This is the greeeeatest moment in my liiiAAAAAGGGHHHHH MY SPINE!

I recently moved house and was going through some old boxes when I found some ticket stubs that over the years were at various times proudly affixed to my wall with Bluetack. They’re from two gigs played over a weekend in October 1997, when I was 15 or 16.

I was devoutly into metal at the time and I just loved going to gigs and jumping around to heavy music. Being underage, my choice of venues was severely limited, so every Thursday I’d religiously scan the entertainment pages in The Age newspaper and also watch Recovery on Saturday mornings on ABC TV with Dylan Lewis (who was something of a douche) in the hope of catching a three-minute segment called All Things All Ages or some such. It was often a futile pursuit as there were very few all-ages gigs and even fewer all-ages metal gigs, which is how I ended up at a Millencolin gig.

I was young and didn't know any better.

I’m being a tad sarcastic when I say I’m not much of a fan of Swedish pop punk. In fact, my knowledge of this band is limited to one track on an obscure punk compilation. But it was an all-ages gig and a mate had invited me to come so why the hell not. It’s what you do when you’re 15.

From memory there wasn't much worth repeating from the gig. The Living End were one of the supports and were still vaguely cool back then — while writing this update I worked out that this gig was played just one month after the release of the Second Solution / Prisoner of Society EP. Apparently (and by apparently I mean Wikipedia told me) this release became the highest selling Australian single from the ’90s.

The HiFi Bar, as it had recently been renamed, was kind of dark and I recall gleefully leaping into what passed as a circle pit and promptly getting smashed in the head. I pulled out and didn’t jump back in. Also, my mate got into an argument with someone who had supposedly stuck a lit firelighter at him. Or something…

As I said, I really loved jumping around and going nuts to heavy music. Secretly I’d have liked to talk to girls even more but I was way, way, way too shy for that.

BEST LINE-UP EVER

Look at this stub and tell me that isn’t a totally killer line-up.

Where were you on this glorious day?

Headlining were Canadian metallers Strapping Young Lad when they had just started getting really big after the release of the City album.

Supporting were two superb Aussie bands: Canberra’s psychedelic metal warriors Alchemist, who had recently released Spiritech (one of my favourite albums of all time and a criminally underrated masterpiece); and ‘hatecore’ purveyors Damaged, a band that was notorious for Matt Skitz’s drumming and destroying venues and fans (literally and metaphorically). And they were playing an all-ages gig. Which I was attending!

Unfortunately Damaged pulled the plug at the last moment and were replaced by Segression. They played an ok sort of mix of groove metal with some nu-metal thrown in for good measure but I’ll never forget this band name because I once knew a girl whose first words to me were: “Do you know Segression? I’m going to fuck the drummer.” True story. The first words I mean. I doubt she proceeded with her intended plan.

If I may digress for a moment, I’d also like to point out that this was in the days of pre-fast internet and so radio, particularly community radio, played an important role in spreading the gospel of metal. All these bands were played on at least three separate radio shows each week, which I’d listen to religiously. My long-gone favourite was Demon Night from 10-12 on Wednesday nights on 106.7 PBS FM — seriously, it was the best show EVER! The Hard Report ran on 102.7 RRR FM on Sunday nights from 10-2 and was responsible for my chronic tiredness at school on Monday mornings. And then there was Three Hours Of Power, played nationally on Triple J every Tuesday night from 10-1. My formative metal years were shaped by community radio. I loved the humbleness of these programs, how dead air was a regular occurrence when the announcer (usually the only person in the building by that time of night) ducked into the toilet and the track mysteriously finished early. Or how the promo cart would hurriedly be faded out half-way because it was the wrong one, or a phone would start ringing in the middle of an interview. Radio really meant something back then — and to make matters even better I’d generally make back the cost of my RRR and PBS subscriptions from the free prizes I’d win.

Forgive me, I was merely enjoying the nostalgia…

We showed up half-way through Segression’s set and found the somewhat sedate crowd doing what early crowds (and particularly alcohol-free crowds) do this early in the afternoon, which is not much. But you know, they had that polite and appreciative applause between songs, a sound most support bands are only too familiar with.

Alchemist was next up, and it was an experience which to this day I can only describe as mesmerizing. My theory is that Alchemist live in 1997 was — like all good things in life when you’re young — simply better when you first began experiencing it. MAD magazine? Heavy metal? Sex? These thing and so many more were always at their most awesomest and exciting when you discovered them for the first time.

I wish I could travel back in time and re-live that 45 or so minutes of watching them play live. One moment the crowd was going off to these huge, rhythmic, thick riffs and then it all went a little… tripped out… as the headbanging gave way to quiet interludes of synthy, fascinating, rich sounds interspersed with samples and effects in the background. And then back to the rhythmic headbanging.

Maybe my memory has been contaminated by my fondness of the event, but I could swear that the moshpit was swaying to the breakdown in Chinese Whispers (switch off your anti-stupid shield for a second and read the comments in that YouTube video).

And finally… Strapping Young Lad. If you like metal then hopefully this band needs little introduction. I’d owned the City album for a few weeks and had a particular fondness for the tune Detox, which also got a lot of radio play. In fact, repeated listens of this this tune on radio was what got me into this band. As I said, radio meant something back then.

But believe it or not, I’m not the biggest Strapping fan. I dig it and have all sorts of angsty nostalgic feelings form that time but personally I just don’t rate them up there with the likes of Iron Maiden. But boy, what a performance. Front-man Devin Townsend is the epitome of a showman and the awesomeness all started before anyone even played a riff. The entire crowd was kind of WTF-ed as he walked on stage and started miming to this weirdly melodic introduction, kind of like this one.

Anyway, Devin comes on stage and people are sort of looking at him weirdly with this odd sense of expectation as he does this routine. And then… it began. Oh dear Lord, did it begin. And keep going.

A veritable wall of white hot, crazy noise, with a rapidly balding long-haired Canadian dude doing his best to make everyone go utterly apeshit. Industrial strength, white-blue searing heavy metal of the utmost intensity.

One thing from this gig that I will never forget is my first and last ever stage dive. There was some surfing and diving going on and being young and energetic and extremely sweaty I figured it’d be a neat idea. Towards the end of the gig I finally managed to fight my way around to the front, climb on stage, look down at the crowd and think as I sailed through the air that oh man, this is the greeeeatest moment in my liiiAAAAAGGGHHHHH MY SPINE!!!!!!

Turns out the crowd caught my spread out arms; my knees, however, smashed straight into the concrete floor. I can still remember the snapping sensation in my back. So that was the last time I ever stagedived.

What an era, eh? Getting your head smashed in a circle pit. Almost breaking your spine after leaping from the stage. Kids going from zero to apeshit by the power of great music without any alcohol. Back then you wore your mosh-induced injuries as a badge of honour.

But here’s the best part.

This Strapping Young Lad gig which I TOTALLY ATTENDED was IMMORTALISED in the form of a LIVE ALBUM. That’s right, people. This gig was recorded and later released as No Sleep ’Till Bedtime i.e Live In Australia. And I was THERE dammit.

I SAID I WAS THERE!!!

I’d like to think that if you throw on a decent pair of headphones and carefully listen to this album you’ll hear, buried somewhere in the crowd noise, the soft cracking sound of a 15-year-old boy’s knees colliding with a concrete floor.

I love gimmicks

There are a couple of reasons why I bought this seven-inch from death metal old schoolers Morbid Angel, but none of them have anything to do with me liking Morbid Angel. I’m hardly a fan and I don’t own any of their albums.

The fact is, I love gimmicks in music, for the same reason that many people hate them. They’re one of the reasons I love industrial music, and by that I mean I love the way a generic electronic composition that’s indistinguishable from thousands like it can instantly become more interesting and noticeable (and in some cases a major dance floor hit) by the simple addition of cleverly placed samples. They’re the icing that makes generic tracks on an album stand out because of that kooky cover track, or the wooden CD case or leather record sleeve.

But neither of these qualities are present in this release. I bought it simply because it has a remix from one of my favourite electronic artists, Combichrist. In this case, a track titled Destructos vs The Earth.

Not their best work apparently.

Now Combichrist is best known for being quite a successful industrial duff artists. As far as the underground sees it, Combichrist is even considered relatively commercial — the Manowar of the industrial scene, I once saw him called.

Personally, I love Combichrist because the music is oh so fun, awesome to dance to, hard hitting — and kinda gimmicky. Keeping in mind of course, because sometimes it’s too easy to forget, that compared to mainstream music that still sells, it’s still considered unlistenable noise…

Anyway, the thing that grabbed me about this release was not the Morbid Angel connection. The album from which this single comes from, Illud Divinum Insanus, was panned when it came out and as I said, I’ve just never been much of a fan. It was the remix of the track and the accompanying fan-made video circulating on the web that first got me, if only because I thought the song was so fantastically awful. It was so bad, I thought, that it couldn’t possibly be a ‘serious’ (even by Combichrist tongue in cheek standards) kind of release. But it was.

In true interwebs fashion, the fan-made junk video was way funnier, better and weirdly accurate — certainly far more than anything a producer with a budget for such a relatively small artist would typically make.

And from there it grew on me. Considerably, in fact, until I ended up ordering it. Even so, the record came with a free Morbid Angel patch which I declined to sew onto my otherwise very full heavy metal battle jacket. I may like gimmicks but I draw the line somewhere and that line is an album like Illud Divinum Insanus.

Remember these things kids?

Spreading Mustaine

So Dave Mustaine from Megadeth has reportedly endorsed Republican candidate Rick Santorum. The man behind two of the greatest thrash metal albums of all time, and who sang and riffed about serial killers, alien conspiracies and the despicable state of music censorship, is now getting behind a presidential-hopeful made infamous from a nasty Google bomb that likened his surname to a by-product of anal intercourse.

Not a by-product of lube and fecal matters. Although his detractors might argue against that.

The full story can be found all over the web, but suffice to say that it started with one political activist who — wishing to get back at Santorum for making anti-gay comments — started the spreadingsantorum.com site which led to the Santorum association retaining its colourful top Google ranking.

Would it work for metal? Is an endorsement of a traditional enemy of metal by one of its elders worthy of its own association? Would spreading Mustaine or spreading Ulrich go far?

Then there’s the real nutjobs. Vikernes (Grishnackh?). Benton. Darken.

I’m currently lacking the energy to think of some sufficiently humorous definitions.

Suggestions on a postcard please. Our you could leave comments below.

Blackness in metal

Is this the best worst classified of all time (click the image for the link — and no, that doesn't seem to be a stock image)? I don't know if this is true or not. Or maybe it is true and someone's taking the piss. So far, it seems to be a real classified, but I haven't been brave enough to contact the owner. This would make for a funny, funny prank call. It practically tells itself.


This actually reminds me of this gem from some years ago. The caller (rumoured, after this did the rounds, to be from a hardcore outfit... the name escapes me) is clearly hamming up the fact that he is black. He is calling 'Joe' in response to an ad to join a black metal band. The humorous exchange predictably goes back and forth about what is "black" as in "dark and evil" to which the caller exclaims, dammit, that he is "dark and evil"! And so on. The astonishing part, though, is near the end, when Joe, having earlier listed Burzum, Darkthrone, and Mayhem as the kind of bands he likes, reveals that he's not overly badass and in fact "lived in the suburbs" as "an only-child".

Alas. Earwax.

I’d like to think (with extra smugness I might add) that my geek hierarchy street cred has improved since I started reading The Science Fiction Hall Of Fame. How could it not, what with this three-volume collection of classic sci-fi short stories and novellas being so widely regarded as a definitive work in the genre? Now that I’ve read it (once) I’ve totally progressed from “People who write erotic versions of Star Trek where all the characters are furries” to at least “Fanfic writers who put themselves in the story”.

Having said that, one story I thoroughly enjoyed was called Microcosmic God, by American author Theodore Sturgeon. Apart from being a brilliant and compelling tale about a scientific genius who is almost too smart for his own good, it also happens to be from an author who was sufficiently well known to have been credited with an eponymous law: Sturgeon’s Revelation.

Basically, 90 per cent of everything, says Sturgeon — be it science fiction, romance novels, films, art, consumer goods and, yes, even (or perhaps even more so) music — is “crud” or “crap”.

I like that. In fact, it resonates with me because it’s something I discovered the hard way (and at considerable expense) over the last few years. Let me elaborate…

Quantity not quality

In my previous post I mentioned how a substantial part of my music collection was the result of a retail fix-driven desire to experience the thrill of acquiring music. That is, while I hate to admit it, my music collecting was as much motivated by the retail therapy thrill that was the ritual of buying music, as it was about actually owning it. Retail therapy of the worst kind, basically. And one of my very worst excesses came about a few years ago when I purchased wholesale CD bulk lots from two record stores.

One was a collection of mostly second-hand industrial CDs while the other constituted all remaining music stock from an obscure little shop called Synaesthesia Records, specialising in experimental, weird, abstract and unusual recordings of all descriptions. I might point out that this second purchase was the first and last time I ever purchased music by the kilo.

My theory was that I couldn’t possibly lose: either my personal collection would expand with vast quantities of quality music, or I’d make a killing on eBay.

Sadly, I couldn't possibly foresee just how very wrong I would be on both counts.

This is what 48 litres of industrial music looks like.

There are 25-40 CDs in each of these 12 boxes.
The blow-up plastic hammer is unrelated to this picture.
Also, my fiancée hates how these boxes have literally
gathered dust for the last three or so years.

Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans

The approximate 1000 CDs which I acquired were a most unfortunate purchase and a real-life reminder that Sturgeon’s previously mentioned Revelation is as relevant to alternative music as it is with anything else.

A case in point was the first bulk lot of predominantly of 90s-era industrial, EBM, synth-pop, goth, and electro along with a few other bits and pieces, much of it from artists who had long disappeared into obscurity.

The hundreds of industrial music CDs, for example, seemed to conform to the notion that “one sound fits all”. Just start with unimaginative sequences from an analogue-sounding synthesizer and add in a few samples; throw in that done-to-death Ministry-style vocal distortion; then extend the recording with some dubious remixes. As for the synth-pop, while there was (some) noticeable variety, it was generally a case of merely composing a vaguely catchy melody, adding clean vocals from someone who may or may not be able to sing in tune, then extending it again with various ‘remixes’. Seriously, so much of it sounded the same, and much of it was positively awful. Not all of it, mind you, just much of it — the vast remainder was mediocre at best while the remaining small proportion — the very small remainder that actually made it just worthwhile — contained those gems that were worth getting excited about.

The Synaesthesia lot contained even more astoundingly awful recordings. We’re talking so-called field-recordings, live recordings, improvisations, ambient, drones… the whole gamut of what I suspect is really just rubbish made by people without any musical talent, or even an understanding of basic musical principles, somehow committed to audio.

Again, I’ve found some absolute gems in there — from quirky home-made self-produced recordings to a field recording of a real street fight to just plain outworldly weird and bizarre albums — but goddamn, am I fed up with ‘organic’ and ‘drone and ‘improvised’ and ‘experimental’ and many otherwise worthy terms being passed off as something other than the worthless rubbish recordings that they really are. Seriously, a recording of an afternoon’s worth of pissfarting around with a crappy synth and adding in some dodgy samples does not an album make. And yet, this bulk lot was filled to the brim with dozens upon dozens of such recordings — and a suspiciously high proportion of them were wrapped in fancy, often DIY-produced packaging. In fact, the elaborateness of the packaging was almost directly proportionate to the awfulness of its contents. Almost… because, as I said, there were some gems in there. Some gems.

So that’s how I was proven wrong in the belief that I would embiggen my music collection; and to add insult to injury, I couldn’t sell this stuff online. Indeed, I have many of these CDs on my eBay account for next to nothing and they still don’t sell.

Sadface.

Which brings me to the whole Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans thing. In Harry Potter, these are the sweets at Hogwarts that have a random flavour — as in literally anything. They famously appeared at the conclusion of the first Harry Potter story, when Dumbledore tells Harry about an unfortunate experience in his younger days when he came across a vomit-flavoured one. He then warily consumes one, hoping that it may be toffee flavoured, whereupon he remarks: “Alas. Earwax.”

For better or worse, my 700 or so yet-to-be-listened-to CDs are my personal Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans. I’ll grab one at random — doing the dishes, heading out in the car, working on the computer — and usually I end up not thinking much of it. I’ve long since become oblivious to the notion of disappointment. If it’s not awful but just mediocre it promptly gets relegated to the eBay pile.

Occasionally I’ll find a keeper.

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…

Icon Of Coil + Komor Kommando + NorthBorne, live at The Hi-Fi Melbourne, October 28, 2011

Icon Of Coil (IoC), if you hadn’t heard of them, were something of a big deal some years ago in the goth industrial world.

A brief history of the band goes something like this. They were founded in 1997 by front-man Andy LaPlegua (fact: his real name is Ole Anders Olsen). They eventually became a three-piece and released three influential EBM-duff albums: Serenity Is The Devil in 2000, The Soul Is In The Software in 2002, and Machines Are Us in 2004. In 2005 they released a remix album, after which things became real quiet.

The inactivity had a lot to do with the fact that Andy LaPlegua was rapidly becoming fabulously successful doing his Combichrist solo project — while somehow still finding the time to release some excellent music as Scandy (the only Scandy full-length, 13 Ways To Masturbate, is one of my favourite electronic albums) and Panzer AG.

The other two members of IoC also dabbled in various projects. Sebastian Komor produced music under half a dozen or so project monikers including Melt, Squarehead, Zombie Girl, Monofader, and Komor Kommando. Unfortunately, he just never quite seemed able to land the same recognition or commercial success as his counterpart. The third member, Christian Lund, eventually began making music as NorthBorne, an obscure little bleepy project that seems to have a small but strong cult following.

So for a while there it looked like IoC was finished and their exceptionally catchy and danceable music seemed destined for obscurity and nostalgia. Back in the day there was hardly a goth industrial player-of-other-people’s-music who didn’t at the very least have the better known IoC tunes in their collection. But no more. Die-hard fans had their worst fears confirmed when in 2006 the band re-issued their three albums.

Jump forward a few years and IoC are unexpectedly back together for a show or two. A few shows turned into a few more shows which turned into a tour, which is how I found myself seeing the re-formed band on the Australian “Halloween 2011” tour, the line-up also comprising Komor Kommando and Northborne. So began my night at the Hi-Fi Bar & Ballroom, but not before we got to experience record quantities of Melbourne rain on our way into town, a meteorological phenomenon that would “dampen” attendance for the night.

Getting started

Christian Lund was first on the bill with the quirky and repetitive bleepishness that is NorthBorne. Bedecked in a hoodie and vague terrorist-like mask he seemed very energetic despite the venue’s general lack of punters. Thankfully, a few die-hards were having a boogie at the front, which seemed to keep him motivated. I’m not a muso but I can imagine that nothing would suck more than playing a large-ish venue to an empty floor.

More people filtered in by the time Komor Kommando started but it soon became apparent that this was going to be one of “those” gigs — a small crowd (I’m told final attendance was just 100 in a venue with a capacity of around 900) but one hopefully bursting with appreciation. In my experience these sorts of gigs can go either way because the small crowd can result in a show that is fantastically intimate and awesome… or plain embarrassing for all involved. I would find out shortly…

Sebastian Komor’s show turned out to be the biggest surprise for the night. As with NorthBorne, I was surprised by a vocal and highly enthusiastic element in the crowd. “These peope are in the know,” I thought to myself. “Good on ’em.” But as he kept playing I really felt that this was going to be unexpectedly special. My personal “wow” moment arrived when I felt the first spectacularly cheesy strains of what I thought for a moment was an Ennio Morricone cowboy anthem.

“This is his interpretation of every corny Western film ever made, complete with gunshots and horse noises,” a good friend informed me as it really got going. And boy was he right. The tune (Hasta Luego — below) single-handedly made my night. I’ve never heard anything so ridiculously cheesy, catchy and funny-epic and it’s been on repeat ever since — much to the annoyance of my fiancée.

Having said that, I’m less sure if his tongue-in-cheek attempt to “resonate” with the Aussie crowd by looping AC/DC went down so well. Personally I loved its awful tastelessness, but I just didn’t see it going off for some of the more “serious” punters. This ochre block of true blue Aussie rock did, however, gave rise to my favourite line for the night, and one which I would be repeating during the lulls between songs for the rest of the night (again, much to the annoyance of the “serious” attendees). “Play some fucken Barnsey!”

Click the link for some REAL industrial EBM cowboy goodness

Incidentally, at a similar gig some weeks later I would have this party trick backfire on me when the singer, in all seriousness, yelled back: “What? Play something bouncy?”

Icon Of Coil

The highlight of the evening was naturally going to be the main serving comprising all three members doing their thing. Front-man Andy did an excellent job of working the crowd and basically being very imposing, but even so, the performance wasn’t the sheer aggression and hateful craziness of the two Combichrist gigs that I’d seen in years past. Instead, he came across more as the singer in a cohesive unit, albeit one made up of guys playing pre-recorded music on synthesisers and laptops. Of course, one of the downsides to having all your music sequenced is that when the house audio controls go down unexpectedly, your entire performance disappears with it. In mid chorus there was an odd pop whereupon everything went dead. “Welcome to Australia,” cam the immediate response from crowd.

Thankfully, this technical issue got sorted quickly and it was on with the show. As I mentioned before, back in the day just about every industrial DJ carried a good number of IoC tunes in their repertoire, the reason being of course that this band was responsible for releasing so many great songs. Sadly, one of the things about a band not being in your face all the time and fading into nostalgia is that you’re more likely to forget what made them great in the first place. My logic is that a band that releases rubbish at least reminds you of the good old days when they were still releasing quality. I think the effect of the evening was succinctly summarised by my good friend Abby, a massive fan from way back and also the person who kindly provided the photos in this post.

“What did you think?” I asked in my croakiest post-cheering-til-I’m-hoarse voice.

“You know, I love Icon Of Coil, but I forgot just how many great songs they had. It just kept going and going. It was awesome!”

It certainly was. And it was a heck of a lot more than mere nostalgia. The small but exceptionally enthusiastic crowd did its best to ensure that this evening would be a top night. Plus that extra room on the floor left plenty of space for all to dance their arses off.

Now if only Andy LaPlegua would revive Scandy. That’d be brilliant. Or at least get back to making another decent Combichrist album.

And finally: a word on musicians…

What is it about musicians and their capacity to be so exceedingly harsh to their own kind? Maybe it’s just me, but it seems to be a particularly prevalent phenomenon when someone becomes commercially successful in what was previously a small pond. Or maybe it’s just the good old fashioned Aussie tall poppy syndrome?

The goth industrial world and the success of Combichrist is a typical example. There’s a reason why the inlay notes to the Get Your Body Beat EP — the first release to follow Combichrist’s first commercial-breakthrough, Everybody Hates You — contained the words “With success comes bitching.”

Two comments from people I talked to on the night really stuck with me, both of them from seasoned musicians.

One was from a talented young chap who listens to a lot of harsher, twisted electronics. He’s a lovely bloke who takes his music producing very seriously and I genuinely hope that one of these days he can take credit for one of his own breakthrough releases. “I’m only here to see NorthBorne and Komor Kommando,” he announced to me. “Fair enough,” I thought, seeing as IoC is not everyone’s cup of tea. “Will you be leaving straight after Komor Kommando then,” I asked innocently.

Oh of course not, was the reply, and I left it at that. But I had to wonder why someone felt the urge to go out of their way to make it clear to me that they weren’t here for the main attraction? What’s the objective there? I don’t know.

The other comment was from a seasoned musician with a load of projects and quite a few gigs under his belt. I explained to him how awesomely bad and brilliantly cheesy and catchy Komor’s previously mentioned Hasta Luego track was.

“It just goes to show,” he said. “You can have the shittest song but people will still like it if you get the layers just right.” I was tempted to disagree but again I left it at that. What makes a good song, I wondered? If the effect of a song is that it’s enjoyable and good fun, does it really matter how it’s produced?

Fun is why we listen to this music and why we dance to it. Fun is why some people take the time and effort to produce it. Fun doesn’t have to be complex or inaccessible or take time to develop. Fun should be just that — fun. Let’s not forget that.

The Ren & Stimpy Show

I found this single for $0.99 at my local Salvation Army store. That’s cheaper than iTunes. Of course the Salvation Army is — for all the good it apparently does — a rabidly anti gay evangelical church that operates a slick PR and advertising machine. I guess that’s a discussion for another time… probably in relation to the number of concerts that have been cancelled in recent months due to organised religious lobbying. For now, here’s something less religiousy, namely…

I Wanna Be A DJ [click to see the Discogs.com release info]

A radio DJ!

This two-track single appears to be part of what looks loosely like a 1995 concept album released by the voices of cartoon characters Ren and Stimpy, along with a backing band. The title track on this single, which refers to the traditional radio announcer DJ, is a three and a half something ditty straight out of a musical, orated by Stimpy. At one time he even refers to himself as DJ Stimpy.

It’s a quirky tune where he keeps repeating the title words, then on each hook he is accompanied by an over-the-top male radio voice exclaiming the same. The lyrics deal with Stimpy’s desire to announce, interview, and in particular his wish to give things away on air.

This CD reminded me of the cartoon (funny that). While I confess that I never watched enough of The Ren & Stimpy Show to call myself a real fan, I did catch enough to appreciate its warped humour — a hard to define mix of the very funny yet the somehow tasteless and gross. Indeed, the “earwax” or “nostril hair” humour of this show went on to embody the neurotic style of so many Nickelodeon shows after it.

And that’s what this CD has even though I feel it’s kind of toned down. The first lines detail how Stimpy was born inside an old tube-radio, followed by how his mother licked him clean while he slept (complete with slurping sound effect). There’s the juvenile humour — he refers to “breaking news” and how he’s going to “glue it together again”. And there’s much of the dumb innocence of Ren’s character.

This last point, I feel, may go a long way to explaining why some people just don’t get Ren & Stimpy. They see the grossness and the earwax, the close-ups, and the neurosis-induced bloodshot eyes. Yet the characters were exceedingly well refined and developed (at least based on what I saw). They might constantly act in a way that would get the writers in trouble with the Nickelodeon producers; but if it was shocking it wasn’t merely for the sake of it. As I said, its influence was quite something. There’d certainly be no SpongeBob SquarePants or Invader Zim if it weren’t for The Ren & Stimpy Show.

So maybe get this if you’re a fan? Or maybe get it if you just want something that gives the appearance of being clean and innocent, but which you know, just under the surface, harbours something hilariously unspeakable.