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I invite you to leave a caption for this image in the comments section below.

I like this photo because I think it’s kinda funny. There’s actually a perfectly legitimate reason for the gas mask… Here’s what’s going on…

CAPTION HERE.

My fiancée and I live on a suburban rental property which we reckon was built in the ’70s or ’60s. It’s a two-bedroom weatherboard house that was built in the typical style for the time. Its age means there’s occasionally a leaking window (and let’s not forget the misaligned stumps that cause ping pong balls to accumulate in corners) but apart from those minor quirks we reckon it’s more than cosy enough for us to think of it as our home.

There’s only one real bugbear. Not long after we’d moved in it was brought to our attention that the walls in the toilet (this being an extension) most likely contained asbestos. Though it’s hard to believe nowadays, asbestos was once a very common building material, and it was especially popular in Australia in the form of fibro sheeting and other products.

Thankfully, I’m told a large proportion of the asbestos used in construction that’s most commonly encountered (which I believe comes from so-called white asbestos) isn’t bad for you provided it remains undisturbed. That is, it’s dangerous only if it disperses its miniscule toxic particles, such as if you were to drill or cut into the stuff. Hence, its reputation as the bane of home renovators.

So there I was, doing a very good impression of appearing to be a knowledgeable gardener on my new veggie patch (all five pot plants worth) when I came across something strange. I was digging a hole for some food scraps when suddenly I hit something vaguely solid, buried around 10cm under the grass in our backyard.

At first I thought what any normal person in my position would think, namely, that I’d unearthed a forgotten back yard treasure. However, panic set in when I poked the stuff with my trowel and noticed a crumbly-looking, pale-ish, fibrous kind of material.

Once again, I thought what any sane person in my situation would think. Namely, “Oh my God, what if I’ve just inhaled asbestos fibres!?”’

My first step was to look it up on the web, hence my extensive knowledge of asbestos disposal treatment from all of five minutes’ worth of checking the web. That’s how I unearthed (see what I did there?) the information presented to you previously.

I quickly calmed down when I realised that my chances of contracting a long-term asbestos-related disease were greatly reduced. I ‘breathed a sigh of relief’ (did it again). But what to do?

First, I had to dispose of that toxic waste. And did I have the solution!

I am the proud owner of the genuine Warsaw Pact-era gas mask that you see in the photo — if anyone can identify the make or model I’d be very grateful. It’s proudly displayed on top of our DVD shelf, ready for use at a moment’s notice for when the Huns pre-empt their major summer offensive with a chlorine gas artillery bombardment.

I know it works because I previously used the gas mask in a potentially lethal field trial. A flatmate had adopted a stray kitten and while the cat was dearly loved, its cat box rarely received adequate human attention. Instead, the flatmate simply kept piling more kitty litter on top the old stuff. Sure enough, the cat litter box reached the critical overflow point, and yours truly somehow got suckered into changing the whole thing.

I vaguely recall the decision to volunteer me was made after the contents of the cat box were disturbed in an attempted clean out, whereupon the intensely choking smell of cat urine drove everyone from the room. I kid you not, my flatmate was dry reaching (either that or it was part of a convincing act to get me to do the dirty work). Then I struck upon the idea of using my gas mask and, would you believe, I was then leisurely able to go about my business.

Another time, I went to this party which I was told was full fancy dress. I dressed up in every piece of military attire I could find and just before knocking on the door I put on my gas mask. The door was opened by a very surprised looking host who, after recovering from the astonishment that comes from opening the door and being greeted by a strange man in a camouflage uniform and gas mask, conceded that actually no, it wasn’t really a fancy dress party.

So yes, I was totally that guy at a non-fancy dress party. In a gas mask.

As I was saying, I had to dispose of the asbestos buried in the back yard. Apparently you’re supposed to keep the stuff wet to prevent it from getting powdery. So I got out the hose and sprinkled the area with water. However, I was still ultra-paranoid — asbestos can do nasty things to your skin — so for added protection I put on this immensely thick pair of industrial-style gloves. Then I carefully shovelled the stuff (I reckon there was less than half a kilo) into a rubbish bag and tied it securely.

But, I thought, somewhat irrationally… what if I’d still inadvertently inhaled some fibres?

That’s when I had an equally irrational thought. Welsh men’s choirs are renowned for their energy and power (this will make sense in a moment) and, while I have no idea if the following is true, I was once told that the tradition began amongst miners who would intentionally sing their hearts out on their way home from a shift in an effort to expel coal dust from their lungs. Go figure…

So I thought, “I know!” I’ll go for a run and that’ll have the same effect. Even better, given how unfit I am there would be no shortage of heaving, spluttering, huffing and puffing.

So that explains what's going on in this photo
That, and the only true way to do your gardening is in your Iron Maiden shirt.

Who buys vinyl records these days anyway?

The same people who think playing vinyl is like flyfishing. Here's why...  

I’ve probably mentioned one too many times what a hapless record store junkie I am and how my fixation with music once got to the point where it was all about the buzz of shopping — retail therapy — and acquiring CDs and records when perhaps it should have been about experiencing it.

I’m better now thankfully. It’s been years since I’ve purchased music by the kilo and what was once an incessant preoccupation now resembles nothing more than a serious hobby (I hope). Yet even after that big reality check there’s an aspect to the pursuit of music collecting that never fails to set my heart racing: the thrill of getting my hands on vinyl records.

Whether it’s flicking through a dusty op shop (even if 93 per cent of op shop records consist exclusively of Kamahl, Gilbert & Sullivan and Scottish bagpipe waltzes), gazing longingly at the rock and metal picture discs at my favourite record store, or expectantly unpacking a pizza box-sized package in the mail, there’s something about these thin pieces of round plastic that just keeps me coming back for more.

I want all of them! Except maybe the new Morbid Angel at the front left.

And yet, vinyl records must surely be an anachronism in this day and age.

The photo below was taken after I spent money on three records (this one, this one and this one, all from noise-x-change). Yet I could have so easily downloaded or purchased the same tracks for considerably less. I got a grand total of eight tracks for my money yet I’m limited to a large and bulky setup that involves a turntable, speakers, an amp, and of course somewhere to store the damn things. With a download (legitimate or otherwise) I could have enjoyed this music far more often, in the order I choose, on my portable media player.

Why indeed?

I’ll preface this by saying that once upon a time I fantasised about DJing hard-hitting, balls in your face electronic music in clubs and suspicious abandoned buildings. I bought dozens of records but the closest I got was my bedroom with me as the crowd (although I did once manage to play track B1 on this Nasenbluten album to a bunch of goths). Yeah, I had some semi-serious aspirations — for one thing it looked like sooo much fun. And while that dream has long since faded, it didn’t stop me from attempting to practice my DJ skills (or total lack thereof) on the two turntables I acquired.

Anyway. Having said that, I have a theory about why I believe people still think vinyl records are wonderful — and it has nothing to do with what the posers claim is the superiority of analogue sound. Yes, if you have a perfectly balanced stereo that’s connected to an equally refined stylus that happens to be playing in a room with excellent acoustics then chances are you probably can pick a mild, ‘warmer’ difference to the sound.

On the other hand, if you’re like pretty much everyone else then all those years of gigs and clubbing have almost certainly caused irreparable damage to your hearing and you probably can’t hear the difference anyway.

So no, I don’t believe much in the mystical ‘warmer’ superior sound of vinyl. And making vinyl records even more of a pain in the arse is the fact that they require maintenance — and my two cats never cease to indirectly remind me of this fact. Hell, they cause the maintenance.

One’s a fluffy ginger long-hair and I am forever removing statically accumulated orange fur from records. Then, recently, I found the other one (at seven kilos he’s something of a fatso) actually sprawled out on the platter! I’m certain it’s not the first time he’s done it and I suspect he has something to do with the two or three hundred dollars I had to spend on repairing suspicious damage to the tonearm on my turntable. That, and he somehow managed to switch the damn thing on (I can just see the pro-digital brigade here, waggling their fingers as they dish out patronising reminders about how your cat would never log into iTunes and mess up your settings).

Yeah, he might look cute now, but when nobody’s looking he spreads his FUR everywhere.

Worse still, there’s the eternal risk of permanent scratch damage to the not-so microscopic grooves or even the risk of record breakage. And then there’s the problem with storage. A modest collection can take up a disproportionately large amount of a good bookshelf.

Indeed, who in their right mind would accumulate these things?

You might also ask why there are certain people who actively collect valve radios, hand-powered model aircraft, old woodworking tools and wooden boats, when in each instance a far more advanced alternative is readily available.

The people who love crappy-sounding valve radios and wooden boats that take months of painstaking labour to restore (I’ve heard of wooden racing skiff hulls that have as much 80 per cent of their timber removed during the 'restoration') do it for some weird nostalgic reason that inexplicably give them hours of enjoyment and satisfaction.

It’s fun.

And for that very same reason I love playing with vinyl records and fantasising I'm DJing somewhere else, nowhere near the masses of cat fur and expensive repairs and rapidly diminishing storage space.

The best analogy I can come up with is a comparison to the sport of flyfishing, a specialised and gentlemanly pursuit that takes years to perfect.

Yet behind the mysticism and cult following lies the fact that it’s really nothing more than a specific means of delivering an artificial lure to a fish — one which just happens to be far more challenging than other methods, according to fishing celebrity Steve Starling. There are many far more effective means of catching those fish but the flyfisher chooses the fly rod. It’s a self-imposed limitation that’s highly challenging. But its practitioners reckon it’s the most fun there is.

So too is it with vinyl records.

They’re light years behind current technology. They’re a costly pursuit. They take up space. And a proper DJ setup can be a raging pain in the arse to maintain. 

But it'smuch more fun to do it that way.

Which really, if it’s anything but that, isn’t worth doing.

Plus, mechanical devices with moving parts are kinda coo. Except maybe valve radios.

Anthrax (the band, not the virus), heavy metal and September 11

I’ve been a sub-editor, journalist and magazine editor for just over five years so I tend to remain un-phased when I come across sensationalised new stories. If I’m going to ‘feel’ outraged about something then it’s usually because of the cynical way in which the lowest common denominator media portrays it, rather than what happened in the actual ‘story’.

So hopefully you’ll forgive me if I sound a bit dramatic when I say that the recent eleventh anniversary of the September 11 attacks and the associated embassy violence are sad reminders of how the world has become that much more darker and fearful.

Just as those belonging to the western generation before us remember where they were on the day Kennedy was assassinated, so too does almost everyone from this generation recall where they were on September 11, 2001. For me, it was a quiet evening when mum called me to the lounge room, where we watched the horror unfold on TV. Both aircraft had hit by the time we tuned in. And then the towers collapsed, one after another…

Understandably, this singular event threw the public into a fit of fear, but just when you thought things couldn’t get any worse, along came those anthrax spore-coated postal letters. Five people died after envelopes containing anthrax-infused powder were mailed to American politicians and media outlets, and while most people don’t remember the names of the victims, everyone knows Democrat senator Tom Daschle — who is still alive — was one of the targets.

 Anthrax the virus. I made the mistake of searching for “Anthrax virus”

images on Google. Don’t do this if you’re at work or have a weak stomach.

The first of these deadly letters arrived a mere week after the September 11 attacks and the subsequent national attention it commanded pushed the fear-meter into over-drive. The pervasive mood of paranoia that followed was unprecedented, and for newspapers, magazines and television stations this could only mean one thing: gold rush!

From the murder of innocent people who just happened to look vaguely Arabic, to a massive drop in the value of the share market, to an unprecedented crack-down on privacy and civil liberties, no moral panic was exempt — and the media made damn sure you knew all about it (well, except maybe the civil liberties bit).

While news outlets did their utmost to ensure that the prospect of opening your mail was almost as terrifying as boarding a plane, a hell of a lot of people started searching for “anthrax” on the internet as news of more postal attacks came to light. This inevitably led them to www.anthrax.com — the website for the American metal band that was founded in, and had been using the name ‘Anthrax’ since, 1981.

Predictably, accusations of tastelessness and insensitivity started flying, and a band that had never enjoyed so much as a smidgen of support from commercial radio stations was suddenly inundated with interview requests from the biggest media outlets in the country.

Anthrax’s guitarist Scott Ian reminisced on this absurd turn of events in a recent interview while promoting the new Anthrax album, Worship Music.

“The fact was that all this very, very mainstream media — I'm talking from CNN to the Wall Street Journal to the New York Times, the biggest mainstream media in the world — are suddenly calling our publicist trying to get interviews with us,” he is quoted as telling the Georgia Straight (no, I hadn’t heard of that publication either).

“And my attitude right from the start was, ‘Well, these guys, they didn't want anything to do with us when our record came out not that long ago,’ you know. And now they want to talk to us because they need to fill space because this is the story of the week — which is gonna disappear in the next two months. And of course it did,” he said.

I remember hearing about this on a community radio metal show back then. The band put out a media release that scathingly said they were going to change their name to ‘Basket Full Of Puppies’ before promptly stating that, actually, under no circumstances would Anthrax change their name.

The band finally put an end to the media-manufactured rumours of a name change at a 9/11 benefit concert, when each of the five members came on stage in white overalls that spelt out the words “WE’RE NOT CHANGING OUR NAME”.

NOT changing their name. See what I did there?

It was a fitting and necessarily dramatic end to one of the more obscure (and certainly one of the silliest) legacies of the September 11 attacks. The media attention surrounding the ‘controversy’ vanished as quickly as it appeared, and Anthrax are thankfully still around today, still going by their original name and still kicking ass. In fact, I’m very much looking forward to seeing them at the Soundwave festival. Thank goodness this whole dumb saga was an isolated moment of fear-induced frenzy that…

Oh wait. That’s right, shortly after the attacks the largest owner of radio stations in America issued a directive to all its 1200+ radio stations. It was basically a list of ‘questionable’ tracks that included all songs by Rage Against The Machine as well as such riot-inducing works like Walk Like An Egyptian by The Bangles, Led Zeppelin’s Stairway To Heaven and What A Wonderful World by Louis Armstrong. In hindsight it seems that the direcetive wasn’t quite the black list it was thought to be (it was more of a suggested black list). However, the fact that someone not only bothered to come up with a list in the first place but actually turned it into some kind of official policy says so much about how fantastically warped public perception had become.

Oh, and spare a thought for hip hop group The Coup, whose new album at the time, Party Music, was all set to go and be released in mid-September 2001. In one of those “you couldn’t make this shit up even if you tried” coincidences, the cover depicted two members of the group standing in front of the twin towers, detonator in hand, the buildings exploding into flames behind them.

Woops.

Astonishingly, the album was hastily recalled before it hit shops, whereupon it was re-issued with less ‘questionable’ artwork…

“That probably deserves some kind of public service award…”

I’m a big fan of legitimate free music downloads, if only because I’m probably one of four people in the whole southern hemisphere who hasn’t used a torrent or P2P service for the last seven years.

It’s not what almost everybody else I know does (and I’ll confess that over the years I’ve spent a tear-inducing amount of money on music that may not always have been up to scratch), but like almost everyone else I also still have my shame pile of unlistened to music. That's because I occasionally go through spates of looking for new music by hunting for free downloads provided by bands, which means I end up with a pile of MP3s in a forgotten folder on my desktop.

One such small collection of tunes that my computer tells me has been on my desktop since January 6, 2012, consists of three free tracks from American electronic goths The Crüxshadows. Founded in 1993, they’re not a band I know much about and I guess they play what would pass for the equivalent of modern darkwave.

 Serious business.

To start, I only owned three tracks from various compilations so when they released three free Christmas tracks (go HERE and download them from the right hand column) it doubled the length of my Crüxshadows playlist.

It got me thinking about this band, and made me realise that there are a couple of things I really like about them, even though I don’t know their music anywhere near well enough to consider myself a fan.

First, from what little I know, they seem to have some variety going for them. Yes, it’s that electronically driven synthy darkwave sound that has been done a trillion times before, but they also seem to make use of some cool sounds. They use ‘real’ violins during their recordings and main (male) vocalist Rogue seems to have a fantastic, almost operatically clean voice. The track Citadel (from a Fiend Magazine sampler) is a good example in my view of a track that uses what could be an old-school synth, or at least a modern one that sounds pretty retro.

Secondly, I like that they have dancers. This makes sense in the live setting given that a major component of the music is electronic (it’s hard to jump around on stage holding a big synth), and for all the pretentiousness — be it the umlaut, the main-man’s pseudonym, or the fact that they’re successful goths — I’d like to think this adds something to their shows, in the same way that The Prodigy’s human stage presence was basically made by two guys who couldn’t sing.

The fact that they’re not-at-all-unpleasant-to-look-at dancers certainly helps, as does the fact that they thankfully seem to have a sense of humour (below).

The above video from an Ayria show (another superb electronic artist who is very underrated, plus she’s from Canada so that has to make her 50% better to start) has the dancers bust out of nowhere and do a full routine.
Check out their mad moving skillz.

The third and by far my most favourite thing I love about this band which, as I said, I really don’t know very much else about, is the fact that once upon a time, back in the United States of America in 2006, for one very brief moment in time they did the unthinkable and managed a number one Billboard single with the track Sophia.

I own the (radio edit version) of this track and I really didn’t think that much of it. Yet that's merely a matter or personal taste and I throw my hat in the air for these guys — an independent band that was virtually unknown by the standards of the commercial music industry — for managing to outdo corporate-backed mega artists.

Never mind the fact that it was a short-lived blip, or that it didn’t break their career and propel The Crüxshadows into mega stardom… for one fleeting moment back then and now forever frozen in time, a song by a bunch of mopey-looking people with funny hair wearing corsets and fishnets was officially at number one — and in September 2006 this meant it outranked P. Diddy.

Take that P Diddy.

To quote Iron Maiden singer Bruce Dickinson, when the Bring Your Daughter… To The Slaughter single did much the same after sitting for one week (and one week only) on top of the UK singles charts, where it consequently knocked Cliff Richard off his perch: “That probably deserves some kind of public service award.”

Look what the cat dragged in

Sometimes truth is stranger than fiction. And sometimes there's selling out... and then there's Bret Michaels from Poison releasing his own line of pet products. Yeah... It's all here.

This is my favourite part. It seems there's a promotion to win a one-on-one with Brett Michaels. And according to Bret, it involves the following: "Afterwards we're going to sneak out to that rock n' love bus, have a little party, and talk about pets." This man's career just keeps going from height to height...

Mexican madness

The great thing about having good friends is that they’re, well, rather good to have around. A common interest, for example, is highly conducive to spending hours talking about a mutual favourite topic. And if your residences happen to be geographically close then the likely instances of sharing those interests thoroughly increase.

I have one particular friend who lives just three minutes’ drive away and when I called him the other day the conversation went something like this.

“Hello?”

“Hey mate, how’re you going?”

“Good. You?”

“Yeah pretty good. Hey listen, do you have a spare sombrero I could borrow?”

“Sure. But I’m leaving in 10 minutes.”

“No probs, I’ll be there in three.”

Admittedly it was more like four minutes — the one traffic light on the way delayed me — but I got there in time and he was more than obliging in allowing me to choose one of his half a dozen hats. The occasion was Fiend Fest Festival: the biggest gothy industrially darkish alternativey festival ever held in Australia, consisting of a long streak of bands, an extensive dark fashion show, and the always-awesome twice-annual (I think) event that is The Black Market.

I love the fact that this kind of subculture even manages to still exist, let alone manifest itself as a big all-day party, but I wasn’t actually attending the last two components. Specifically, I was seriously looking forward to Mexican electro-industrialists Hocico (if you haven’t heard of them, make an effort to look them up) which also happens to be the reason I acquired a sombrero. I covered mine in industrial tape because, you know, that would make it an industrial sombrero.
Yeah, not many people got it.

This sombrero is industrial.

There’s a lot to be said about Hocico and it deserves a lot more space than I’ve got here. There’s the fact that two poor, Mexican teenagers who just happened to be seriously into their Skinny Puppy subsequently became one of the most influential acts in aggrotech or terror EBM or whatever the kids are calling it today.

There’s the fact that they do a very cool and unique blend of what I think is particularly dark and energetic electronic music, which somehow still remains awesome despite its generally un-polished production.

And then there’s the fact that they are reputed to do amazing live shows. Legend has it (in other words, I can’t confirm this story) that Hocico’s first European tour saw them support several better known bands who, after witnessing Hocico’s ball-tearingly awesome and energetic performance, are said to have unanimously decided that they take the top spot for the remainder of the tour.

Yeah, there’s probably some extreme embellishment there but I still like that story. And even if it’s not true, the fact is they are a major drawcard on the European festival circuit in this kind of music.

That last point — the quality of their live performances — was seriously hyped up before the gig and so I, along with almost everyone else there with even a half-arsed interest in the band, had some very big expectations. Most of them would thankfully be met, but the whole caper came perilously close to unravelling as a result of some serious audio gremlins that had started before I even got there.

I’d hate to be accused of spreading lies and rumours so I hope I’ve got this right. It would seem that one of the earlier bands on the bill had their PA die after three songs; another band had another serious problem with a foldback speaker (subsequently, the main area had a noticeable whiff of electrical-fire smoke); and there may even have been further assorted audio problems. It seemed the venue worked around the problems as best they could but it all caused considerable mayhem to the band schedule. Consequently, Hocico started late.

Not that it mattered much to the crowd. The noticeable sense of expectation was all there, but then within two songs the dreaded audio bug reared its ugly head! I imagine that the sound mixer along with the stage manager were by now chowing down box-loads of maximum-strength aspirin, as the speakers seemed cut out. For a moment there the punters parked at the front of the stage directed their displeasure at the audio booth, but interestingly enough — and a sure sign that the crowd was filled with appreciation — everyone kind of started clapping in unison to those beats, almost as if to compensate for the drop in audio. Fortunately it got fixed, and that’s when the fun really started.

And the fun seriously begins (pic: Tarley).

There we were, with a blinding blaze of strobes, disturbing backdrop visuals, and a little Mexican guy jumping around in some rather large almost GWARish or Lordi-like shoulder pads. And that’s when I realised what made this band so great.

When you see live bands that you don’t avidly follow, it’s so often a case of getting into those songs you recognise and maybe even liking a few you don’t recognise. “They’re not bad,” is as absolutely stock-standard behaviour at a gig as is having a vaguely appreciative and not-very-responsive crowd for much of the time. But not so with these guys. I own a few Hocico releases and yet I can honestly say I recognised all of two songs that were played. Yet at every moment there was this powerful you-had-to-be-there energy, this awesome, dark, killer world complete with sensory-depriving lights and visuals. At the risk of running off an old cliché, it was much of a case of you could “feel” it rather than just see and hear it.

Cool backdrop (pic: Tarley).

The only down-side for the night? Other than Hocico playing a short set and not getting around to doing an encore?

My back.

I groaned vigorously the next morning at my fiancée about how my lower back ached. I couldn’t figure out how it got so sore until she pointed out that (along with me getting old, of course) I did my fair bit of jumping around. It was the only plausible explanation I could think of until, still buzzing from the gig, I swayed back and forth mildly (I think I was brushing my teeth and was reminiscing about it all) when oh boy, that’s when it hit me. Sharp, jabbing pain, right there where I’d been moving around (not jumping) all night.

You see, the thing about a sombrero, even one wrapped in industrial tape, is that it’s kind of light. You can’t headbang like you’d normally do because it will fall off, so instead you have to do a kind of keep-your-back-straight-while-moving-your-head- forwards-and-backwards-type of motion. Turns out, doing this repeatedly is very bad for your lower back.

Anyone who is genuinely into dark and heavy music knows that a concert-induced injury is worn as a badge of honour. I wouldn’t have minded so much if I got cut from a spike or bruised from someone’s boot or even severe whiplash from too much headbanging (though not to the extent experienced by Jason Newsted and Tom Araya, who both had to stop headbanging due to nasty neck injuries).

No, my latest concert injury came form wearing a hat.

Yeah, I must be getting old.

I'm at the bottom right of the shot, slowly receiving a mild back injury (pic: Tarley).