Support your local record shop (Heartland Records being one of them)

I hate to admit it but a large part of my love for collecting records over the last 10 or so years has been driven by what essentially amounts to retail therapy.

By that I mean I have a big music collection because buying records for me was for so long not only just about obtaining the music for personal enjoyment (or in some rare cases, for playing at a club), but also about experiencing the thrill of acquiring it. Going through the ritual, I’m ashamed to say, was as much a part of the fix as actually owning it. That is to say, I loved my music, but I also loved trawling through online retailer lists, taking bids on other online sites, going through bargains bins in places ranging from op shops to markets, and of course spending hours vigorously going through racks and stands in my favourite music shops.

It’s a completely irrational impulse I know — hell, you could argue that the entire music industry is based on the same principle — but as I neared my 30^th birthday I found that something unexpected began to occur. Horror of all horrors, as the years progressed I found that new music, specifically the new kind that really got me excited, seemed to become progressively more difficult to locate.

Surely, it had to be the state of the scene and all those damn downloaders and stuff… it couldn’t possibly be me, could it? I attribute my dislike for dubstep for that very reason. How could it be that my views are becoming rigid and out of touch… after all, dubstep just happens to be the in-thing at the moment. The millions of people who currently pretend to enjoy dubstep at the moment just happen to have it wrong. I’m confident they’ll get over it in the same way everyone got over electro-house and happy hardcore. Yeah, that’s definitely it.

Me and dubstep.

Alas, the day eventually arrived when I begrudgingly had to acknowledge that perhaps I was getting a bit rusty after all. The realisation occurred after I’d visited Heartland Records, my most favourite of favourite record stores, and also the scene of so many of my record buying splurges. I always imagined that I could happily spend eternity rifling through the new and classic material of this store… yet on this fateful day the excitement just didn’t seem to be working for me. For what must have been the first time ever, I walked out of Heartland without buying anything. Seriously, civilisation as we know it was about to end.

As it happens I had also started a Terrorizer magazine subscription at that time after I’d randomly picked up a copy of the magazine’s superb thrash metal special. A reader’s letter in a recent issue pretty much hit the nail on the head when he wrote to say he’d been into metal all his life and found that his views and tastes were getting narrower as he got older; as a result, he reverted to the classics he knew and loved (and Terrorizer kept him in touch with music worth listening to).

Feeling a little dejected about not having any more new music to hunt down, or maybe I was just missing that old thrill and fix, I coincidentally started doing exactly as that reader described, namely picking up a couple of what I consider metal classics. I’ve loved metal for 20 years and there are gaps in there that I’ve never filled. In fact, I imagine that I’d be a big fan of many of these releases if only I’d been young enough to be there at the time. Also, now that I’m so old and conservative and am not far off from living in a retirement village I didn’t want to risk being disappointed by ‘untested’ new music.

So I kind of started rekindling my love (fix?) for acquiring dark and alternative music. Now it just so happens that I recently turned 30 and various relatives had asked me what gifts they should get me for Christmas and / or birthday, given that the close chronological proximity of these two occasions in my case. “Heartland Records vouchers,” I told them.

Score!

And so it turns out I received $190 in vouchers to spend at my favourite record shop. In no particular order, here’s my haul from today’s raid.

SCORE!

System Of A Down — Aerials (seven-inch)

An oldie (well 2002 anyway) but a goodie. A killer track from SOAD, even though I never got into this band much. The b-side, a cover of Black Sabbath’s Snowlbind, was kind of disappointing though.

Rammstein — Mein Land (seven-inch, not shown)

New Rammstein single, with an additional new b-side, intended to promote the band’s new Made In Germany best of compilation. Also, watch the video. Seriously.

Black Sabbath — Black Sabbath (deluxe edition album)

The album that started it all. For Sabbath and for heavy metal. More than 40 goddamn years ago! I don’t mind paying a little bit more for the extras. And there’s a nice long booklet telling the story of the album, which I’m looking forward to reading. This, kids (ha, I can totally pepper my phrases with “kids” now and sound legitimate saying it), is a historical album.

Black Sabbath — Vol 4 (album)

Snowblind and Supernaut are unbelievable tracks. The sound of this album is said to define what being a drug addict and an alcoholic during the ’70s was all about.

I also bought the shirt.

Destruction — Best Of (“Doppel CD” i.e. double CD compilation)

Bullet belts, unintentionally funny attempts at English lyrics, more bullet belts, head banging, beer, chainsaws, shotguns, German headbanging thrash metallers, and more bullet belts. I’ve never owned a Destruction album so this compilation ought to be a great place to start. Thank you Terrorizer thrash metal special for getting me into this.

Ministry — The Last Sucker (album)

Another band I got into much too late. Awesome industrial metal. I’ve heard purists curse albums from this Ministry era. Plus, the George W. Bush holograph turning into a reptile on the front is a superb touch.

Manowar — Kings Of Metal (album)

This was released at around the time that the self-proclaimed Kings Of Metal commenced their slow ascent up their own arses. Goddamn I love the absurdly over the top Manowar cheese. Meeetaaaaaaaaaaal!

Hocico — Aqui Y Ahora En El Silencio (album)

Butt-ugly, poor, pissed of Mexicans with shoddy studio equipment making some of the best EBM industrial duff duff you’ll ever hear. Dark as hell. These guys smoke the asses off their contemporaries. How many drug cartel wars are currently going on in your country, huh?

Iron Maiden — Flight 666 (live album)

I’m a huge Maiden fan and I promised myself before today’s foray that I’d emerge with a piece of Maiden. I own the DVD so just the live tunes were a bargain at $10. Also, you’ve totally earned your metal stripes if you happen to attend a gig that is subsequently released as a live album... especially if it’s an Iron Maiden live album. In this case I hopefully get one seventeenth of a stripe, as one track on this was recorded at one of the Melbourne dates I went to.

Rammstein — Ich Tu Dier Weh (single)

Lacklustre single from Rammstein’s less than head-explodingly exciting last studio album. Indeed, good Rammstein remixes are notoriously few and far between. However, I bought this for the LOLs that is the Scooter remix. Absurdly cheesy and ridiculously so-bad-it’s-good. Great fun!

The Offspring — Why Don’t You Get A Job? (single)

It was $1. That’s cheaper than iTunes you know. Yeah, it sounds an awful lot like Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da by the Beatles? Yeah, and? Did you know all rock music can be attributed to some black dude working a cotton field in America? Also, the last song on this three-tracker single (originally on the band’s first album apparently) is considerable less family schmaltzy than much of the radio friendly tunes released later in their career.

There's actually quite a bit more to the store than these pics would suggest.

Heartland Records is located at 61 Peel Street, West Melbourne, 3003.

Web: www.heartlandrecords.com.au

Tel: (03) 9329 9636

Email: heartlandrecords@yahoo.com

A night out in three parts: Order Of Orias, live at The Bendigo Hotel, Nov 5, 2011 + (free!) drinks at some trendy hip place + stumbling off to DV8

Part II: Miss Libertine

Having seen just one of the five bands on the bill — the one that mattered anyway — and having satisfied my craving for kebab, I was very grateful to Nick (see my previous post) for dropping me off at my next destination, a large-ish bar and club I’d never been to called Miss Libertine.

Here I was to meet with another mate called Wolfgang, and yes, that really is his name. I bet the people you hang out with don’t have awesome first names like that. They'd have to be called Chuck Wayne or Arnold Fightmaster to come close. He’s someone I regularly bump into around the traps, and we usually end up talking about music, bands, and, well, music. However, until tonight we’d never had a proper cath-up outside of a gig or a club night. So, dosed up on metal and kebab, I entered this popular drinking establishment, whereupon entering the crowded premises I observed a few things.

The first thing I noticed was that it was hip. So very, very, very trendy and hip. Edgy young dudes wearing hats and short-sleeve tops had their designer tattoos on display while most of the girls who felt they could get away with it (and some who probably couldn’t) were also on display in inappropriately short skirts and handbags.

Secondly, I quickly discovered that the venue was serving free booze. Lots of it. In a city where the active nightlife is inevitably dominated by traditionally expensive bar prices, such a generous offering is almost unprecedented. And I don’t mean free drinks as in “pay $369 for entry and get a free glass of champagne” — I mean “can I please have two imported beers and not pay for them” kind of free. Interestingly enough, and I give credit to the venue for this, I noticed that this phenomenon was not being abused.

When I was 18 or 19 I once (and only once) went to this club that provided free booze all night long in exchange for a $20 entry-fee (and keep in mind that $20 in 2001 according to the Reserve Bank Of Australia Inflation Calculator is more than $25 in modern dollars, so that wasn't quite as cheap as it seems). I think the venue was called something like the Commercial Club, and no, in calling it that there wasn’t a hint of intended irony or edginess, it was simply the fact that it was located on Commercial Road. From memory, this night was exceedingly unpleasant, with five-thick echelons of people impatiently pushing towards the bar, aggressively jostling for an opening until they finally got served every 50 minutes. Even worse, I never came close to getting my money’s worth in “free” booze. Also, the music was crap.

Not so with this venue (the behaviour part I mean — the music was still crap). For whatever reason, a potentially explosive swill fest remained entirely civilised, and I take my hat off to the organisers for managing to achieve such a feat with no immediately visible douchebags spoiling the situation.

My third observation concerned the music being played and how much I thought it sucked. Grooving along to the very best in top 40 and commercial smash hits were gaggles of girls in high heels, creating movement in those inappropriately short skirts, their legs planted around fixed dance floor circles in which were found beacons of handbags. Geez, I can’t remember the last time I was in one of these places, I thought. But hey, the beer was free, so why am I complaining?

After taking in the bar and the really happenin’ dancefloor I got caught in a bottleneck on my way to the outside balcony. Here an attractive young lady said some excessively bubbly hellos to Wolfgang, complete with kisses on the cheek and a tight hug. She must have been 21 or 22 and had some trendy-looking ink on her shoulders. Then she landed a mildly forceful hug on me and attempted to kiss me on the cheek too, seeing as, you know, I was Wolfgang’s mate and all. I guess she didn’t think much of my hello to you too though — if we were shaking hands then my attempt at avoiding a kiss and hug would have amounted to a limp cold fish. Clearly she wasn't impressed because she insisted I say hello to her properly. “I want your lips to touch my cheek," she instructed.

“Uhm…,” I mumbled.

“I’ll be right,” I said.

Then there was this fantastically awkward pause where neither of us said anything.

Thankfully, she had the courtesy to extricate us with a mildly witty repartee that allowed us both to retain some measure of dignity. “You must be the only grownup here,” she said, and flittered off.

Apparently she worked at the venue.

One of the more interesting encounters occurred a few drinks later with one of Wolfgang’s friends. I vaguely recall seeing her at various noise gigs and the occasional house party but that was it mostly.

We quickly established that yes, the alternative / duff / goth /noise / industrial world is at times even smaller and incestuous than we imagine it to be. Then we somehow got onto the topic of tattoos where I said something to the effect of it must be pretty ballsy for her to have ink work that remains visible on places other than arms and shoulders. That is, she had the sort of tattoos you don’t bother covering up. In response, she showed me a small piece on the back of her neck.

Got it?

Now funnily enough, that also happens to be the name of one of my favourite industrial tunes, released a while back by Velvet Acid Christ, or VAC for short. When this girl showed me her There Is No God tattoo I casually asked if that had anything to do with VAC. I was fully expecting a blank look, as often occurs when I make obscure industrial music references, but next thing you know her face veritably lit up.

“Oh my God, you’re only the second person to ever mention that,” she said delightedly (I’d had a few drinks so she may not have mentioned the “God” part).

We exchanged Facebook details and a few days later I noticed that her first post on my feed was a photo of her displaying snot that she had extracted herself.

True story.

A night out in three parts: Order Of Orias, live at The Bendigo Hotel, Nov 5, 2011 + (free!) drinks at some trendy hip place + stumbling off to DV8

Another night out on the town proves to be a healthy reminder why I steer clear of the “normal” side.

Part I: Order Of Orias

I sort of know one the guys in this band from back in the day when I had no job and would religiously head to a free weekly Thursday night metal club in the city. Now I’m gainfully employed and don’t go out nearly as much — I’m told by those who have had kids that I still ain’t seen nothin’ yet on the “staying at home” front — so when my good friend Nick (you’ll probably hear more about him in future posts) told me he was going to support Order Of Orias I was only too thrilled to come along.

This used to be every Thursday night of my life.

I’d seen this band a year or two ago, part of it probably because a small part of me wanted to remind itself that I still manage to get out and be merry metal from time to time. I even bought the t-shirt and the demo before I heard them play! There should be more people like me LOL.

Now here was a chance to catch them again as they were opening in a five-band line-up. The operative word here is opening — sadly we wouldn’t be catching the rest of the show, seeing as Nick was in the midst of nailing a fancy university degree. True trooper that he is, he compromised and went to support his mate’s band but skipped out the rest of the night. In other words, for his study break he went to see an extreme metal band before heading home and getting right back to studying. Goddamn I wish I was still at uni.

Order Of Orias were intense the last time I saw them play. And heavy as. It was in the dark and rather spacious Central Club in Richmond with lots of people wearing black t-shirts. This is going to sound like every other impression you’ve ever read of a live band, but the closest description I can think of is that of an “aural assault”. Everything was brutal and fast. My ears rang when I left the venue. Wimps and posers would leave the hall I imagine…

This time it was in an equally dark but much smaller band room. In such a relatively small space, with a trickle of people filtering in, there’s generally a noticeable quietness at first. When the house PA isn’t cranking out the tunes and the people there haven’t even finished their first beer, it suddenly feels terrifyingly loud when the first band for the night obliterates the silence.

As I said, the last time I saw them it was a set-piece frontal attack. This time I noticed it was more mobile, more varied, and pretty tight. The set was interspersed with what I thought were some really cool slower tracks, which I thought was a nice departure from the previous carpet bombing assault. In fact, during one of said slower tunes I remember thinking, “Geez, a guitar solo would be awesome right now” — and as if reading my mind, this immediately occurred. I’m starting to like this band more and more.

So it was a tight performance and it turned out that most of what had been played would be appearing on their very recently released debut album, Inverse. In very metal fashion it’s also available on vinyl. I got my CD copy from World Terror Committee (be aware that there seems to be some suspect right wing shit going on behind the scenes of this distro — if that doesn't sit well with you, then maybe get your copy direct from the band). The ordering system is a bit funny — as far as I can tell, if you want pay via Paypal you have to specify in the comments field when you order that you’re doing so — but I got around it eventually. Impressions will follow at a later time.

And with that Nick had to get back to his higher education, but not before we fulfilled the ancient club and gig-going tradition that is consuming a late night kebab. Then he kindly dropped me off at my next destination…