culture


robertdarby

Click. Duh.

80 minutes of typhos

The abortion that is Australian politics; Julia Gillard and homos; piracy, privacy, surveillance states  and why Hollywood must be destroyed; islam, Geert Wilders and why Sam Harris needs to read more; and a shitload more.

I am told that one of these images is funny and the other is not…

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Know Your Product, after (I’m) Stranded, is what people remember The Saints by. Those that are grounded in their culture anyway. No, Your product is the real depth. Awesome. A beast that burned too briefly.

Destroy SOPA

Seriously, what is at stake is your right to interact; to criticise; to parody; to discuss.

SOPA/PIPA wants to give carte blanche censorship powers to the corporate sector.

No accountability. No responsibility.

The real target is you.

React or submit.

Hollywood creates nothing. Neither does the RIAA. Ask them – have they ever returned a cent to artists by suing dead people and single mothers? They will not answer. They are parasites. Dinosaurs that natural selection is removing from the biosphere. They have no function other than to serve themselves. Herein lies their desperation.

Destroy them.

They are worthless.

So are the politicians that are selling you out.

Register to vote – and remember who’s who.

You have to be stoned to fully appreciate it.

The tornado has passed. The last of the hordes that descend from mid December have departed. Orthodox crassmass, celebrated using the older Julian calendar, is on the 7th of January for most (6th for some). They have left; there is glorious silence.

The last high/low-light was a testament to the joys of the ubiquitous $2 shops that largely support the bulk of sweatshop labour in the third world. Ma pulled apart a crassmass bonbon with my 3 yo nephew and it exploded with an anticlimactic pop and the usual tissue paper hat and junk gift fell out which junior gleefully grappled and pulled apart. The “gift” fell out – a flimsy plastic case full of sewing needles. I thought one of the others was a bit dangerous for kids, a cork screw. But fucking sewing needles? In children’s crassmass crackers? Those wacky Chinese sweatshop entrepreneurs. No harm was done in this case – Ma was paying attention. But the lesson of the day is never trust anything you buy at those junk shops, especially where kids are involved.

Another gem fell into my lap a few days ago in digitised format. A copy of Bill Cosby’s contribution to the War on Drugs – the 1972 Grammy Award winning (best kids album) Bill Cosby Talks to Kids About Drugs, which I actually do possess on vinyl. (more…)

Don't they look sweet?

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All these people are dead bar the singer. They lived a richer life than you’ll ever hope to, especially if you’re a baboon. Back when music had real venom. When the neighbours could get told to get fucked and the cops were too scared to interfere. The carpets were sticky and there was a faint stench of vomit in the air that was blue with cigarette smoke. There was a real chance if you entered, you might not leave. The gutters of Sydney punk circa 1980, I present X, still the greatest rock-n-roll band ever. Weep at what you will never experience –

The Great One died earlier this year, magically at the age of 69. The man who painted with sound and ended his days painting with paint. As with his music, his visual art did not simply defy convention, it refused to acknowledge it.

The Captain was not like us – he was a precious idiot-god. Probably functionally illiterate, seeing music in drawings and drawings in sounds, I doubt anyone could have ever seen the reality he perceived – an endless source of grief for him, especially when bumping into immovable objects like Zappa.

He was without a doubt the man who poisoned me – life changed when at age 16 I had my mind permanently deformed by Doc At The Radar Station. I blaspheme by considering this his greatest work, alongside Lick My Decals Off Baby. Trout Mask is, dunno, beyond me, but still a masterwork, a communion for once a year perhaps, a sacred experience – black putty music. But Doc and Decals do it for me.

So, 35 years later, something all of us with fins have been waiting for, is finally being released from the vaults of Virgin records after being stuck in legal limbo. Bat Chain Puller is coming. There are many tracks from this that were subsequently re-recorded and added to later vinyl, much of it amongst the best of the best, like the sublime Owed t’Alex (raw live version, no doubt in a pub with sticky carpet and a faint vomit smell, the way I like it)

Here’s a cut from Doc: Sue Egypt

And one from Decals: Buggy Boogie Woogie (probably my all time fave) –

I salivate at the prospect of Bat Chain Puller.

They think they're geniuses now. What a waste.

Perhaps the greatest tragedy to befall avante guano1 was The Residents actually earning enough money to buy real instruments and start believing all the bullshit from music pundits praising their genius.

How to destroy creativity – reward it and relieve it from hand-to-mouth starvation.

The Residents last worthwhile output was probably Diskomo, in my elitist opinion. Ever since then, they have started believing the nonsense that they are artists – and the volume of crap they churn out has grown exponentially to feed the less discerning.

Their music was most interesting when they didn’t know how to play and used trash and toy instruments – not the state of the art electronica they now employ.

This is from their glory days, before their ruin, Third Reich’n’Roll, which also has the best cover of Hey Jude ever  – (more…)

Abomination

Following on from an earlier item lamenting the past, and the assertion that by 1977, punk was already something that, for the main part, had run its course, most of its raw creative energy spent.

I drew the comparison to Dada, as have numerous other commentators, and I think it is a valid one – the heady, defining days of the movement were an expression of absolute rejection of existing norms and contempt for the meaninglessness of consumer culture, undermining it by, literally, fucking the system off and doing everything yourself with its discarded scraps. From a creative perspective it was utopian, but as a business model it was worthless. (more…)

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