Why would anyone name a pub after a bad show that was on Channel 9 ten years ago?

Some time around last November, I attempted to recapture my lost youth went and heard a mate's band play at a pub.

The mate in question is the half of the duo known as "Simeon Acoustic" who was not actually named Simeon. Since I have played the odd gig or two with this guy, and he also played at my wedding, this is not going to be the most objective review ever. Still, having foolishly promised to write it shortly after the gig, now, a little over four months later, I shall.

I did not promise that this would lead to massive attention from the mainstream media, sales through the roof and sold out shows at Calder Park. And it won’t. Still, since good music deserves to be reviewed and this is pretty much the only forum available to me right now, here it is.

It must be said that of all the pubs I have ever been to, when it comes to acoustics and generally suitability for gigs, the Water Rat in South Melbourne must rank amongst the Top 3 "Most Pants Ever".

At number one.

Just to add to the fun, Simeon had a case of tonsilitis so bad that he could barely sing and had to cut the gig short, so it's fair to suggest that these boys may have not had their best night ever.

This turned the evening into a sort of anti-Idol experience, which can only be good.

There was no missing the obvious quality of the songs, and it's impossible not to like a duo who stop for a full five minutes mid-gig to talk about conditions in the poorer parts of Africa and provide the opportunity for the semi-inebriated crowd to sign up to sponsor a child at that table up the back.


Simeon's voice falls somewhere between Chad Kroeger and Ed Kowalczyk, but fortunately his music has a lot more orginality and less blandness than the middle of the road tragedy otherwise known as Nickelback. I might not have thought of the comparison with Ed if the evening hadn't ended with a cover of "Lightening Crashes", but once you notice it's hard to miss.


The set was almost entirely made up of originals, although it was broken up by a pleasantly rowdy cover of Paul Kelly's "Dumb Things". Good though the originals were, there was a certain similarity in style and tempo to more than a few of the songs. The set could benefit from a couple of slower ballads, some reggae in the manner of Cold Chisel's "No sense", or perhaps some sort of offbeat electric bass and horn combination mildly reminiscent of Missy Higgins' "Casualty". Or something.

The same could be said of the demo CD that I got for free just for turning up. It's probably not safe to generalise from just three tracks, but I don't think the album is out yet so I'm going to do just that.

The CD is nothing less than very, very good. The CD opens with a studio track, "Satellite" which features a driving bass line and tight-as-fish percussion. This sits very well behind the nicely melodic guitars and strong vocals. The song neatly captures the sense of being far away and missing the one you most care about, whilst avoiding any wacky 'left arm that's been lost in a war' style lyrics, which no-one but the Waifs could even come close to getting away with.


Tracks 2 & 3 are acoustic numbers, also recorded live. I haven't managed to find out the name of track 2, since it's mysteriously absent fromn the band's myspace page, so I'll move on to track 3. "I hear your voice", is, for me, the clear highlight, partly for sheer melodiousness, and partly because, as regular readers may have noticed, I am an absolute sucker for anything exploring the intersection of faith and doubt, and this song does it well.

Good bands are hard to find, so if you happen to be passing a pub somewhere in South Melbourne and you see a skinny guy with a great voice unloading a guitar, get yourself inside and chill to some very good sounds indeed.

Or, if you want to take an approach that's a little more efficient than randomly wandering around the inner suburbs, you can find the band's facebook page here and listen to a couple of tracks here.

And then go to a gig.

Your scarf, it was apricot (dried)

On my way home tonight, I overheard a brief snatch of a mobile phone conversation that went like this:

Dude standing in the rain: I know, I'm standing in the rain right now.

This made me wonder why this guy did not walk two metres to his right , thus cleverly ceasing to stand in the rain and therefore perhaps being able to reconsider whether such terseness with his nearest and dearest was, in fact, necessary.

It also led me to consider whether he would have been less unhappy with his situation had he been a piece of dried fruit, which naturally gave me an idea for my next work of non-fiction.*

I plan to publish an in depth study of dried fruit. In particular, I want to look at whether dried fruit improves over time.

It will be called "The Age of Raisins".

I'm hoping that John Farnham will write the foreword.

After that particular triumph of publishing, I plan to go on to international musical success with a cover of Dire Straits' "Sultana of Swing".




This may surprise you, but that's about it for this post. The good news** is that this will force me to post again at some future date, as I simply cannot stand the thought of this appalling collection of dad jokes being my final contribution to the world of the blogs.

On currant form, you may be waiting a week or two for my next post. Blogging will resume at some future date.







* I hope you enjoyed this subtle combination of the worst segue ever and a big huge lie as much as I did.




** A matter of opinion at this point, I suspect.

By the end of this post, there will be dancing

A quick quiz

Q: Who are all these people?

Answer:

The guys in yellow are the 2008 National Basketball League Champions, the mighty Melbourne Tigers.

The guys in purple are just some other dudes.

It is perhaps a little sad that, after a fascinating five game grand final series, in which the Tigers survived the biggest choke in NBL finals history, losing game four despite leading by 18 points late in the third quarter, and then travelled to Sydney where they snatched game five in a thrilling final quarter in front of 10,240 angry Kings fans, these were the best photos I could find. And I looked everywhere, including the Tigers' own website.

It is even more upsetting that I can see Cashmere Mafia and 8 kinds of CSI on free to air TV, but I didn't see a single minute of the basketball finals because I don't have Foxtel.

It is tempting to flippantly suggest that the reason why Australian basketball is doing a poor job of marketing itself is that the league is currently run by some guy named Chuck who used to play for Illawarra, but I won't.

Because the league actually is run by some guy who used to play for Illawarra.

Named Chuck.

Still, this is not a time for recriminations. This is a time to celebrate the Tigers' second championship in three seasons, to waved legendary point guard Daryl McDonald into retirement with the best possible finish to his 42nd season, and to say "All is forgiven, Chris Anstey".

Also, because I promised dancing, and because this may be the only time I will have even a thin excuse for posting this picture, and most of all because the boots are awesome:

Courage

I may, at some point, manage to blog about our recently completed weekend away with the family. This thing could not have gone less smoothly without actually starring Chevy Chase and Bundle has just told me that we should never go on holidays again, but apart from that it was good.

Instead, there is a particularly well written passage from Robin Hobb's "The Mad Ship". I read this around 18 months ago and I have been meaning to put on this blog ever since, but the moment never seemed quite right.

Well, some time last week I was chatting to a friend who has had much better days than that one, and the subject of courage came up. Several days after that conversation, it occurred to me that the lines I am about to quote define courage about as well as anything I've ever read.

For those unfamiliar with Ms Hobb's writings, most of her books are of the fantasy genre, meaning you get the odd strangely named character, grumpy dragon or, in this case, self aware ship that can talk. However, in this particular case you also get excellent dialogue and some very finely crafty characters.

And, if you are the friend I was talking to last week and you happen to read this, I hope you find yourself feeling just a little better.

Robin Hobb wrote:

'Innocent?' He was incensed at her suggestion he was somehow responsible for this mess. 'I've done nothing wrong, I intend nothing wrong. I am innocent!'

'Half the evil in this world occurs while decent people stand by and do nothing wrong. It's not enough to refrain from evil, Trell. People have to attempt to do right, even if they believe they cannot succeed.'

'Even when it's stupid to try?' he asked with savage sarcasm.

'Especially then,' she replied sweetly. 'That's how it's done, Trell. You break your heart against this stony world. You fling yourself at it, on the side of good, and you do not ask the cost. That's how you do it.'

'Do what?' he demanded, truly angry now. 'Get myself killed? For the sake of being a hero?'

'Perhaps,' she conceded. 'Perhaps that. But it is definitely how you redeem yourself. How you become a hero.' She cocked her head and eyed him appraisingly. 'Don't tell me you've never wanted to be the hero.'

'I've never wanted to be the hero,' he defied her. Paragon was still cursing someone defiantly. He sounded drunked and rambling. Brashen turned his head, to stare at the ship. The yellow glow of firelight danced on his chopped face. What did this woman expect of him? There was nothing he could do to help the ship, nothing he could do to help anyone. 'All I ever wanted to do was live my own life. And I'm having damn little success at that.'

She laughed low. 'Only because you keep standing back from it. And turning aside from it. And avoiding it.' She shook her head. 'Trell, Trell. Open your eyes. This horrible mess is your life. There is no sense in waiting for it to get better. Stop putting it off and live it.' She laughed again. Her eyes and voice seemed to go afar. 'Everyone thinks that courage is about facing death without flinching. But almost anyone can do that. Almost anyone can hold their breath and not scream for as long as it takes to die. True courage is facing life without flinching. I don't mean the times when when the right path is hard, but glorious in the end. I'm talking about enduring the boredom, and the messiness, and the inconvenience of doing what is right.' She cocked her head and considered him. 'I think you can do that, Trell.'

What's next...

And we're back.

I seem to have regained at least enough perspective to recognise that I don't have that much to emo about and it's time to get on with things. Thanks again to everyone who sent nice comments and emails during my brief (and, may I say, somewhat spectacular) loss of emotional balance. I can't guarantee that it won't happen again, but, just for now, I'm doing pretty well.

Part of the reason for my good cheer is that Honey Bear and I will be spending the long weekend with our friends Bingtown and Cruz and five, count them, five children aged three and under, in an exotic and mysterious location their beach house in Rye. If this doesn't take my mind off stuff, nothing will.

Also, let me just take a moment to mention that I love being married, and here's why:

Finally, I have a question. Frances O'Connor acted both Cate Blanchett and Richard Roxburgh off the screen in "Thank God He Met Lizzie". She was awesome in Mansfield Park and she was, quite clearly, the only redeeming presence in the merrily script free disaster otherwise known as Kiss or Kill. I genuinely believe that this woman is incapable of turning in a bad performance.

All things considered, and taking into account my almost equally great respect for Miranda Otto, would it be best if I avoided tonight's episode of Cashmere Mafia?

Just asking, etc