May/1061
America America Is Killing Its Youth – in praise of Suicide
How rad are Suicide? Like that isn’t the most hardcore band name EVER. What is more extreme than calling your band Suicide? Nothing, that’s what. I guess you could call your band The Holocaust Is A Lie or Anal C*nt but that’s just immature shock tactics. Suicide weren’t trying to get a reaction, they were the reaction. Dude, they were more so punk, even the punks hated them!
Yet another revisionist tale, they’re now more popular than ever. All those punk-funk, indie-dance bands (y’know the ‘dance music isn’t dead, it just learnt how to play guitar’ crowd) sing their praises. But who loved them back then? Next to no-one. They did entire tours where they got booed every SINGLE NIGHT. They went on these ridiculous bills with totally inappropriate bands – why? No one sounded like them, who else are they going to play with? But did that stop them? Hell no! They just kept going. That is VISION my friends! Of course there are always a few hepcats with open ears that can tell when the wind is changing. Otherwise, chances are I would never have discovered them. Ric Ocasek produced some of their material and got them signed. But, in one of my favourite ‘from rock music’s back annals’ stories, their biggest celebrity fan was….Bruce Springsteen. Holy shit, The Boss dug Suicide! Label-mates early on, he was with them when they sat around a boardroom table with label executives and premiered their first album. Imagine the faces on those suits! Ha! Bruce loved it, and thanked and hugged them afterwards. The Boss hugged Suicide!
If you haven’t heard them, their sound is primal electronic. Dark, mysterious, alluring. But this was no “No Elvis, Beatles or The Rolling Stones” – they’d do a blues number like nothing you’ve ever heard or a song about junkies in New York with chords straight off a Shangri-Las record. They dropped the bomb back when it mattered and left us all with enough stuff to decipher for another lifetime. Put it on at your next party - it’s a divider, that’s for sure. The crazy people love it, the rest will complain or just stand there with their mouths agape. It will give you the tiniest taste of what it must have been like for them way back when. Suicide man, harder than your hardest hardcore.
Mar/10610
Falling cars/exploding cream
I
At the end of the credits for Tony Scott's Domino, the real Domino Harvey appears on screen while behind her a car falls into frame and explodes. Her head is shaved and she has the translucent pocked skin of a junkie. She is smiling. She died not longer after the film wrapped. It's not yet a cliché (or maybe it is) but I can think of several instances where a photograph of the subject is shown at the end of a true story movie (Blow, Monster, The Blind Side). It's a nice little bit of closure, bringing the story full circle. But that two-second grab of the real Domino Harvey is not an afterthought - it could have just been a photograph of her, but no, we get Domino Harvey and a falling, exploding car. I keep thinking about the logistics and expense of that shot, and how neatly it sums up the movie's attention to detail, and its penchant for spectacle.
II
A while ago I saw the Monster Truck Extravaganza at the Cairns Showground. On the whole, it was an underwhelming and tiring experience; the time between events was staggering. The trucks were old lions in a dilapidated circus; well past their prime, they were primped and preened by their trainers before being roused for one last parade around the arena. They kept breaking down, delaying things further. In between the trucks, children on little motorcycles would do laps. All the while, the emcee, a FM radio exile, was trying to hype the crowd for the next truck's arrival. He reminded me of those buskers who spend most of their act guilt-tripping you into emptying your wallet into their hat, instead of, you know, performing. The crowd was also completely ordinary and nothing like the Steadman-esque sketch of hillbillies, beer, flannel, sweat, testosterone and destruction I had built up in my mind.
The lone highlight, and saving grace, was also the simplest act on the bill. A crane hoisted a car 50 feet into the air, then dropped it, letting it fall back to the ground with an ugly thud. It left me giddy. The crowd screamed like the Beatles had landed. There were two cars in fact - a Ford and a Holden. They took turns attaching, raising and then dropping each car. The Ford fans cheered when the Holden was dropped and vice-versa. The biggest cheer was reserved for a flash of genius; the emcee, after asking "Who wants to see the Ford get dropped next?", and then "Who wants to see the Holden get dropped next?", hit upon the motherlode - "Who wants to see the Ford dropped onto the Holden?". The ovation was deafening.
III
Once, I was responsible for rotating the stock in the dairy section of a supermarket. If I found anything past its use-by date, I could write it off and destroy it. 'Destroy' is the key word - not 'dispose', not 'remove', certainly not 'place neatly in the provided waste receptacle'. I don't think I've ever done a job with more zeal. I would scour the whole section, top to bottom, looking for any and all items I could destroy. Ashamedly, I might have even written off the odd thing that still had a couple of days shelf life left.
I would proceed to the back dock and open up the skip, resting its lid against the wall. The lid provided the backboard to the skip's oversized basketball ring. Standing 10 feet back, I’d hurl the items hard against the lid, delighting as they exploded and dribbled into the bin. There was the occasional dud – a chocolate mousse or carton of milk that would hit awkwardly and refuse to break. Yoghurts worked well, but cream was the best; their lids would always pop straight off, discharging their thick innards everywhere. The messier the result - the wider I grinned.
IV
JJ Abrams’ Star Trek has a flashback to a joyriding ten year old Kirk. He is chased down by a hover-bike cop before speeding his car over a cliff, jumping to safety at the last instant. I’m always looking for moments (and characters) like this in cinema – self-destructive, wild-eyed, blaze-of-glory types. After young Kirk stood up and dusted himself off, I had expected (nay, demanded) that he would stare at the cop and let out a guttural scream like a trapped animal. Instead, he mouthed something wiseass. I had wanted to see someone on film take it all the way.
A few movies later, I got my wish – at the close of Neveldine/Taylor's Crank: High Voltage (the greatest action movie I have seen), Jason Statham, as Chev Chelios, is burning to death. His skin is on fire, peeling off and revealing ashen muscles underneath. He turns and faces the camera, grinning malevolently. He raises his middle finger and roars into the audience’s faces. Neil Young said it’s better to burn out than fade away, but how about burn away then Fade Out?
Mar/1051
The Black Godfather – Thank God for Andre Williams
At Egg Records in Newtown, there is a framed Andre Williams tour poster. It features the same sensationally gaudy image used for the cover of his album The Black Godfather. In a dead-on pastiche of late 90s hip-hop ostentatiousness, it shows Williams, grisled but resplendent in pinstripe suit and hat, sitting on a throne surrounded by Mercedes’, dogs with glowing eyes and strippers bending over. Hell, check it our yerself:
The poster is signed, presumably at the time of his gig at the nearby Enmore Theatre. He was in his sixties, two albums into an unlikely career revival. Every time I go to Egg, I wonder why I haven't bought it yet.
Most famous for writing Shake Your Tail Feather, Williams had a spectacular career in the 50s and 60s not only as a writer (he co-wrote Stevie Wonder’s first song), but also as a singer (Bacon Fat, Greasy Chicken) and producer (Ike & Tina Turner). But by the mid-nineties, his career had taken a nosedive. Hell, he was apparently broke and homeless when two ex-Gories brought him, like Lazarus from the pit, back into the public consciousness (if you haven't heard the Gories, please look them up). The album they created together was Silky, a suite of nasty low-down blues recordings with song titles like Pussy Stank and Let Me Put It In. There are musicians credited as playing “car bumper”, “auto fender” and “brake drum”. It’s patchy, poorly mixed, and Andre sounds like he’s swallowing nails every time he sings. It’s also rather brilliant.
He followed Silky with The Black Godfather, where he is backed by a who’s who of garage bands, including The Dirtbombs, Jon Spencer Blues Explosion, Cheater Slicks and The Compulsive Gamblers. They even dug up Steve Mackay, the saxophonist from the Stooges’ Funhouse, and threw him on there to wail and thrash about.
After those two records, I discovered his older material and understood the affinity all these garage rockers had for him. His take on soul and blues mirrored their own – raw, yes, but nuanced and clever. Two and three chord songs with a primal beat and a witty lyric – chuck a bit of distortion on the guitar and it was garage rock.
So this is for you Mr. Williams, my home recorded take of your seminal song Jail Bait (listen to the original here). Thank-you for your music. And next time I'm in Sydney, I'm going to get that poster.
Mar/1085
For those that already rocked, we salute you!
Like that potato at the bottom of your pantry, we have festered and mutated. In the 12 months since we last graced a stage, we have grown an extra four arms. And two basses! Never a band to do things by halves, our cherry-popping Corinbank set saw us with two tenderfoots bedaubed in primary colour paint and waving devices of low rumble destruction. Brad comes to us courtesy of art-noise pests The Cherry Marines and grungy rock titans Standing Waves, while Josh has most recently been eating frets for breakfast with Cool Weapon and The Marc Robertson Band. Both veterans of Righteous Noise, they ably steered us through one of our heaviest ever sets.
For your services gentlemen, we thank-you, and we welcome you, and most of all, we salute you!
Feb/10109
Corinbank Countdown!
It is now only 20 sleeps 'til the Lincolns take the stage for their first gig of the new decade! We've got some surprises in store too - it's gonna be bigger than Ben-Hur and Lil Wayne in a hyperbole contest.
Along with us, Corinbank is fit to burst with some of our favourite acts including Julia & The Deep Sea Sirens, Mr. Fibby, The Bluffhearts, The Big Score, The Ellis Collective, Dr Stovepipe and Drew Walky.
Oh yeah, and some blokes called You Am I.
See you at the festival!
Dec/097
Bow down now while the Captain is still benevolent
Look at those eyes! He won't be benevolent for long.
Buy the album!
