Posts Tagged ‘I’m Hammered’

Thursday. Waste. Reflect.

February 27, 2012

Here is a shorthand, non-poetic summary of my Thursday evening:

Night off, planned to spend it writing but instead
get a call to do something I don’t really want to,
but hey, it’s for the kids at school, so fine,
I get a ride and go.
It sucks and I’m not needed in the end,
though that was clear as soon as I arrived.
So I’m stuck there, grumbling to myself,
drinking with money I really don’t have,
getting mad at anything and everything,
not least of all myself.
I put $10 bucks on a dog that comes in 5 to 1,
so I’ve got this winning ticket
but it’s too late to cash it.
Get a lift into town, drinking ciders all the while.
Hang out at soul night for a bit,
making an ass of myself.
Heading over to the pub to cash my ticket,
50 bucks quickly becomes none, shouting drinks
for friends and strangers alike.
Walk to someone’s home with some other strangers,
spill some red wine on their floor.
Wake-up early and get a lift home,
tongue parched, headache, self-pity and self-loathing.
Hate the world as well, just for good measure.
Want to spend all day in bed, but drag myself
out of it in time to teach a lesson at 4 PM.
Collect my money and go home, and straight back into bed.
That song remains unwritten.

Besides being not productive, I found some comfort in the following lines, as I am wont to do…

The first comes from T. S. Eliot, in The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock:

“I have measured out my life in coffee spoons”

Then my favourite Morrissey line from my favourite Smiths songs, “Half A Person”:

“And if you have 5 seconds to spare
Then I’ll tell you the story of my life”

And lastly, a line from Youth Group’s Toby Martin, from “All This Will Pass”:

“But you’re talking to yourself,
you’re as lonely and as desperate
as a kettle boiling with no-one there to get it.”

I shall not compare T.S. Eliot with Morrissey, or Morrissey with Toby Martin, or any other configuration of some non-existent trivalry.  That would be pointless, besides sheer folly.  All I will say is that I love each of those lines in my dark, brooding hours and look upon them as being very, very spot on.  What they describe, they do so very well.  It almost hurts how perfect they got it.

Cheers to you all.  Better days ahead, I hope.

Gutter Sensibilities

December 31, 2011

The Pogues – White City

Here a tower shinning bright
Once stood gleaming in the night
Where now there’s just the rubble
In the hole here the paddies and the frogs
Came to gamble on the dogs
Came to gamble on the dogs not long ago

Oh the torn up ticket stubs
From a hundred thousand mugs
Now washed away with dead dreams in the rain
And the car-parks going up
And they’re pulling down the pubs
And it’s just another bloody rainy day

Oh sweet city of my dreams
Of speed and skill and schemes
Like atlantis you just disappeared from view
And the hare upon the wire
Has been burnt upon your pyre
Like the black dog that once raced
Out from trap two


Shall I explain why I love this song?  Is there really much more to say other than you either get it or you don’t?  Buy me a cider and maybe we shall talk for hours on end.

Happy New Year.


On crack…

April 3, 2011

My parents just left. It was their first visit to see me in Oz, and I can never recount nor express what came to pass over these last 2 weeks other than banal asides and whatnot. They did, however, leave me with a copy of The Fighter, which means that this was the first movie I have seen in the last 10-12 months.

I don’t want to get all rock star and shyte on you, coz trust me, that ain’t it. Between work and jazz gigs (which make money), Royal Chant shows (which lose money), reading (often), and writing (less often), movies have fallen by the wayside. If it makes any sense or provides some perspective, I have yet to see The Social Network, Black Swan, Avatar, and pretty much any movie released in the last 3 years. If you ever start to ask me the question, “Hey have you seen….”, I will cut you off with a sharp “NO!” before you get to the end of the sentence.

But, seeing how it’s 2:27 AM and I just got done watching The Fighter, between you and me and these bottles of beer I started trolling my mind for my favourite depictions of drugs and drug users in film.

1) I will start by tipping my hat to Christian Bale in The Fighter. Well done. If I was a true Aussie I’d use the C-word and the F-word in conjunction right about now.

2) Samuel L. Jackson as Gator in Jungle Fever. BLOODY HELL! He nailed it! That is exactly how a crack head dances. His mother’s denial and complacency in his addiction is absolutely gut-wrenching.

3) Ewan McGregor as Mark Renton in Trainspotting. Pretty much my inspiration for high school & college, sad to say.

4) Mickey Rourke in The Wrestler. That’s how I see myself in a few years. Barely blonde, bloated, facing defeat, coasting on old success, telling the same stories in the same cadence….

5) Jason Schwartzman in Spun. Yup, that’s meth. John Leguizamo is superb as usual, and Mickey Rourke shines in this one as well.

There is a lot to be said about the movies and characters I have just mentioned, but seeing as how it’s now 2:56 AM and I’m a rather lazy sod, I’ll leave it to you to do the introspection. Goodnight for now…

Poor thing…

December 15, 2009

Everyone takes pills for the first time….and yes, everyone comes down.  Poor thing, we’d like to tell her that it gets better in the morning, but maybe it’s best if we just lie and say that Portishead will be releasing a greatest hits package very, very soon.  That’ll make it better, won’t it old girl?  And don’t forget, we all have to start somewhere, and very obviously, so do you.  You have been well-schooled in inner city histrionics, and gosh, does it show.  Like that bad haircut you most certainly have.

You don’t think you go straight to reviewing the Strokes do you?  Silly goat, that’s for people that have artistic sensibilities.  You were hired because you can type.  Sort of.


Yes folks, these are exactly the sort of hipsters that we have our sights set on.  Too cool to like anything, and so dumb they hate it all.  Scoffing, scoffing, scoffing….and not an idea between the lot of them.

Not revenge, mind you, just the other half of the 4th estate hitting the ball right back into the other half of the court.  Don’t you know we’re all critics?  Well, now you do….

Courstesy of Rave Magazine, Brisbane.

ROYAL CHANT – Right On / Write Off PDF Print E-mail
Tuesday, 15 December 2009

Royally average rock

I had hoped, being my first review for Rave, that I would be given something amazing – something I could happily heap praise upon (Yeah right! – Indie Ed.). It was not to be. It is difficult to figure out exactly what sound Sydney based Royal Chant are going for on their four track EP Right On / Write Off. This debut EP boasts clean guitars and melodic almost-rock choruses, though falls short of achieving any real interest. Royal Chant are the perfect contenders for winning a local band competition but such competitions aren’t renowned for winning with originality. Lyrics are suitably catchy, if not uninspiring and aren’t about to break hearts or blow minds. Self-proclaiming players of “hyperverbal (sic) rock with passion and poetry” upon listening, lack both the rock and the poetry. If everyone believes the hype as much as the band members themselves seem to, then perhaps Royal Chant will go far. Prime fodder for those who live on the median strip.


Sing, Singing, Singer, Singed, Sang , Sung….

July 7, 2009

It’s a very old observation, nothing new here, but I was indulging myself with watching an old Pogues video, “Dirty Old Town”, and I somewhat solidified something for myself (and probably ONLY for myself): there are those that sing because they have nice voices, and those that sing because that HAVE to.

Bob Dylan is the obvious, and far too easy, example of this, but really, it does seem somewhat true far beyond that.  I’ve never been all that impressed by a good or great voice, and maybe that is because I don’t have one myself.  BUT, I would like to think it is because I am waiting for something that involves or reflects the human struggle/soul.  A good voice?  Blame God, but don’t take credit for it.  Personally, I have always thought of a good voice as something akin to a pretty songbird–something to adorn the sitting parlor, but nothing to get attached to.  A good voice does not change lives.  A good message does.

I wholeheartedly admit that my own singing voice is somewhere between a scratch and a warble, so don’t go calling sour grapes, coz it just ain’t true.  I want to be moved, and the only thing that seems to do that is hearing something that is singular, something that no one else can give me.  I want to be shattered to my foundation, not entertained.

Enough….for now.  Godspeed Shane McGowan, Bob Dylan, Neil Young, etc….sometimes, the message is the music.

To my ears, anyway.

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