:: Tuesday, July 07, 2009

TOM UGLY + FIRE! SANTA ROSA FIRE! + AVIATOR LANE
LIVE @ THE ED CASTLE / Friday July 3rd 2009

I've been told, I forget by who exactly (possibly someone with a beard) that live band photography is one of the most needlessly difficult of all the photographic disciplines. And short of shit involving children, animals, sport, celebrity portraiture, paparazzi, politics, deep sea diving, outerspace, telescopic, endoscopic, microscopic, prenatal, natural disasters and war correspondency (and the art of timing up an exceptional LOLcat shot) I wouldn't doubt that shit for a second. Fuck all the other extremes, being a live band photographer is the WORST. It's a suicide mission, it really is! Nobody in their right mind would ever choose this as a profession if ever they knew what it involved (and the fact that I do this SO willingly every week should prove that fact emphatically!). Take it from me get out while you still can, your mother was right, it'll never amount to anything. I mean let's forget for a moment that you'll be throwing yourself headfirst into the worst of the worst each week fighting your way to the frontlines; that you'll be dodging fists, feet, flying molotov missiles and wading waist deep into a cesspool of sweat, piss, blood, broken bones and shattered teeth just to get your trophy kill; that it's next to impossible to get a good angle out there when there's a million camera phones sprouting like weeds around you; *pfft* that's nothing duuude! Ask anyone in the field, from amateur to professional (to all those idiots who THINK they're "professional" but still insist on using compact cameras because they sincerely believe it'll make them more badass *cough*): above access angst and an endless stream of arseholes? available light is all we ever bitch about. It can truly make or break a photo, we can never get enough of it and when we DO we're like moths flocking to a lit light bulb frantic to make the most of it..



To illustrate this shit in a way that we can all appreciate, consider the following, this "state of the art" lighting console as found at The Ed Castle, or a Jands 4Pak-D Dimmer System to be more precise (and by the looks of it a really old one at that). Now if you don't have the foggiest clue what ANY of these sliders and switches do, congratulations this instantly qualifies you as an "expert lighting technician" in the Adelaide music scene. I mean suuure, you may need a license to serve alcohol and years of professional training to be a sound engineer, you may even need to know how to play your instrument properly (although we ALL know that's a technicality at best); but when it comes to lighting? *pfft* pretty much any piss monkey, mouth breather and moron can tweak those dials to their hearts content. It doesn't matter if you're a DJ, mixer, manager, tripper or a stoner; all you need is opposable thumbs and you're good to go! And it's into this anarchy that we gig photographers often find ourselves cursing and swearing. Every venue has its own temperament. Most we can adapt to (I for one am rather fond of the lighting found at Jive, the Jade Monkey, The Grace Emily, or even The Crown & Anchor and Rocket Bar if it's a good night). Some are best avoided (Rhino Room anyone!?). Fewer still we dream feverishly about (Queens Theatre and The Governor Hindmarsh). While The Ed Castle sits somewhere in the middle..



At best it's nothing short of brilliant in here, with just a few simple tweaks of the deck you'll find yourself foaming over all the possibilities that pissy little lighting rig has to offer (and I have countless examples on hand to prove that shit too). At worst it reminds me of a reccuring nightmare where I find myself in a dark room with a lightswitch. I flick that switch on, it glimmers for an instant only to wink out again; and no matter how many times I flick it back on the room only gets darker. Or rather like what it's like in here tonight. Yup, while many of you may dream of being burnt alive, shot by firing squad, gassed, strangled, drowned, chased by monsters, married to Tom Cruise (whoaaa shit!) or thrown off a cliff; THIS is my waking hell. This red, blue and yellow sequence that at BEST illuminates the bass player's left elbow for a split second, basks the drummer in blue, and leaves the rest of us fumbling for a fuse box. I COULD wimp out and use a flash but we all know how that would turn out (ie: fast forward this clip of Martin Scorsese's "The Aviator" to the 3:50 mark and prepare to have both pupils blown). Nope, I just gotta grin and bear it, feed off the insanity, hope like hell my camera's pointing in the right direction; and if else fails simply get hilariously drunk, enjoy the music and remind myself it STILL beats a nine-to-five job. These live photos may potentially suck in every conceivable way but at least we've got that.



AVIATOR LANE (****) myspace ::
Our opening act you may recognise as Michael Radzevicius on guitar, Rory O'Connor on bass and Thomas Smeets on drums: lifelong members of the sadsack sorority. Or as blackening blurs A, B and C with downcast expressions as captured on my camera tonight while I proceed to pull most of my hair out screaming. Still, to the infinite credit of whoever is clearly NOT doing the lights (ie: the sound engineer who's clearly already got his hands full doing the live sound) this intangible murk still accompanies their set beautifully. For out of all the manic depressives that love to call this city their own (and believe me we're upto our noose knots in them) our opening act could arguably be considered their "queen" of all things whimsically suicidal. Not just thanks to the exceptional talents of both Rory and Thomas on bass and drums respectively (who you've likely seen in everything from Steering By Stars, Horse & Cart and Zeta) but also for the one and only Michael Radzevicius, quite possibly the wettest blanket ever to front up to a microphone. His beardly brow beaten presence is the very definition of despair. His ethereal singing voice: equal parts warm, world weary, wimpy, and weepy (or equal parts Roy Orbison, Elvis Presley and Paul Dempsey on a few too many pain killers) is demasculation personified. He's the world's smallest violin playing for each and every one of us in turn. If ever you've been dumped, dumped hard, holed up in your bedroom, painted the walls black, black fingernails, penning black poetry, listening to The Cure and pissing into milk bottles only to emerge weeks later a hollow shell with a wickarse moon tan: this is just the sort of music that would make you smile moments before promptly returning to your bedroom again to blow your brains out. For years he travelled alone, solo acoustic, bumming people out one by one; now after a few lineup changes he's got a dedicated team that can truly take us to low places. They welcome you in like rock bottom with a languid dream pop sound, drenched in an ocean of reverb. Equal parts Death Cab For Cutie and The Doves (with a few sprinkles of Pavement and Dinosaur Jnr); only with all the upbeat elements removed and in its place the sight of someone slowly rocking back and forth in foetal position waiting for that phone to ring. As much as tonight's set may've potentially been one of their funniest (especially thanks to Matt Hayward in the crowd constantly heckling them with shit like "stop playing songs about your mum!" only for Mike to shoot back with "yeah? well it's about YOUR mum.. it's a song about whales!") with all those dappled guitars, slow grooves and Tom's distinctive shuffle in the mix, you still want to wallow in it for days. They've got an album out called "Common Distance", they're in the process of recording a new one; buy them both, and you may leave the house again!










FIRE! SANTA ROSA FIRE! (****) myspace ::
This is the twenty sixth time I've seen our opening act live. Every time I've seen them live, I've essentially written the SAME review: "Spoz introduces band, Spoz insults band, Spoz lists three or four other bands they potentially sound like (which may also be an insult) then Spoz leaves a teeny tiny compliment at the end so said band doesn't kill him". And yes, it's pretty much the same review I've also written for EVERY live review you've ever read on this blog. There's numerous reasons for this (beyond the bleedingly obvious reason that I like to drink a lot). Firstly I assume no one has ever heard of said band. Secondly I assume no one ever remembers said band (even from a month ago). Thirdly I assume no one actually pays attention to anything I write in the first place and thus I can pretty much string any 'ol shit together and no one will be any the wiser cellophane herpies chloroform sasquatch potato salad. Still, there's only so many times you can pull this prank. So much so, Sam Stearne their drummer wondered out loud just how the FUCK I was gonna come up with another one tonight. But then somewhere between gig seventeen and eighteen they finally got a song on Triple J high rotation and now EVERYONE knows the name "Fire! Santa Rosa Fire!". Mission accomplished!! So now what the fuck do I write about!? Well as it turns out a whole lot actually (and not just live reviews consisting of nothing but cheap shots at the expense of their keyboardist Art). In the last nine months Fire! Santa Rosa Fire! have been recording an album. If you loved "War Coward" (so much so you could knock yourself unconscious in time to the beat) then there's plenty more where that came from. Tonight's set was a showcase for some of the best of them; some you may've heard of before, some you wouldn't have. From the rollicking jams of "Animal Spirit Guide", the angular attack of "An Rabbit", the ecclectic lightness of "April / May" to the dappled grooves of "Dogma Dart.. Don't.. or Dork!?" (is it too obvious that I stole all these details from their handwritten setlist?) there's a surprising range and depth on display here. Sure their live act is still a comical ensemble of freaks and geeks spazzing out under a spotlight: not least of which the sight of Dave Williams doing the "bobblehead hunchback" on his guitar while Caitlin Duff freaks the fuck out behind a microphone stand like a rabbit caught in oncoming traffic; but they're also showing a newfound cohesion as a unit too. They're bringing together all those insane extremes from their past: from hummingbird dancepunk, brooding post punk, triphop to art rock, and blending them into a sound that's distinctly their own. And as much as I could easily list three or four other bands like I always do, they sound more like Fire! Santa Rosa Fire! than anyone else now; they've got their own unique shit going on. Their new single's coming out in two months, their debut album sometime after that. And as much as I've relentlessly made fun of them for all these years, if the quality of recent gigs are any indication? I'm actually really looking forward to see what they'll come up with next!











TOM UGLY (****1/2) myspace ::
Whenever I go see a live band I've never heard of before I preferably like to go in cold. No press release, blogger buzz, word-of-mouth, magazine article, or whatever-the-fuck; not even a cheat sheet sneak of their myspace just to see if they blow a goat. For me the live gig is where it's truly at. I mean why else would I write all this shit? for all the free alcohol, the door entry, fans, stalkers, groupies, the endless infamy and the notoriety!? (YEAAAS!! I'm an Adelaide scene celebrity *cough* wait.. isn't that just an oxymoron? aarrr fuckit!). No it's all about discovering new shit first hand. As such I knew very little about Tom Ugly prior to tonight: short of the occassional mention on Triple J as winners of "Unearthed High", maybe a half heard song I never knew was theirs, and a one word description claiming they were "electronica" (which pretty much tells me nothing). As for the rest? I discovered that the minute they walked on stage. For one they look surprisingly little like a highschool band. You actually have to keep reminding yourself of that fact throughout their set. I mean sure they look the part, all kinds of gangly and a little bit goofy; but in a world where Tame Impala exists; these freaks look like grizzled war "veterans" by comparison (it also helps you can hardly see them lurking about in the shadows either). Weirder still they absolutely KILL on a live stage (so much so I initially suspected they were miming, the real band were hiding elsewhere, and I was watching the music video to New Order's "Crystal" instead). And that's not where the weirdness ends either. Unlike every other buzz band attempting to rip their schtick from the eighties, they're the goth electronic aesthetic of the late nineties. Yup, the late nineties. In their songs "Roll Again" and "Bad With Love" you can hear everything from Placebo, Suede, The Mavis's, Stabbing Westward, U2's "Pop" and Smashing Pumpkin's "Adore". They remind you of shit you'd see in Buffy The Vampire Slayer playing at The Bronze, or a band you'd see opening for Barcode and Circle Clan at The Proscenium back in 2003 (hmmm I wonder if anyone will get THAT obscure reference!?). In the flailing antics of their lead singer Tom Parisi (pulling all the cheesy crucifixion moves) you're reminded of everyone from Dave Gahan from Depeche Mode, Brandon Boyd from Incubus to Jim Morrison from The Doors (which either means he's a genius waaay before his time, or he'll be a drug addled pincushion by the time he hits his early twenties). From beginning to end they pound out brooding dancefloor grooves that are as infectious as they are wildly anachronistic. They have the crowd going apeshit, they own this room and they're still in highschool!? sheeiiit!! Tonight's the first leg of their nationwide tour with Fire! Santa Rosa Fire! and as much I was itching to give this band hell (I mean c'mon!? how hard is it to win Triple J Unearthed!?) something tells me this shit'll be well worth catching.. whodathunkit!?












2:32AM - Weirdly victorious against all the forces of darkness that assailed me tonight (I know! it's amazing what can be achieve with nothing but a compact camera, an ISO 400 setting so the low light "grain" doesn't fuck me up, using every exposure trick at my disposal, taking well over six hundred photos, holding my breath all the while so I didn't blur them out, deleting all but one sixth of them afterwards, only to Photoshop the fuck out've the rest *pfft* I mean, it's almost like a monkey could do it!?), I celebrate in fine form by doing just what I always do when I'm at The Ed Castle on a Friday night: by stealing as many foaming jugs of Azz Strangelove's beer rider as inhumanely possible and then fleeing the fuck out of there before he knows what hit him.. SCORE!



4:00AM - From The Ed Castle and beyond I completely bypass that wildly entertaining portion of any given episode of Spoz's Rant where I attempt use the lamest of excuses at my disposal to explain WHY I've ended up at Supermild again (as let's face it: once you've seen one bloodless coup, zombie apocalypse explosion, scenster infestation and serial killing spree all rolled into one with a wedge of lime..? yeah, you've pretty much seen them all!) as I while away the next hour or so sinking piss in peace, laughing it up with the mental patients and doing very little of any consequence. And let me tell you, it was everything I dreamed it could be too! (To think this is how normal people live it up without ridiculously over elaborate music blogs to feed each week!? AWESOME!!). Still I clearly had to go fuck THAT up the minute I made the foolish mistake of stumbling into the beer garden, and wow did I pick an inopportune moment to do that too!?



"Wuh.. what? why are you looking at me like that!? I didn't see anything I swear!" just like Sascha and Gus didn't concoct this entire fucked up publicity stunt simply so they could make yet another appearance in Spoz's Rant (nor did I hit an all-time low letting them get away with it either.. YES!!). Aaaah remember when this blog used to feature nothing but live reviews, indepth interviews, CD reviews, upcoming events and represented nothing but the very pinnacle of what Adelaide's music journalism could possibly ever aspire to? *pfft* me neither. What's my point in all this? I forget..



4:33AM - And so moments later, after screaming hysterically attempting to claw my own face off (or in other words "what's new?") I came to half an hour later to find myself back inside. Here taking THIS photo for no other reason than I thought it was the most ridiculously awesome thing at the time (for every reason that I'm clearly not out've my fucking mind for thinking it was worth posting in a blog just now). And as for why it's all blurry!? clearly it's got everything to do with Supermild being ankle deep in carnivorous leprecauns (and I'm attempting to shake off at least three of them with their razor sharp teeth who are attempting to chew through my leg right about now) and absolutely nothing to do with my ability to hold a camera steady after all the beer I HAVEN'T been drinking. Because as we all know, Spoz never drinks and neither should you!



4:40AM - And since none of you would ever believe I was being sincere in that last statement (I mean *pfft* when am I ever sober!? I'm never sober! I'm drunk all the fucking time!! so much so I love nothing more than to write this blog whilst tripping balls on blotter in a bathtub to the sweet sounds of Jefferson Airplane's "White Rabbit" being thrashed in a loop) here's two hiiilarious photos I forgot to delete off my camera, featuring me being a blithering idiot with "No Face" Tara: for no other reason than she made the monumental blunder of walking past me just now..



Yup, it really was THIS head explodingly exciting to be in Supermild tonight. Don't you wish you could've been here!? I know I wish I did tonight, cause I barely remember a single moment of it!



It's all about available lighting when you're a live band photographer: frequently fleeting, flickering and forever beyond your control; or at least that's what you start with. By the end you'll be left with a whole lot less. No light, no focus, no fucking clue, battery light flashing, slamming into walls like a dodgem car, falling up flights of stairs and stumbling into incoming traffic: shellshocked yet grinning ear to ear in what little victory you've claimed. It's you swearing blind that the venues you visit are only getting darker by the hour, by the day, month and the year like you're living out that nightmare again and again. It's you feeding off of those ever more impossible odds. It's the thrill of the hunt. It's never easy I know, but if ever it was? duuude it wouldn't nearly be as fun!

Previously on Spoz's Rant: The Keepsakes + The Sea Thieves

:: Spoz 2:34 PM |
...

THE KEEPSAKES + THE SEA THIEVES
LIVE @ THE GRACE EMILY / Sunday June 28th 2009

Unlike every other episode you've read recently (especially in the last few months) tonight is nothing special. There's no album launch to celebrate. There's no interstate or international touring act to infiltrate (ie: scam free entry). There's no farewell to commiserate (as yet another Adelaide band is consigned to the dustbin of history). It's just another night. Just like any other night of the week. Or more specifically a Sunday night. Anything goes on a Sunday night. And when it DOES you can pretty much take it or leave it; or do whatever the fuck you want to do with it (even twist them into balloon animals or set fire to them if that's what floats your boat). It's what I like to call the "bonus round" and it's the awesomest shit ever, it really is! There are no expectations to live upto in the "bonus round", there are no rules to abide by or break. Nothing, anything and everything simply exists at the same time, simultaneously in a constant state of flux; or in a quantum superposition like Schrödinger's Cat stuffed in a box. In the "bonus round" you can be both alive and dead. You can be howlingly hungover or bright eyed and sharp as a pencil. You could be fifty foot tall, flaming orange, covered in a fine fur and swatting F22 fighter jets out of the sky; or you can stop tripping balls on that funny fungus for a while and reacquaint yourself with reality. Anything goes! Which after all I've seen and done in the past month, where it's been nothing but album and EP launches, that I've known about for weeks in advance, that I would've kicked myself if I missed them (and I missed four of them as it is!?) is nothing short of a revelation. I wish every night was as blitheringly nonsensical. I mean, whose to say I should live by any kind of regular schedule anyways? *pfft* what schedule!? I was never a legitimate journalist to begin with!



And so just for the fuck of it, I thought I'd front up to The Grace Emily tonight. No real reason. I just saw that these two bands were playing, and here we are. Little did I realise however, what I'd invariably set in motion. It all started half an hour ago, while I was waiting at the bus stop. Some scruffy looking dude stumbles upto me and asks if I had two dollars. Nothing unusual in that; and usually I'd just pretend I didn't have any and he'd be on his way again (I know I'm such a humanitarian aren't I?). Just this once however I thought "what the hell" and handed him two dollars. Moments later we both get on the bus, I find the seat at the back, fire up Bing Goes To Monaco on my ipod and think nothing more of it. Somewhere around track five however: "Initial Theories, Almost Big" the bus stops dead again. Looking around, wondering what the cause could be, I discover a huddle of people forming outside. All kneeling around the same guy I gave two dollars to mere moments ago; now curled up in a ball. I wondered if somehow I was responsible, that maybe my coins were cursed, or maybe Bing Goes To Monaco had some bad juju going on, or who's to know what the FUCK I unleashed!? I dared not get out of my seat and investigate further lest the bus explode around me in a shower of shrapnel. We were there for five minutes, it was nailbiting stuff: then to cut a long story short I'm pretty sure nobody died, and here we are.



Upon arriving at The Grace Emily, I bump into Zac Coligan (aka: "Psychic Bartender Zac" from the Jade Monkey, aka: The Sea Thieves). I explained the situation to him and we both pondered over the infinite possibilites. On the one hand we figured it had to be a positive. If I hadn't given him those two dollars he would've simply collapsed where he stood; and at least THIS way I helped him get a little closer to home. On the other hand we figured it was an ill omen, nothing short of the impending apocalypse and we should all stock up on duct tape and move to Switzerland. Stranger still, we speculated over a third option. What if he didn't get on the bus at all and simply spent the two dollars on goon; only it'd have to be a teeny tiny bag of goon for what he could afford. Problem is, it didn't exist yet, so clearly he'd have to invent it. We figured it'd just be like one of those funny face iceblocks, only it'd be 100% pure goon, and it wouldn't be frozen. We even came up with a name for it: "Goon Face". No shit, it blew our minds when we came up with it (and he would've been a freaking billionaire if he patented it). As for what any of this shit has got to do with any of the bands tonight? absolutely nothing! still it really makes you think doesn't it!?



THE SEA THIEVES (****1/2) myspace ::
Our opening act I only ever see once a year. It's always about this time of year and it's always on a Sunday. It's not like I actually plan it this way (and they do actually play other gigs at other times throughout the year) but there's always something rather poetic about it all the same. Just when shit gets too hairy out there (or even just before that) they're there when you need them the most. Some might consider it a coincidence, but not me; I'm well aware of Zac Coligan's serendipitous psychic abilities. He likes to make a game of it everytime I'm at the Jade Monkey. Before I even know I want a beer he's ready for me: presenting a bottle from below the bar still frosty from the fridge I never saw him reach for. It trips me out everytime and it shows in the music too. The Sea Thieves are a happy accident through and through. It doesn't matter that his better half Naomi isn't here tonight, it still comes together as if by chance. You can hear it on the album they released last year "Hiding In The Shade". Recorded in the Jade Monkey no less, it's riddled with amusing quirks: a whistling breeze, a creak of the floorboard, a passing bus, even an entire track "Helicopter In The Afternoon" devoted to pretty much what the title suggests. It adds a homespun charm, that makes it more of a conversation than a concert recital to experience live. In closest equivalent think Beck's "Sea Change" mixed in with a little bit of Tom Waits; think of the warm crackle of a fire on a winter's night. Their whimsical selection of instruments only add to the effect: with found objects ranging from singing saws, toy pianos to ukuleles embuing a richness that perfectly compliments Zac Coligan's sandpaper register. As for tonight's performance he covers up for Naomi's absence by looping his guitar or ukulele before swapping to the next instrument, or by throwing in a drum track (the singing saw, just like a theramin, is especially mesmerising). The songs for the most part are off the album (which I totally recommend you get), but he also throws in the occassional ecclectic cover too. The first is Elvis' "Blue Moon" that by his performance tonight somehow reminds me of Jim Henson (so much so I expected a choir of muppets to burst forth in accompaniment). Even more obscure is a cover of a Massive Attack song from the Batman Forever Soundtrack: "The Hunter Gets Captured by the Game" (originally written by Smokey Robinson no less). It's amazing just how much this one bearded gimp can conjure, it's a captivating performance in all its quirks. The best solo gigs are like this: rich with character. And when he finished for the night? we didn't want him to leave. He didn't have anything prepared off hand, but he still whipped up a killer encore in "Faster By Degrees" all the same. Yup, you know it when you see it: this dude's a natural. No wonder he's one of the best bartenders in Adelaide!









THE KEEPSAKES (****) myspace ::
In our second act tonight you may notice a slight lineup change (different still from the lineup you might've seen just a few nights ago when they played at Rocket Bar). That'd be Clemi their guitarist, trumpeteer, tambourine player and master of the melodica (former bass player for Zeta) who I'm told is apparently "moving to Melbourne". In her place is violinist and guitarist Tom (no, not Tom Spall from Cortez.. some other guy called "Tom") and if you have trouble keeping up with THAT shit (and believe me you're not the only one) it only gets more confusing from here on in. For as I've increasingly discovered with The Keepsakes, they go through fourth band members rather like Spinal Tap go through drummers (or somewhere short of what Billy Corgan still likes to laughingly call "The Smashing Pumpkins"). In one year alone they've had a revolving roster of fourth band members featuring everyone from Alex Ciaravolo on guitar (from the 20th Century Graduates and formerly from the Lumonics) Felicity on keyboards and melodica (from.. who the fuck knows where!?) to every bespectacled dweeb in between and it's anyone's guess why. On the one hand they're building upon the ecclectic charm of The Keepsakes by adding some of Adelaide's finest multi-instrumentalists into their repetoire. On the other hand I shudder to think where they "bury" all the bodies (I mean, moving to Melbourne? that's the oldest trick in the book!). Still when you consider their core lineup, you begin to understand how they can get away with murder. Thanks to the fiendish talents of the brothers Wignall: Anthony and Jon, and what appears to be a twelve year old girl playing the drums (Jeremy?), The Keepsakes are the undeniable masters in all things indie-pop. In their set tonight you can hear influences in everything from The Shins, Wilco, Foo Fighter's self titled, 90's Blur to The Dandy Warhols. You can hear it in all the bombast of Oasis with none of the ego. You can hear it in all the melody, harmony and hooks that'd surely drive any cliche crowd of fangirl groupies to crap a lung in hysterics. That's The Keepsakes. Anthony's jubilent verse-chorus dynamic. Jon and Jeremy's simply bouncey rhythms on bass and drums. Even in this shortlived set (and I swear it was over in less that twenty five minutes) you couldn't help but want to join the party. New "fourth member" Tom and his violin fit the easy going vibe of The Grace Emily brilliantly. And when they invited Jon's girlfriend on stage to do backup vocals (see video) as blitheringly random as it was to see her up there; it still made perfect sense. Yup, it's official, The Keepsakes can truly do no wrong!













Moments after The Keepsake's all too abrupt exit from stage tonight, I found myself lost in contemplation over this cattle skull found hanging in the beergarden out back. I asked myself: what kind of life did it lead? was it a full life? was it happy life? was it any good on rollerskates? could it speak in conversational Chinese? why was it born a cow and not a chicken? why were any of us born here as humans and not as three headed gorloks from the effervescent planet of Spritzlebleen? and do I even know what the FUCK that shit is!? (hmmm do I smell something burning? *cough* nevermind). No shit, any one of us could've been this cow's head stuck on a wall, if only the dice roll came out differently. The only fate is what we make. The only one we have to blame for this shit is ourselves. Embrace the chaos dude, it's a beautiful thing to behold!



Somewhat satisfied in the fact that I'd clearly come to no conclusion with that cattle skull (seriously even I don't know what the fuck I'm on about sometimes!) I went back inside for another beer, a dark ale to be precise (I know, it seems to be the weather for it). I sat at a table with Ben Revi (everyone's favourite übergeek punchline from Cheer Advisory Council and Humble Bee) and his housemate Henry (who's most notable for the fact he wears a hat) and we talked complete and utter nonsense about absolutely nothing at all. We didn't keep track of time. None of it was of any consequence. I don't even know why it was worth mentioning now. And then after an hour or so, completely at random, we collectively came to the same agreement; and went our separate ways.



Tonight was nothing special. It was just atoms ping ponging in the ether, appearing at all points of the universe and then vanishing. You can search for all the meaning you want, attach grand significance to what is merely chance and coincidence, claim it was fate, destiny or a higher power that brought you here; or simply enjoy the moment for what it is. Here on a Sunday, here at The Grace Emily; watching it all unfold. Every night should be a "bonus round". Makes you appreciate life and all of its happy accidents. It's not fate, it's not a five year plan, it's free will baaaby!

Previously on Spoz's Rant: Bing Goes To Monaco + Kittyhawk + The Honey Pies

:: Spoz 2:48 PM |
...