Trip

Like pubescent poppies they stand and wait for the bus.

Like buds right before they pop they stand and wait for the bus.

Brains buzzing, feet a hurtin; they stand and wait for the bus.

Graceland has proved a  fruitless affair.

They stood from a far, without a cent or second to spare. 

The Sara Marie jet they did not board.

Their green notes gone to unnecessary tips, hire cars and double burgers.

So here they are, post visit and pre-experience, they wait for the bus.

Dusk proves sketchy, palpitating pupils that lazar them.

Crazy energy.

Black and enlarged and spacey.

The light haired poppy and her fiery friend wait out the unfortunate position, penniless and cornered.

They wait for the bus.

It arrives, far from expected time.

They boarded.

Their pink noses a sight for sore eyes.

Their pink en-casings a means for question.

The pair of quickly perturbing females are enlightened to the fact of their sex.

Like fresh blossoms yet deflowered to the customs of their night ride.

They hold on firmly and look ahead by the driver's side.

Never before so alarmed of their place in the world, as they stood right there at the front of that bus.

Pink hands squeezing, trying to ignore the poking, the calling and the ever present notion that this was not going to be a smooth ride.

Calling them by lady, calling them to come.

Ahead they stare till the unavoidable move.

The room next to the men has been made.

A very special spot they say back there for us, spoken in between fits of merciless laughter and ridicule.

Begrudgingly like little lambs they swiftly move.

The fiery stays confident, look them in the eye.

The unhinged eyed man with a paper bag covered bottle and toothless grin he edges further, he snuggles in.

The commotion of the pink poppies has formed a group to gather as if a school yard brawl was about to begin.

They laugh and touch and tell us their misshaped directs.

'you see that camera up there' toothless points, his grog less hand pushing her spine.

'we can't get you while you are on the bus, but if you are off it you aint got no chance'

Eruption, commotion fits of laughter to the comments of the leader.

Then they turn not on motion but on each other.

'Don't listen to him he is just a slave, he can't even right his own name'

Like a movie line of jargon the words are spoken.

The poppies look through their surroundings and directly into the pinkness of the others skin.

we come from the sun burnt country, the place of prominent separation they say.

But never once had they known the extent to which it rains clear like the sex of a baby. They are pink.

Pink and pubescent to the order in this town.

Ben their friend, who is not at all a square.

He flits between gender, plays the fun and downs the shit.

But his eyes wide and concerned when told the pink poppies boarded that bus of naive notion.

For everyone drives in Memphis he exclaims, night is not time for buses.

So drink they and drive they do, through the streets of blues.

Run the driver said, when you get off the bus run. Don't stop until you reach bourbon street.

In a dash of refusal and disbelief of strange the happenings, jump those poppies did, off that bus at the closest lit street to the main drag. 

As flowers are flattened in the pages of books.The poppies run never to return to the night bus in the town of Elvis.

Bart grew up in the early 80s and not the early part of the 21st century.

It makes the walls come apart.

The leaves in the tea rock and roll.

The peeks on the pretend painted mountains, come apart.

The food stained envelopes tumble their way across the table.

Who is she.

The small, the wired, the energy.

The pictures again fall from their perches.

The flames engulf the senses.

She darts and dazzles.

Her words are fast, they sizzle and sting.

She pierces.

The maps and make up and wine glasses move around in haste.

Not soft, not gentle, not peace nor fierce or strong.

But raw and vulnerable, a fiery mask.

It sucks the life out of the living, so the objects take the fall.

She is a fire.

Decoder Ring

I went to a show on Saturday night, it was unlike my typical place of outing. The fact that it was $0 was definitely a plus however the price didn’t reflect the class of the venue. Over the past couple of years Sydney Town Hall has been being restored to its 19th century beauty and my ‘free’ show as it turned out was the re-opening night. The hall was quite extravagant, red carpet and the whole bit. Me in my recently hand sewn dress certainly didn’t expect this welcome usually its a flick of the id followed by a dark room full of loud music and black dressed young people. While the older crowd of pensioners and ‘comfortable’ thirty something couples didn’t appreciate me I appreciated both the hall and the music.

I didn’t mind those who were playing, Decoder Ring, on third, probably had the most to show for themselves.

I saw Jack Ladder first who has definitely evolved from the previous times I’d seen him. Ladder had a bigger band with a more eerie feel. I felt like their lengthy instrumentals created a more full sound. Although, my thoughts on Ladders music changes could also be due to the size and depth of the hall, the huge space possibly gave for a more epic experience. Jack Ladder’s massive masculine voice really drives the show but it was the other guitarist that I liked, his stage antics were so awesome he kept me glued. The jezebels were enjoyable, catchy, I will say though, if the main singers voice wasn’t so interesting the band would have fallen into the shadows for me a while ago.

I was so drawn to Decoder Ring at first they set a mood that had you mesmerized. I connected with the style change; a burst of echoic ambient noise . When they started to play I was really concentrating I almost needed to get in a trance like state to take in all they were offering the audience. They are the type of band that give you space to take your own meanings from their songs, this was suggested by the lack of lyrics and the abstract images displayed on a big screen behind them. They were entertaining, I particularly liked the drums, I think they were essential to my interest in the bands sound. Without the strong loud beats of the drums they could have become a bit wishy washy. The drums were defiantly stopping them from getting too carried away into a wanky routine.

I did like them, though, I got bored as the set went on, there was no speaking or words of any kind nor was there any differentiation between songs to wake me up a bit. To be fair words aren’t always essential and the running together of songs can sometimes really work, but in the case of Decoder Ring, I had friends around me, was easily distracted and lost interest. I do like the raw anger in a band a lot too and the personalization of songs, ie an artists experience and personality coming out of something they create. Where as I felt Decoder Ring (not in a bad way) were more of a performance to be experienced like you would a fixed piece of art.

Frantic Romantic

LAST NIGHT!
I met a scientist,
we ran.
Digged.
Danced.
Then we sat.
First you pretend,
then you give in,
and then you're bored.
Bored like a dead dog or
a long film about toads.
Wake up, turn it on, roar away.
You save now then you pay.
Hey you,
Even you can be kissed.
Because everyone gets pissed.

such a common name.

She was a poet.

Hated at first.

Then they thought she was all that.

People copied her.
Then she got old.

Then they forgot her.

Arty shit arty smit.
She gave me something.

I walked 47 miles of barbed wire,
Used a cobra snake for a neck tie.

Sal Paradise

Mad to live, made to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn

Quite amazing actually. Power. The loud and raw is missing from a world that has got very quiet all of a sudden. Im waiting for the modern alike to emerge from all the progressiveness.

.....a guy called Lee said hed send me some Black Lips crashing photos but eating a hotdog is the closest memory i have to view

"Things just got weird," Barlow recalled. "J and I just didn't talk. J was getting more and more lethargic in general. It started to get really uninspired. They reacted to that by kicking me out."

Freed Pig- Sebedoh (Barlow digs on Mascis)

And now a decade later they fucking spend a whole month together playing in the same small room, craze heads! they created..

Lorne:

Joan headlined, but who would remember that now. Some musicians are nostalgic because they are talented and others because the world can't get their souls removed from the performance they create

Poly Styrene