Patrick Saracino at Rocket Bar, that bearded troll who works at Enigma Bar (y'know, whatisface?), or whoever does the mix at The Crown & Anchor I barely acknowledge it's existence either. I'm too busy juggling a camera, a beer, bitching about how fucked the lighting is, or making fun of the DJs to worry about anything as trivial as how loud the kick drum is, why the guitar keep buzzing or whether there's enough mids on the mic. To me it's pretty much the same mix everytime. But every once in a while when you get a really good mix (like tonight?), everything comes roaring back into focus. You suddenly pick up all the details, the nuances, the inflections you never noticed before. And if all else fails? simply shoot the knobs from fuckoff arty angles.. endless hours of entertainment!
Or what about the foosball table. Here stuffed in a corner between backstage and that piercing siren that lets loose like clockwork anytime someone sneezes on the side doors. It used to be the only excuse we'd ever flock to this joint, so much so we'd frequently drown out all live bands smashing that ball back and forth like hilarious nitwits. Now it sits next to abandoned. Get up close and take a real good look at it. Layered in filth, grime and rust, with its busted brackets swinging that once held the poles in place, those shallow puddles of unidentified ooze left by countless revellers flooding this venue for a Saturday night dose of DJ Craig's whatever-the-fuck. The stories this table could tell would truly put most of ours to shame (short of the rioteous sex lives those bronze pigs enjoy late nights in Rundle Mall). Flick a blacklight on it and you'll see a galaxy of stars burst into life. Lick it and you'd probably see a whole lot more followed by the inside of an emergency ward. Such history, such gargling infamy, flare both those nostrils and breathe it in!
Then there's this cymbal mounted tambourine thingamajig. I've probably seen millions just like it, I don't even know the proper name for it, but if you shoot it from just the right angle, you see so many things you didn't notice before. Macro zoom, gotta love it, don't use nearly enough of it!
Whilst this is quite possibly the tiniest guitar amplifier I've ever seen in a long time. I've also heard you can get them ever smaller than this. No bigger than a pack of cigarettes Or even better MADE from a pack of cigarettes. I'm not kidding, they call them "Smokey Amps". Look that shit up maaan and it'll change your life! Quite like that time, years ago, when a friend of mine converted a Michael Jordan pez dispenser into a miniature bong. He even painted the eyes bloodshot yellow and everything. No shit, even in the simplest things, there's endless possibilities to be explored..
Which bears remembering when you find yourself in front of another live stage, on another Friday night, taking another photo of Ryan Manolakis' ever present drumkit lit under a slightly different lighting scheme. The same Ryan Manolakis you saw play drums for the past twoweeks in Like Leaves. The same Ryan Manolakis who you've also seen play drums for Mr Wednesday, BrotherSister and Cookie Baker. The same Ryan Manolakis who'll be playing drums for our headlining act Bing Goes To Monaco when they launch their EP, the "Interspecies Backup" tonight. For the forth consecutive CD launch party you've been at for the past month. After you've been doing pretty much the exact same shit for last three to four years running. But do not fear, you'll never run out've new shit to write about, it's only your mind playing tricks on you! Despite what you're imagining Ryan Manolakis doesn't actually play in every live band in Adelaide; he just plays in most in them (and if it helps, he's also weirdly talented at it!). Despite every single live band being a two-piece semi-acoustic act tonight; they're NOT the same band. It's all in the details!
SIMON & JENNY (***) Clearly desperate times call for desperate measures, I need something NEW to write about, I'm going crazy here! Still, of all the shit I could have chosen to see tonight, shit like this would've EASILY been last on my list. Don't get me wrong, I'm not speaking any less of the quality. I celebrate nothing but the finest on this blog, I really do! Nor am I speaking from personal preference. My taste in music is so ridiculously ecclectic and expansive now, even I don't know recognise 90% of my shit when I press shuffle on my ipod; only that I love what I hear. No, this is a whole OTHER level. For nothing is quite as terrifying to a combat photographer as a two-piece semi-acoustic act; or what I like to call a "Bambi shoot". It's the lightest of touches really. You want to tippytoe in and tickle that Bambi on the nose. The last thing you want to do is punch Bambi repetitively in the face. Which is quite the hairtrigger dilemma I faced with our opening act tonight. Better yet? it's their first gig too. So not only is this a "Bambi shoot" but it's a "Newborn Giraffe" too. I can see it now it's gonna be a massacre, it's gonna be a puppy in a blender and OH GAWD I CAN'T BEAR TO LOOK!! Yup that's Simon & Jenny. As much as they're embarassingly clunky, coy and cute-as-a-button; they're also surprisingly confident at what they do. They draw you in with their instrumental two-piece combination of simple bouncey percussion and plink plonk keys; whistfully bittersweet, melancholic yet ever so feather light in their delivery. They perform songs about about having butterflies in their stomach, hearts on their sleeves, and being really into porcelain ponies and matching wallpaper samples; or kinda like if Mila Kunis from "That 70's Show" formed a band with Zach Braff from "Scrubs" only ten times as geeky. In "Jenny" you hear a breathless squeak that sits somewhere between Katy Steel from Little Birdy and Feist. In "Simon" you hear a warbling midrange a little too disturbingly like Antony And The Johnsons; only with slightly smaller testicles. Yet in combination it works brilliantly. They're weirdly infectious in quite the same way all those songs Apple use to sell ipods and macbooks pull you in so effortlessly; in quite the same way the soundtrack to "Grey's Anatomy" makes you want to snarf an entire packet of Tim Tams (*cough* not that I'm a fan or anything). If you love shit like Chairlift's "Bruises" (from the ipod nano ad) or Yael Naim's "New Soul" (from the macbook air ad) then you'll love the shit out of Simon & Jenny. My Y chromosome maybe itching to blow their brains out, laughing hysterically all the while whilst watching this, but they're a Bambi buzz all the same!
THE HONEY PIES (****) myspace :: Sometimes it's in the most trivial of details that you can begin to pinpoint where a band is coming from. Especially when it comes to our second act tonight: The Honey Pies. As a four piece they're rife with an infectious indie pop charm that knows few equals. They're like a mad tab of E dunked into freshly squeezed glass of vitamin C and served up on a summers day soaking up rays of vitamin D. Channeling everything from Blur, The Arctic Monkeys, The Last Shadow Puppets to The Libertines and fronted by what sounds all little too much like Craig Nicholls from The Vines (aka: Jon Marco) celebrating all his Christmases at once; you can't help but be beaming with smiles in its presence. It's so damn likeable in fact you could actually anaesthetise a charging rhino to it; chuck a pink tutu on it and get it to reenact scenes from Walt Disney's "Fantasia". Scarier still, as a two-piece tonight, they're no less lethal. Of course we all know who we have to blame for this, it's clearly their singer Jon Marco. The question is, where the HELL does he get it from!? We could entertain all manner of wildly fanciful theories: everything from Tony Marshall the guitarist secretly working him like a ventriloquist puppet, to something a little more akin to what happened to Tom Hanks in "Big" (and if ever they introduced one of those oversized floor pianos into their live set and Jon Marco went apeshit on it? my head would freaking explode!). As it turns out however, the answer's much simpler. Moments after the gig, I couldn't help but notice Jon had a spec of glitter stuck on his face. In pointing it out, he replied rather sheepishly with: "oh that? yeah I work with kids..". No shit, it explains EVERYTHING!! I can see it now: Peter Combe, trapped in the body of Macaulay Culkin, possessing the voice of Bobcat Goldthwait from Police Academy and he has a freaking army of ankle biters at his command!? We're through the looking glass here people! How else could this music be so ridiculously catchy!? Clearly Jon Marco is either possessed by the devil or he's the very son of Satan himself! A revelation that is made no less disturbing when we consider their satanic setlist tonight. Featuring a greatest hits selection of everything from The Honey Pies, Poly & The Statics to a particularly fiendish cover of The Jackson Five's "I Want You Back" (oh yeah, there was a whole lot of that tonight) few could possibly stand in it's way. And in the way they performed it? Jon yodeling, shrieking, gnashing, shredding at his guitar like a madman, like a man possessed; whilst Tony played shotgun, wondering just when Jon was gonna tweak out, cut loose and kill us all. You couldn't get enough of it. It was a mesmerising performance, it truly was. As much as I feared for my life watching it: fuck damn was it catchy!
KITTYHAWK (**1/2) myspace :: Our third act tonight by any other name, are the singer-singwriting duo behind Fire! Santa Rosa Fire!. Caitlin Duff and Dave Williams. I know, it came as quite a shock to me too. I mean sure, I'm well aware that they both sing all the vocals for Fire! Santa Rosa Fire!, they've possibly even written a good deal of their songs for the past year or more (some of which they even performed as "covers" tonight) and it's clear that they're both fiendishingly clever at what they do, I don't deny that; but I always assumed that this was nothing but an elaborate ruse to blind us all from the truth. That Artyom Zinoviev their keyboardist and Josh Flavel their bass player are the REAL brains behind this operation. I mean you've seen Art smash that tambourine during "War Coward": that shit's nothing but genius! he's YEARS ahead of his time!! And as for Josh? he wears a hat maaan! No really! Think about it. A hat (yeah ok.. maybe I'm just fucking insane). Still, if we're willing to accept that this two piece act actually exists, then maybe we need to accept some other hard truths about Fire! Santa Rosa Fire!. That maybe Sam Stearn the drummer is NOT a robot and that maybe Dave didn't drop dead back in January 2008 only to be reanimated as a zombie ever since (although let's face it the jury is still out on that one). Kittyhawk. In essence they're a character study on two lead vocalists of Fire! Santa Rosa Fire! without the rest of the band to distract us: both good and bad. In many ways they're also yet another "Bambi shoot" on a live stage. In Caitlin, her awkward (yet strangely endearing) stage presence is made all the more apparent as she perches petrified on that stool like a pigeon with her feathers puffed up against the cold. But you also appreciate the fragile quality of her singing voice more: how it lilts and warbles like a Juanita Stein from The Howling Bells; and it really shines in Kittyhawks sparse instrumentation. Whilst Dave cuts a more tragic, world weary figure, twice his seeming age: hunched over, furrowed brow, a voice quavering through all the nasally mid registers like a homeless man beaten over the head with a shovel (or once again very much like Antony And The Johnsons) as he strums his guitar rather like the chimes of a grandfather clock. I know it sounds wrong; but in hearing it he does give some added weight to Caitlin's lighter than air register. Their voices compliment each other nicely. Still, something feels like it's missing. Part of it is the fact this is one of only two times they've played live as a two-piece in over two years (and I could've sworn they had a keyboard back then). The other is that I keep comparing it to Fire! Santa Rosa Fire!. Yeah, maybe I'm just nitpicking, but for all of Caitlin and Dave's talent: they're a little lost without a band.
BING GOES TO MONACO (****1/2) myspace :: And for all of you wondering just now, why I picked THIS gig (over all the other gigs I could have picked tonight) right here in this headlining act is your answer. For not only are they launching their shiny debut EP "Interspecies Backup" (and we all know I'm a sucker for a CD launch) but they're also one of the most diabolical challenges I've ever been presented with for a live review; I mean how could I possibly say no!? They're not just a "Bambi shoot", they're Über Bambi! For weeks I was shitting actual bricks considering this suicide mission. I knew there were SO many ways I could fuck this up: we're talking two teeny tiny doe-eyed deers exploding in my crosshairs and an entire audience of ankle biters bursting into tears.. OH THE HUMANITY!? Which made them the PERFECT target for my blog tonight. For Bing Goes To Monaco and I clearly belong to different worlds. Freya Adele (aka: "Froogle") on guitar and Anny Duff (aka: "Bing") on keys, exist in a fanciful fairyland I could only but dream of: part Beatrix Potter, Enid Blyton and Jane Austen. We're talking fluffly little bunny rabbits, squirrels and chipmunks living in hollowed out tree stumps, drinking buttercups, hosting concert recitals, seasonal balls, wearing waistcoats and speaking the Queen's English. We're talking childhoods spent in frolicking innocence, weekends spent in the country, tea parties, picnics, doilies, cabbage patch dolls, afternoons knitting tiny pink booties and assembling family quilts. We're talking Jane Fucking Austen people!! What the FUCK am I doing here!? I'm clearly a snarling green beast, belching fire and smashing into skyscrapers in their ethereal presence. Still, when you hear those delicate dappled keys: like light rain tickling a window pane, that lightly strummed guitar, how they both sing together like a siren song, you can't help but be inexplicably drawn. They're music to sooth the savage beast, they truly are. In nearest equivalent (and believe me I'm frantically flicking through my thesaurus trying to come up with shit) they remind me of Sia, Imogen Heap, Lenka (from Decoder Ring), that one song by Laura Jean "I'm A Rabbit I'm a Fox" (which I somehow found on my ipod from a Triple J "Home & Hosed" CD I got for free back in 2006) and all manner of songs used to promote tourism in Victoria (Joanna Newsom anyone?). Actually no.. scratch that.. they clearly don't sound anything like that, but they're definitely in that rarefied league where nymphs, gnomes and faeries love to frolick fancy free. Yup, if you dig any of that crazy shit I've listed above? no shit, you'd definitely go beserk for Bing Goes To Monaco!
What strikes me most about Bing Goes To Monaco tonight is the harmonies. How they combine so effortlessly with the dappled keys and the harpsicord style guitar. How that sound skips lighter than air before you. To the mixer's credit Matt Hill captures it perfectly, brings everything into soft focus (although it helps that he also produced the EP). Just a little bit of reverb to fill the room is all you need to float downstream (he even added some extra guitar to one of the songs tonight). It's the sort of music you could appreciate a really good bottle of wine to, spend aimless hours daydreaming, watching the clouds pass overhead, or shop for antiques with your nearest and dearest, skipping hand in hand. Sure, none of these things are anything I'd ever do in a hurry but even so, here sipping my beer, I'm savouring all the subtle flavours. No shit, I don't think this dark ale has EVER tasted this ridiculously awesome! It's amazing how just two people and two instruments can produce all this colour to fill a room. Still, that wasn't all there was to this set. Ryan Manolakis joined them on stage to provide drums for a few songs (including a sweet rendition of their single "No. 6") and although his accompaniment is light, it's no less ridiculously complex to watch as he conjures up a spidering array of percussive fills that run riot over the kit. They also perform a sweet cover of Grizzly Bear's "Deep Blue Sea". From beginning to end your captivated. Sure you may occassionally wonder if they feed Anny Duff with an eye dropper (how freaking tiny IS she!?) but it's a fleeting thought if any. In my mind I'm already long gone, I'm in a land of make believe and duuude there's no better place to be! Bing Goes To Monaco. It may've been a suicide mission for a combat photographer; but I'm ever so thankful that I took it.
12:40AM - For the next half hour I was nothing but a disembodied blur, swimming through the carpet fibres with a glassy eyed grin. I never wanted to leave this womb like serenity. But it was a fleeting moment at best, when moments later I was aborted by the bouncers and the barstaff; both looking to "knock off early" tonight. Spat out've the front door, arms and legs sprawling, I was hit by the full force of Hindley Street. A chattering swarm, a mad cacophony, it took a few swift blows to the side of my head to reboot my system to reality again. "Aaaah that's better, now where the FUCK am I?". I pause briefly outside of Supermild to consider the ridiculously long lineup, chuckle to myself thinking NO ONE in their right mind would ever lineup to get into Supermild this early (*cough* wait is that Ben Revi in that line?) and then promptly got the fuck out of there..
12:45AM - I decided to hit the East End Ghetto instead, for no other reason other than (a) anywhere that wasn't Supermild was possibly a GOOD thing for my mental health, and (b) Joe and Simone might have been SMSing me all night hoping I'd agree to get retardingly drunk with them (wait.. I need an excuse?). And so, just for the hell of it (although very much in keeping with the vague theme tonight) I thought I'd document a few of the details of my journey along the way. Like this alleyway for example: situated somewhere between Hindley Street and Currie Street. Not only does it feature some of the finest graffiti art you'll see in inner city Adelaide but for those of us in the "know" (ie: those of us who like to pee standing up), it's also very close to a spot where you can sneak a whizz on the street without anyone seeing you. Sure, we all know there's a public toilet no less than fifty metres away but *pfft* I mean really, where would the fun in that be!?
12:48AM - Here I am somewhere on Currie Street. Or 72 Currie Street to be more specific (because I've just read the sign). The only reason I took this photo is because the footpath is all reflective and shiny, and this appeals to me somehow. Yeah I know, my brain really IS that tiny!
12:53AM - Whilst this is quite possibly the most ridiculously awesome thing ever spotted in the display window of Harrison's Music down Grenfell Street (short of that spastic pink ukulele I spotted a few months ago). Although it's clearly entirely innacurate for so many reasons. Not least of which, bears make absolutely shit drummers. I mean seriously, what the FUCK were these idiots thinking when they set this up!? You need opposable thumbs to play a fucking drumkit you jackass!
1:01AM - Hmmm I wonder what would happen if someone towed this sign away? aaah sweet irony!
1:02AM - I actually took this photo months ago, so clearly there's no reason why I'd ever post it again; except to signify that I've somehow made it to The Crown & Anchor alive and in one piece without being stabbed, mugged, molested, beaten, eaten, shot at or kidnapped by The Killgirls if they happened to be passing by in a nondescript white van at the time (don't laugh maaan, that shit actually happens!). I mean I swear, everytime I pick up the newspaper and hear about another late night knife fight outside of Cargo Club, or a driving by shooting down Gouger or Grote Street, or an exploding bomb in an office complex what-ever-the-fuck? I always freaking miss seeing it first hand by a few hours, or sometimes even minutes. I mean of all the dumb luck?
1:16AM - This is Simone. You may remember her from a thousand other times she's featured in this blog. She's also quite possibly the most photogenic freak I know, for the simple fact she's one of the few people that I know who don't run screaming at the sight of my camera. Weird I know!
Whilst Joe Blogs here is every reason why I should run screaming at the sight of him; if it weren't for the fact I thought this was the most HILARIOUS shit ever (or rather like every other stupid photo I've ever captured of him.. and believe me I got millions!). Yeah I know I really shouldn't encourage him but where would we be without it? journalistic integrity!? don't make me laugh!
And yes, this was pretty much the sum total of what was happening in The Crown & Anchor tonight: short of that human fireball that screamed past a few minutes ago, that ambulance that came looking for him only to crash through the front door near the stairwell, or that time Zoey at the bar coughed up an alien foetus, it skittered about the bar for a good fifteen minutes, till someone fed it something from the candy machine, it promptly seized up and died; or perhaps only in my illbient imagination. Yup, clearly we were bored shitless in here, but where else COULD we go!?
1:46AM - If you had your computer speakers turned up just now, and you heard a dull thwacking sound? That would've been me slapping my forehead loudly over the fact that we ended up in HERE again. And if you stick around a little longer you may also get to hear me bash my skull repetively into this laptop keyboard screaming until I knock myself out cold. "YEAAAS!! I FUCKING LOVE SUPERMILD!! WEEEEEEEEEE!!" *clunk*. Yeah I know, who would've thought huh? Still if it helps, at least I used a different photo this time, thanks to Joe and Simone's "contribution" here.
1:59AM - This is the hallway leading from inside of Supermild to outside of Supermild. I think I photographed it solely because I swear they've changed it since last I was here, or maybe it's the first time I actually bothered to look up. Yeah I know, totally newsworthy isn't it? Coming up next week: Spoz photographs tap fixtures and doorknobs found around the city at 2AM, makes a whimsical slideshow to the accompaniment of polka music, and proceeds to blow his brains out!
Still, how ridiculously awesome is that spray painted exit sign over there? one that clearly doesn't violate any fire code by any stretch of the imagination whatsoever! Supermild!? OOOH FUCK YEAH!!
2:33AM - For the last half hour I've made a hilarious twit of myself on the dancefloor, to the amusement of many, whilst simultaneously drinking from a long neck of beer. Which I think we can all agree is the BEST way to enjoy everything that Supermild has to offer on a Friday night. Oh and It also turns out to be one of the stupidest things you can possibly do too, when invariably you let slip that same long neck of beer and it shatters all over the floor in front of you (after might I add, I'd barely taken three sips out of it). So there I am, watching it explode in a white foam in front of me; dumbstruck at what I'd just done. Spotting the base of the bottle still more or less intact, I promptly prop it upright and pick it up. For a moment I consider drinking what was left of my beer, consider just how many jagged shards of glass were likely still floating in that beer, reconsider, make a hasty escape plan before anyone else realises what I'd just done, go BACK to the bar and buy myself another one. And as hilarous as it would've been to take photos of any of that shit!? I chose to take a shot of Simone here looking at her phone instead. Awesome huh?
Moments later, clearly overwhelmed by just how head explodingly awesome it is to be in Supermild tonight (and how!), a microchip in Simone's brain fizzles out and she promptly passes out cold.
After taking numerous photos of this and pissing myself laughing, it suddenly occurs to me that maybe I should check on her pulse. Realising she wasn't actually dead, I alert Joe Blogs. He swings by, picks her up, pulls an intricate rubix cube procedure, folding up her arms, legs and head till she's a teeny tiny cube and stuffs her in his left pocket. Yup, as much as I have absolutely no photographic evidence whatsoever to prove any of this shit.. I swear it actually happened!
3:50AM - But of course there was plenty more fun to be had in Supermild. Sure I can't remember any of it for the last hour and a half (because clearly it was so mindblowingly fuckoff insane even I couldn't even come up with the words for it!) but at least I managed to capture this out in the beer garden: this upturned container of what we originally thought was magarine, until we popped the lid and discovered a fetid brown substance that was either gravy, BBQ marinade, recycled bong water, dragon's blood, Murray river water, or one of the many choice (and quite possibly suspect) ingredients that go into making Mother energy drinks. In following I briefly entertained the notion of getting a sponge, mopping up some of it and squirting it into a specimen jar with aims to sell it for thousands of dollars on Ebay as "geniune Iggy Pop urine"; but instead I took a photo of it.
4:04AM - After many minutes spent tranfixed at the glistening ooze forming in front of me, eating through the table, forming a puddle on the floor, only to slither off out one of the exits sign with aims to take over the world (what.. none of you ever watched "The X Files"!?). I turned my attention behind me, only to spot Travis Williamson: former lead singer of Tyger Tyger, current drummer of The Scarlet Ives; unblinking, dazed and sprawled out on a concrete block before me. It was only after flicking the fourth or fifth lit match at him that I realised he'd fallen asleep hours ago with his eyes open. Obviously, I knew what I had to do. I flipped him on his side, checked his pulse, checked his breathing, then I stole his wallet and went back to the bar to celebrate.
5:00AM - Aaaah just look at all those smiling faces celebrating at the bar, totally unrelated to the fact that I may've just shouted all of them free drinks moments earlier (or at least I would've if only I found more in Travis' wallet than $2 in change, a bus ticket, a stick of gum, fifty condoms and a badly patched up blowup doll). Or maybe Bowl Lipson and Tom Krieg here are simply "overjoyed" that I'd missed The Battery Kids play at Rocket Bar tonight. Either way? paaarty!
5:03AM - This is either Toni (bartender for the Ed Castle) or her evil twin "Sarah" (who I always get her mixed up with: despite the fact they're not related, or for that matter even look alike) showing me this wonderfully versatile ring of hers. Not only can it be used as an ashtray, a shot glass holder, a satellite dish and as a papal seal; but she was also more than happy to show me its primary function moments before I blacked out cold; only to wake up moments later with a curious dent on my forehead. And much as I was at a total loss to explain any of this shit at the time, in hindsight I did dimly recall Travis high fiving her, only to flee the scene with my wallet. Bastards!
5:07AM - And so here I am stumbling out of Supermild for the billionth time on record after a long night's drinking, photo taking, and blissfully forgetting a fuck load of other wildly entertaining junk that I might have done tonight. I mean for all we know I might've been elected the new President of Iran (or better yet the Ayatollah), declared war on The Democratic Republic of the Congo, amassed a small fortune in Pork Belly Futures on the US Stock Exchange, defected to The South Pole, got abducted by aliens, published a wildly successful children's book on it, blacked out cold at the end of it only to wake up here outside of Supermild like nothing happened. But since I do this shit almost every Friday night I'm out? I clearly didn't think it was worth mentioning. Funny that.
Yup, it's in all these insane and seemingly inconsequential details that I can find my story. Sometimes I forget that, sometimes I don't see it, sometimes I can't focus, sometimes I believe that I'm living the same night over and over in a loop; but it isn't. My mind is simply playing tricks on me. The buildings, the bands, the faces they may all look the same to me, they may simply blur into the one amorphous blob and torment me for days trying to come up with new shit to write; but there's endless stories to be told. I just gotta see it from a different perspective.