Things I'm Loving Right Now

Tenderness;

Balocco Italian vanilla cream wafers for lunch;

The smell of new-bloom Wattle;

The Delgados' Peloton (the Delgados full stop, actually);

Dogs;

Naked sunday mornings;

The slow swing of seasons;

Railway station freebies;

The subsumation to, and liberation from, routine;

Second hand store splurges;

Pointy church spires.



What are you loving?

Rainin' Babies

"This is my present to the world/Take it from me please..."

I've done it. I've given birth. Given birth to my inaugural 'zine:

By golly, it's a gorgeous child too. Painful birth, but worth the effort. And now I put it up for adoption.

Do you have a copy? Yes? No? Well read on if you want to know more about your brand new child (or how to become a parent) and have your burning 'zine questions cleared up quicker than a tube of zovirax on a coldsore moustache.


Why?

Cos I wanted to, and I could. (whereas once I wanted to but never thought I could. So it's a kind of therapy/victory. So what.)

Cos I love you all. And you feel that love.

What?

It's a 'zine. Miniature magazine. 24 Pages. Original and borrowed content, appropriated to form an original product. I assert its originality insofar as only a mind uniquely disturbed like mine could order and render it thus.

Now I'm done with the attitude, I invite all new parents of the 'zine to ask away any questions. I'll be happy to answer them. Here's a few to start off:

Why is there writing on my card? It's the name of your child. Specifically, it's the name of an individual that Hunterslogan has admired for some reason or another. Check them out sometime. Let your child educate you.

Just how limited and unique is my new child? As limited as a full deck of cards, and as unique. I don't know who got what card, what CD. The birth-creator has signed each CD envelope spontaneously and uniquely, burnt each disc, printed each disc, glued each card, folded each and every page, all my love went into your unique child. Except officeworks stapled the things for 20c each. What? I have high production values.

What's on the CD? Play it and find out. In short, every CD has one instrumental track on it. Could be long, could be short. Noise? Music? You decide. It's instrumental so that you can get what you want from it, without words distracting you. Paint your own picture. (If you did get words with your music, my bad).

What is dogzilla saying? I can't be drawn on that. Ask dogzilla - apparently dogzilla speaks hebrew, though.

Did you really have to do the god stuff? Yes. No. No one's born in a vacuum. Take what you want from it; bring your children up how you see fit.

Why so cryptic, hunterslogan? Why not? It's more fun that way. The zine may be short but, like its original parent, it is dense. Read that last statement how you will.

Will there be a sibling? Maybe. Got to work out how to best abuse a work photocopier first.

Where?

Delivered to friends, family and the general fraternity of man. Some by choice, some by design.

If you don't have a child asking you whether they'll fly, leave me a comment below or email me here and i'll try and make you a parent.

Finally:

Thank you, new parent, for taking the time to play with your child. And checking in here. I hope you've found something in this, somewhere. Don't forget: leave any questions in the comments section below and i'll be only too happy to answer. It can be like a parenting group - trade ideas if you will. Likewise, if you would like to know what's on your CD, email me.

HSL

The Art of persuasive gloating...

What follows can be considered an exercise in economical bragging.

For all three of you who follow this space, you'd probably know that usually i'd walk around and bore each individual friend of mine with a tedious account of how I came across "the best ______ i've EVER found!!" at some kind of jumble stall/garage/white elephant stall/charity shop "on the weekend". To this i'd generally add "AND IT WAS ONLY $3!!" and a supremely smug smirk to top off the gloating experience.

Your response is often a pair of glazed eyes, a nonchalant "cool, man..." or another kind of look that reads: "Yeah? And? So? What??".

To make this an economical experience for all , i'll list some things i've bought the past 2-3 weeks in excruciating detail, while you, the reader, can keep your usual response intact.

OK. I'll tell you what. I'll sweeten the deal with a few photos for you. How's that?

So: I tell the story once (instead of multiple times); you respond as you would usually, and I get to gloss over the fact you likely aren't interested anyway, cos i can't see your reaction. Kapische? Let's roll.

A perfect mint set of 100 Wedding invitation cards and envelopes. $2. A minimal 1960's italian design and lovely textured carboard. Bride: Needs to be sorted... oh, um, smoker? non smoker? Not fussed. Must like retro stationary.

A pair of 12" records; $2. One entitled "Stag Party" (from 1960), with a bunch of bawdy songs and an even better pair of boobs (retroboobs, at that) on the cover. PS. do you know how hard it is to find exploitative covers like this now? The other entitled "music for casual affairs", (no record inside however), just the cover which has 4 feet dangling off the end of a bed).


Note the record label for "Music for Casual Affairs": the kind of dad-joke I love.

A pair of 4 track reel to reel tapes; one blank, one a copy of Miles Davis' "Sketches of Spain". $4.

An 8 Track cartridge of Serge Gainsbourg and Jane Birkin (including the seriously hottt track Je t'aime... moi non plus). $1. It should be noted, this item and the records above were from the same collection; the owner must've been one hell of a smoooth lizard.....

Now, why I would buy a bunch of formats I can't even play... is another blog. But let your ideas run riot.

A Moka Pot espresso maker. $4.Needed one for ages. Photographed here on its maiden voyage, and i'm pleased to tell you...... it works! Can't say much for my coffee-making skills at the moment, however. Give me time to practise. Does anyone know where to get new rubber seals for these things?

A pair of enamelled ceramic dishes. $3. I thought they were pretty, and practical (especially the round one with lightly scalloped edges). I know what you think: "Can a guy think crockery is 'pretty'"?. Yes. Yes he can. B.t.w. they are in the dishwasher, so no photo. Here, have a picture of my sinister toy typewriter instead...

Brown Leather Jacket. $6. This is a 1978 jacket, made in China and sold through Woolworths. According to a man who wanted to try it on after i'd bought it. (I let him.) He knew this because he 'worked at Woolworths', and was wearing a leather jacket he bought for 'a fortune' from a man in Blacktown because it was 'worn by Tom Cruise'. Maybe it was, how am i to know? In any case, it didn't get him picked on a jury that day, which was why he was in a Parramatta charity shop at 12:30pm. He did advocate cleaning the jacket with the "lemon Mr Sheen", though I thought he could use Mr Sheen to smarten up his breath. Works wonders. Apparently on leather jackets too...

Grandpa Nylon Jacket. $6. Such a lovely shade of brown, eh? Colour was christened by parents as "Babyshit Brown". The jury is still out on whether any fashion qualities adhere to this one (mind you, the woven inlays around the shoulders are a nice touch), but it's a hell of an arsenal to have. Makes going undercover at a nursing home a cinch....

Grey-aqua double pocket Woollen cardigan. $2. It's difficult to see the knit detail thanks to the camera, but it is nicely captured (cheers, Leelee). And modelled well too. This cardie comes with bonus Parfum de Convalesce*. Mmm.

Girl Picture. $2. I'm sure i've seen a series of these around a bar in either Newtown or Brunswick. More specifically, the toilets at the bar. This picture reminds me of those toilets. Well - they were nice toilets!! Nothing regarding bedroom cleanliness can be inferred from the fact it hangs in my bedroom, either.

F. Scott Fitzgerald's Tender Is The Night. $1. What Belle & Sebastian once sung rings true for me: 'I only buy a book for the way it looks'... I'm in love with this cover. By the way, does anyone think the protagonist's name in Tender..., Dick Diver, is a bit, well... gay? Surely being used as a porn name somewhere...

Blue Athletics Jacket, 100% synthetic. $3.75. It's an athletics jacket with some chinese inscription embroidered on the sleeve, and a bizarre patch on the front that looks like it's hiding something. Hopefully Chairman Mao's face? Since it's a sports jacket, only an action picture would suffice to model this exquisite piece. So here it is:


"This man is a dentist, so we can't show you his face...."

Until i find more things to gloat about.... keep working on your feigned interest.

HSL

Sonic Youth and the Scientists, Enmore Theatre, 18 February 2008

I love calls like this on a Sunday evening.

“Dean, you school day weakling deadshit - wanna see the Scientists and Sonic Youth tomorrow night?”

It’s hard to refuse a sweet, eloquent backhander like that. My heart... let’s just say it turned to nine parts water, one part sand.

“The ‘Don’t Look Back’ series where the Scientists punch out Blood Red River and Youth play Daydream Nation?”

“Yeah”.

“Aww, I wish it was...”

“’Sister’? You music... snob. I’ll take that as a yes.”

Wow. My mate Pedro comes through again! Sonic. Scientists. Blood. Red. Daydream...

Something was firm in my jeans, and visibly buzzing.

“Leelee?” It was my flatmate. I mean, it was my phone...



Monday night flails into view as a packed Duke of Edinburgh and a schooner of Reschs greets me. Pedro’s been on warmup duties; his work is to be commended. A quick chinwag with Bruno Peabody and Clyde Hoodooguru, and it's into the early-thronging fray: straight into a howling, thumping wall of beautiful noise. The Scientists.

This is who Pedro has come to see (hence his pitching the gig to me as 'Scientists and sonic youth'). Taking our seats with tubes in hand, and it's hard to comprehend that the coagulated surroundsound din bouncing around the half full (and quickly filling) theatre is coming from four little specks on a large stage. One huge paradox struck me - Kim Salmon’s booming voice issues from a surprisingly small frame, howling its’ way out, forever front and centre.

Boris Sudjovic is scientific bedrock, pumping out stoner bass riffs that quickly take on a life of their own. Some masquerade as escaped elephants – riffs so huge that nothing whatsoever can reel them in. Set them free, watch them gallop. The drummer’s work can’t be underestimated: her Tucker-esque thump punches things through forcefully. With a dumbed-down ethos resplendent in this anguished, howling brew, overplaying would be a simple crime to commit. (Just like that sentence. Should take my own advice).

Put simply - this kind of drumming takes no prisoners, commits no crimes.

But for my mind it’s guitarist Tony Thewlis who’s running the show; his thinline telecaster providing the sting, the surf, the scree – the swamp. There, I said it. Swamp. But is it really riding a Scientists cliche, to call this sound 'Swamp'? For that's really what this music evokes.

Undoubtedly, there were highlights: the primal howl of ‘We Had Love’ and ‘Fire Escape’; a sinewy, lurking ‘Swampland’; ‘Solid Gold Hell’ and “Murderess In A Purple Dress’. But there were moments that weren’t, and it wasn’t down to the performance of the Scientists.

Though I’m not au fait with the original running order of Blood Red River, I wonder what impact the sequencing had on how cohesive the performance felt. They gave the live audience a taste of how Blood Red River could’ve been. Because they were presenting a work that was never fully realised as intended, we ended up with a thrilling glimpse of a great Australian EP, albeit slightly unfocused...


Compared, at least, to Daydream Nation.


The double album sprawl leapt to life tonight with infinitesimal focus. Sonic Youth could only conquer this album now. Only 25+ years into their existence are they able to become the sum of their influences.

Whether it’s the painting-thru-sound experimentalism of Glenn Branca, or the history of New York avant-garde music of the 1950’s and 1960’s as filtered through the no-wave aesthetics of the late 1970’s (all while bringing the strands of U.S. punk into play through the dynamism and focus of 80’s hardcore contemporaries), Daydream Nation presented itself tonight as their canvas masterpiece, one where every colour on their palette could be fully appreciated.

More than that; Daydream Nation revealed itself as an album with horizon-pinned eyes.

Sonic Youth's set tonight was an epiphany in that their influences formed an evolutionary continuum; the wave of influence SY once surfed is the wave they’ve since become. Their influences, their past - sum up to their present shape.

Of course, none of this entered my head the moment those lazy opening chords of 'Teen Age Riot' scrawled into heartshot.

I simply remember hearing sweet sounds and thinking: This is IT! An artwork reproduced, re-interpreted - all in real time! It was like being sucked up by a vacuum, into a vortex, and spit out into a wondrous space I knew would exist for the next 70-odd minutes.

Seven minutes will never be time enough to enjoy 'Teen Age Riot' live. But the moment the song peels back halfway through, leaving those swooping riffs suspended (ooh, still get shivers replaying the moment) was the first moment I lost it.

And I never quite regained it afterwards. Stumbled out on to 'Silver Rocket', which soon shot into ‘The Sprawl’ (sounding like a motorik blur, speeding through a cultural wasteland every bit as present now as in its creation 20 years ago). Steve Shelley's clipped hardcore drumming propelled 'The Sprawl' onward into the tugging, divebombing guitars of ‘Cross the Breeze’, and remained the pulsing hearbeat for the remainder of the artwork/album/performance/night (choose one).

The rest of the songs fed and swelled into an ecstatic skybound roadtrip for the next hour (take that as poetic license for ‘I’m too drunk by this stage to remember’), leavened only by the eerie postcard of ‘Providence’ – ghostly taped piano, muted feedback growls and distracted ansafone message giving the clue that perhaps a script was being followed, and stops needed to be made on this trip. There were songs in an encore, something I felt was superfluous, but for the fact the band played well enough to grace the audience with one.

Nevermind my encore gripe, though. No doubt you'll be acquainted with it soon enough. We slunk out of the Enmore, pretty well spent. And drunk. And grinning ridiculously.

“How was that, Pedro?”

“It’s nudging its way into the top 10, Hunters…”.

“Shiiiitt… No arguments from me.” We were reeling. Sonic Youth had conquered and far exceeded expectations.

Only beer and beer and Baileys (cheers, master Jimoir) could make sense of what we’d witnessed, and in quantities in direct proportion to the sense we needed. Of course, it all began to make more sense, and none.

But nothing made sense (or, more sense) by the time a taxi-chariot delivered me home. Apparently, I was too drunk to:

a) go to work the next day;

b) get in my own bed.

Instead, I hopped into my flatmate’s bed, mumbling and growling. I thought I was serenading her with an acappella version of “We Had Love”; Leelee later concurred - yes, I was completely unintelligible. Well, except for one word: “Sister...”

You can’t please some people.

HSL

Bowie

And there I was, lost in the musical honour roll sutured to my sulci. Digging around for the top five rhythm sections ever, in the history of my record collection. Essentially, shovelling cop(rophil)ious filth-piles into ordered mountains, so I could write you a blog entry.

Write you a blog? What is this - an obligation? perhaps. A compulsion? not quite. Glad to be here/of service, nonetheless. Where were we?

Oh yeah. Thinking about this rhythm section thing led me to thinking about David Bowie. Again. He's everyone's hero after all. He changes lives, believe me. If you don't think he's your hero; wrong. You just don't know he is yet. Here are two more words that refute ANY other argument against him...

Scary Monsters. Still with me? No? Love your coattails, by the by.

Anyway, one morning I ran into an old school mate Gaz at a Vinnies charity shop on the way to my uni, where he'd just started. Gaz and I had a weird habit of meeting by complete chance in second hand (mainly record) stores around Sydney (generally off our gills too, even more strangely) at maybe yearly intervals for about 5-6 years. Very odd.

We were both vintage plastic junkies - that morning I was looking for a vinyl fix, he for some rare rayon - sizing up vintage shirts with large cuffs and larger collars. I was in the early throes of a Bowie fixation and flicked across a copy of my latest mistress - Hunky Dory* - for a dollar. I swung around to proclaim to Gaz, who was nose deep in polyester armpits:

"Gaz, this record will change your life in so many ways."

"What's that, Hunters? Bowie? Sweet! But how's my life gonna change with Hunky Dory?"

"Your house will never be cleaner, for a start."

"???"

After buying the album we continued walking amongst a crowded throng towards uni, records under our arms, spouting recommendations back and forth on whatever shit had recently been pickling our mind-tanks. Lost in our own collided worlds for the briefest moment that year.

Startlingly, a girl drops to her knees in front of Gaz and lets out a shriek, testifying in front of scores of onlookers:

"David Bowie? Oh. My. God. You are my hero! Hunky Dory is the shit!"

She was the Ziggy Stardust to Gaz's Mick Ronson**. That moment was catalytic... possibly erotic... definitely pornographic, and oh sooo right. Even though the moment froze in time, we continued walking after a moment chatting with Ziggy, figuring out just what happened.

"What'd I tell you Gaz? This record will change your life".

"Already has, Hunters. Already has."

Roughly 12 months later when I ran into Gaz (in a record store, both on various ends of a bender), I'd recently matriculated to Ziggy Stardust. Pressing a record into my palms, he graciously paid tribute to some sound guidance:

"Hunters? Scary Monsters. It will change your life. The best Bowie there is."

Played it at the time. Couldn't fathom it. Hindsight says that Gaz nailed it - Scary Monsters is the best Bowie there is. It's the pinnacle of a journey. Each new persona of the man adds to a greater sum than before. Each Scary Monster discovered within is teased out, characterised and dealt with until

BLAM! there you have it: your Ubermensch, your new hero. A Scary Monster himself, yet utterly human.

It's funny: on reflection I can plot the last nine years of my life in rough synchronicity with Bowie's 70's output (except I never made a record I couldn't remember making; that's no reason to dismiss Station to Station, people).

Our hero serves to show that every misstep has its own continuity; its own path. If a person's growth and maturity is the culmination of their influences, then I'm coming to terms with Scary Monsters. We all are. No wonder it's the best Bowie there is.

Thanks Gaz. And you guys. You've been a great crowd.

HSL (steps from pulpit, wiping tears from eyes)

*My second favourite Bowie, also my favourite album to clean house to.

**A famous "Ziggy" era photo with Bowie on his knees performing fellatio on Mick Ronson, mid-solo. I dare you to search for it. Also, just wanted to say 'fellatio'. So Latin, so holy.

M.W.F.D.

If you can guess the title, i'll tithe you in on my $100 loot. Fair deal?

Had a new, strange and weirdly invigorating experience last week. I turned up for a product focus group. A marketing exercise. Cash in a windowed envelope (non-consecutive notes, please), slid across the table at the conclusion of the night.

Bought and sold like some.... some.... product. And weirdly, I don't mind.

The night felt like something out of a movie, or at least a tired script. Which is to say, I never gave credence to the accuracy of those movies (don't make me name them) - I didn't think rooms like this existed.

I walk downstairs beneath a restaurant in Surry Hills. Past the toilets, turn right, down the corridor, "it's the room at the end". Don't look too closely at the room on your left, though; it's a media control room. A half-dozen cctv screens, mixing desk, microphones, sound inputs.... all feeding back a forlorn picture of a faux-homely living room. A pink-tinged space, dominated by a large table with a dozen rattan chairs paying homage to the lure - a plate of sambos and assorted drinks at the centre. Fake pink flowers in a ceramic vase. And four cameras and microphones dangling from the ceiling, fake eyes and ears staring at the table...

Along with an entire wall covered with a translucent one way mirror - for external observation - things started to feel to me like a mafia card game performed under intense scrutiny. One group colleague was compelled to try and 'see through' the mirror, testing all sorts of angles and reflective devices. I was too, except that'd be akin to proclaiming a love for The Bikini Shop. Erm, which I definitely don't. I think. Well anyhow, there's the 'tired movie script' tie-in.

(And so here's the t*ts and @ss blog I promised. Ok, pretty poor. Must try harder.)

Apparently this is not new: a number of people i've spoken to since have confirmed the existence of a secretive network of these purpose-built rooms, shady denizens of sinister marketing manoeuvres. At least that's the Hicksian* part of me talking, with which this experience doesn't sit quite right.

More than anything though, I went along (apart from money, which ties in to the title... you got it yet? M is for 'Media'...) simply to experience sitting in a room of strangers, smartly steered by a facilitator, discussing our media and consumption habits. The product? Lotto. The participants? 7 Men aged 23-30. None were lotto players, indicative of a demographic. Content of discussion? Thematically - Dreams. Money. Literally - how do we sex up lotto for young people?

I doubt my input was as useful as others, though. Most people spoke from the first person without hesitation, almost as though the product was an extension of their everyday lives. A chunk of my input was more third-person oriented; i'd try to guess what the motive behind the question or discussion was, then present my thoughts/ideas with the motive in mind. To explain, it's like stepping outside of myself to deliver my ideas while guessing the observers objectives.

I'd love to say this focus group and constant moneytalk awoke a greedy beast within. The good news? It did. The moment that whoresome (second letter in title for you...) envelope flew into my hand, a vortex sucked me across to Golden Pide on Cleveland St for a sucuklu pide.

Greed never tasted so good.

HSL

*Bill Hicks, whose extreme cynicism of the media led to a comedic skit with a mantra of "people in marketing or advertising, kill yourselves".

Apologia

It was the speech that launched a hundred thousand blogs.

It was also interesting to observe it at work, in a custom-built new government facility. A big shiny new building, it was fascinating to stand outside the staff room (two on each of the nine floors, one on each wing with a glass chute separating; no doubt designed to symbolise government aspirations such as egalite and transparency) and look up and down the chute at the crammed staff rooms, people watching the occasion.

And whether it was merely a case of ‘birds to a feather’ watching at my work, or something indicative of a wider sentiment, there was real feeling in the PM's address. A strong moment, if not quite an epochal one. It was a speech that a nation’s been crying out for.

Yesterday's parliamentary apology by Kevin Rudd feels like the latest step in a reconciliation movement that began flowing in 1988 (bicentenary of European settlement), to gestures like the solidarity “sorry” marches in 2002, the 2000 Olympics (with a stealthy “sorry” from Midnight Oil) and inquiries such as the Bringing Them Home (‘Stolen Generation’) report. It’s been swelling steadily since.

For the past 11 years, we’ve had to live in a time that was not our own; a time manufactured under rose-tinted glasses by a retrograde government. Some of us grew to own that time (and I speak here of my generation; older generations have a greater entitlement to live out the values of their time). I salute them, as I would a rustic landscape oil painting - a picture frozen in quaint nostalgia. But neither their time, nor their mind, is mine. I could digress and express some aspects of this mindset a little more polemically, but I’ll distil my views for another blog. Stay posted.

Without swamping you readers in philosophical arguments regarding time, a selective view of history can only lead to partial progress - the past denied cannot be confronted in the present and resolved in the future. The previous government’s refusal to admit its forebears may have been wrong in endorsing old policies ( and thereby legitimising those very policies through their silence) was symptomatic of its stifling nostalgia for a simpler time. The ultimate example - the final act of wresting State and Territorial control of indigenous people into federal government hands in 2007 - smacks of a ‘stolen generation’ repeat.

This bipartisan apologia should bring hope to people who really do care about a positive future for Australia. It has for me (something of a first). Hopefully, this speech can open up a million future dialogues - not least the one that is so important for us all - that of the past with the present, mapping the future. The first step in a new road ahead.

HSL



....ok, next time I’ll blog about t*ts and @ss. I swear.