Stop the (Word)Presses!

It’s 2am

I should be asleep so that I can wake up tomorrow for school.

But fuck, this is just too good and random to wait.

Firstly, all the following is from the Bridezilla Wikipedia Page. And none was done by me. I have an account on wiki, and I really can’t understand Japanese.

More on that later.

Anyways…

Click to enlarge. Now focus on the six there. The reference, that is.

Now see this…

Okay, enlarge that picture. You see something strange? It links to my review of that concert six months ago, yet on Last.fm japan.

In short, I’m the author of a reference on Wikipedia, a place reserved for academic luminaries or band’s myspaces.

This is weird.

“Are you here visiting Australia?” “No, we’re just going to a Rock Festival…”

And so, a naïve pharmacist started what was set to be a big day, pun intended, at Big Day Out 2008. After all the dramas of buying tickets on-line at 4a.m., arguing with pedantic parents on my right to attend and a huge cancellation that came as unexpectedly as the death the day beforehand, I was on my way to what I hoped would be the first of many outings to what is an Australian institution.

Warning: Epic Post Follows…

My love for american chocolate

There’s a convinience store close to my workplace that sells a wide array of imported candy, chocolate and soft drinks. And I must say now, I am hooked. There’s now nothing more pleasing than wasting all my cash on edible imported goods that mix the strangest of flavours, two of which always seem to be peanut butter and chocolate.

I guess it started early last year when I chose a packet of peanut butter M&M’s on a visit to Sugar Fix in Westfield Centrepoint with friends. Everything about it attracted me. Even the packaging is superior to that of Australian chocolate: the slightly papery material ensures not slippery, sweaty, quasi-disgusting packets. The only problem with any of them seems to be that each product costs within the region of $2-$3.50, creating a large financial dilemma.

Maybe there is something more pleasing. Like finally paying off my new camera. Whenever that will happen

Laws doesn’t approve of Gladiators

The subject: “New Gladiator Names”.

The last line in the Print Screen says it all.

The Tragedy That Is: Brian Wilson

Sydney Festival First Night was arguably the best way to start a month-long arts, music and culture festival in one of the worlds most vibrant cities. Practically, close off the most family-friendly areas of the CBD and hold a party, complete with gay-disco weddings, raves in Business Precincts and Huge Swing lessons around park fountains.

However, the ticketed “big” headliner proved to be one of the most depressing, life-draining moments in my short live-music-viewing history. A Music Luminary in his own right, Brian Wilson has a grand history as an innovator of pop music in the 60’s, through captaining The Beach Boys. What I saw on-stage at The Domain tonight, however, was a man in tatters. He sat there, emotionless, reading the most well-known non-Beatles lyrics off a teleprompter, banging at a keyboard and flailing his arms around as an entourage of incredibly skilled musicians filled in the wide and deep gaps.

I was told that he suffered a mental breakdown that he never truly recovered from some twenty years ago and, I believe, it clearly shows. It’s odd, seeing an artist and/or band age, especially one that’s not only a celebrity, but so connected to the history of an entire generation. Bob Dylan does so many key-and-lyrical changes in a performance the next thing he’ll be doing a duet with The Mars Volta. The Rolling Stones use a tried and tested formula so much that their recent works sound like filler off albums released decades ago. U2 have seemingly forgotten that they’re not the UN; The Sex Pistols ruin their classics for video games;whilst others are fighting off deaths to rekindle their lost fire. The major difference between them and Wilson, at least, is that they all still show signs of life.

Such is the nature of music’s, or just art in generals, evolution that the artist may never be seen again in the same light, even if they don’t die. I’ve only ever known a Brian Wilson like the one I saw today, and will grow up knwoing Paul McCartney as a boring guy going through a bitter divorce, Michael Jackson as a strange black-turned-white man who “likes” children, and Mick Jagger and Keith Richards as silly old men. This is not because I’m ignorant to their histroy or their place in the music world, but becasue this is what I’ve been presented with as thier characters during my lifetime, leaving me to wonder how they truely were back when they were younger and not at this state.

I wonder where and how we’ll see the big bands and artists of now when they have reached their veteran age? Only time will tell.

This blog has been neglected to death

Yes, it’s nearing Christmas already and I decided that, as a Christmas gift to all those who were still loyal to my blog (Thank you for dealing with a page that has not changed in three weeks or more) I might as well attempt to blog at a normal pace again. I guess I’ve probably been inspired by a certain friend who’s blog is among the best I read, ranking among the many articles I read off Digg, Off The Record and Stereogum.

I will skip details of the past that was not documented and instead go into details of the recent-past, all of which sits around me on a cluttered bedroom desk I really should be cleaning, yet won’t. I have a stack of burnt CDs, Gotye’s Like Drawing Blood atop of them all, facing me down like the devil, telling me that their mere existence is wrong. To my right are a stack of plays yet to be properly read, an issue that needs to be rectified if I ever want to consider a decent UAI. I have scraps of paper with to-do and to-buy lists, all of which I doubt will be completed prior to the new year, mixed in with old copies of The Drum Media; their ageing, stapled spines reflective of the longetivity of some of the cover artists featured. Atop of them all is a five-day overdue copy of Miller’s Crossing, a Batman mask I received as a birthday present, and my own bit of 2007 nostalgia: my workbook from NSW State Drama Camp.

LOOK AT THE HORRID MOTHER-DISAPPOINTING STATE!

The last few days have opened my eyes to the best and worst of some people that are close to me, even if the events concerned did not affect me directly. Should I care? Should I value what is good about the people I know? How much harder can it get to do so? Should I just leave these questions unanswered? Why so serious? Either way, I can’t blame this, exams, turning a year older or anything else but myself for the fault of leaving this place to rot.

Unfortunantely it isn’t just this that has been left on the ground. I have a stack of comic books – collectively rivalling the size of my mother’s copy of the Holy Bible – to be read, a bunch of movies to be watched, three articles to write from an e-zine, $300 of a camera yet to be paid off, and worst of all, homework to get done that backtracks to October. Practically the only thing that hasn’t been neglected is my last.fm account, constantly fed till bloated with my selection of stereotypically-indie-rock-and-pop. It’s these unfortunant times where procrastination has become key to both my sanity and insanity, creating a revolving door of issues that wont be stopped until I face the devil within.

Why last weekend was so unbelievably awesome

*

……….And did I say that the show was absolutely brilliant?

*Signed By:

• Dave Keuning (Lead Guitar)
• Mark Stoermer (Bass Guitar)
• Craig Nicholl (Lead Singer of The Vines)

Edit: PHOTOS!

Ain’t No Party Like A Bloc Party

For some reason beyond me at this moment, I though that taking photos with a shitty camera-phone would do well at no one, but two concerts some months ago. In the end, after obsessive picture-taking through the songs I wasn’t moshing to, only the above photo was decent enough to show off on this dear blog of mine. I just love the way the lights create the silhouettes of the band and the heads in the crowd. Oh, and the fact that the name in the background isn’t blurred, unlike every other photo I have. Hopefully, with the new camera I’m getting as soon as I pay it off (just a basic Pentax Optio E40; I’m far too novice in still photography to get any crazy SLR gizmo), I’ll be able to get some decent photos

Both shows were excellent by the way. Arctic Monkeys sometimes started to protrude that “We’re too cool to rock out” vibe, but then would suddenly blow you away ten seconds after. True quality performers; they already look like they could be around for the next twenty years, probably winning their own weight in Grammys and then getting involved in their own Kate Moss drug scandal along the way. Bloc Party, however, made sure I was dead from overdose of awesome by the end of the show. Every song they played was like some sort of crazy beast came into the Hordern Pavilion and annihilated everyone in there, including me. It was bliss, even if the sound mixing was a bit off. Easily the best live show I’ve seen.

I don’t know how I developed this thing for going to see bands live. It’s certainly an expensive habit. But I think it has something to do with the sheer ecstasy and adrenalin rush of being around other passionate people, watching the person whose music you’ve idolised play them in a manner that’s raw and liable for unrehearsed moments. Or maybe I’m just trying to find an outlet for a natural need to escape the norm every now and again. Either way, this Friday is Expatriate and The Cops at the Metro. Should be fun.