All Tomorrow's Parties (Festival)

All Tomorrow's Parties
Cockatoo Island, Sydney (18th January, 2009)

I want to say first up that I have no particular affinity with Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds, the band that curated the line-up for the Australian ATP. However, I do put a lot of trust into the Sydney Festival and the wonderful undiscovered (by me) things that it brings. Add to the fact that I got a big fat tax return at the time the SydFest program was released last year and loved the really cool ATP graphic (shown) and I was in, never mind no one else wanted to go.

Well, I was glad I went! It was one of the most positive festival experiences I've ever had in both a musical and crowd sense. Here's the skinny:

Bridezilla: Too dark for the midday sun, but they seared with the biting intensity of having being bitten, with experience that belied their age but was perhaps made more angsty because of it. Bridezilla know how to transform their pain into an entertaining set, interpreting it for the audience so that the average listener (approiximately twice their age, by all accounts) understood and remembered what it was like to be a disturbed teenager again.

Beaches: Heavy instrumental band whose late night road trip soundtracks thud with the after effects of a big night out - both literally and musically.

Conway Savage: "Welcome to the old fart's stage," greeted Savage as a slew of punters settled into the Barracks area. Savage's key-laden poetry fashioned the afternoon into a cabaret lounge that only red wine and cigars might have enhanced. The sleepy piano suits a casual Sunday afternoon as much as a midnight on Saturday in an underground wine bar. Uptempo, he loses some magic, which he has to work to regain with the next elegy.

Afrirampo: I though listening to a band consisting of just a guitar and drums did not a compelling gig make, but I was wrong. Afri's stadium-sized sound was fun-filled, if a little discordant. True performers, the two played with, as well as to, the gathered audience. Probably one worth getting right up the front for, but worthwhile nonetheless. The thrashing pop/rock isn't everyone's cup of tea, but then again, some people only drink Coca Cola.

Dead Meadow: Dead Meadow are very much alive and well - you can find them in warbling guitars and the wispy rock 'n' roll vocals of their lead singer. The quivering waves of sound resonate with big promises of some random adventure, like a carload of hippies on the trail of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas taking tequila shots in a beat-up Chevy.

Robert Forster: Forster begins innocently enough, but his feelgood acoustic rock hooks are hard to resist. His sense of fun is infectious in a head-bobbing, toe-tapping sense. You can't be in a bad mood during his set. His sunny tunes hark back to a time less tainted by the horrors of the modern era, with a dash of contemplation thrown in.

The Necks: Chilled but not complacent, The Necks delivered a 45-minute improvisation that was three parts aural challenge, one part mellowness, arresting attention through twirling combinations of piano, drums and cello. Their sound rolls into the ear like a wave that at first seems placid but turns out to produce a roar. Sit up and pay attention or you'll miss a trick.

The Saints: The jangly guitars lay a loose foundation for the not-quite-there-but-trying-to-remember vocals. It's easy to see how The Saints made their mark in the punk era and clear how indie rock bands still borrow from them. But the deliberate off-key pitch wrapped around reminiscence of times past grows tiresome as the set wears on.

James Blood Ulmer: Went up to the Barracks expecting Passenger of Shit but a schedule change saw jazz guitarist James Blood Ulmer there instead, nimbly working his guitar and broadcasting the blues. Captivating for most there, but I just wasn't in the mood.

Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds: The harsh narrative style of NC&TBS thoroughly suits their thrown-against-the-wall sound that encompasses elements of tribal beats, rock and unashamed balladeering. The music soars with energy, giving the band a full, rich sound perfectly fitting for an island-wide set of rock antics and dark lyrics. Cave's growl does grate so it takes a fan to listen all the way through without taking some time out.

Fuckbuttons: Experimental electronica is an art but, at the end of a day my tired ears were soon too tender to comprehend the scratchy rhythm after a third of their set. Away I went to the ferry wharf and home.

A word about the crowd: Everyone was extraordinarily well-behaved. There was no pushing, no drunk dancing leading to beer spillage, leading to biffs. No 'excuse me, you're in my view'. No use of yours truly as a thoroughfare (this happens often enough for me to comment on it when it doesn't happen). And there were more tattoos and piercings than I've ever seen on a crowd.

The only thing I would change is the food system. The food was expensive and not very good, in addition to the fact that ticketholders weren't allowed to bring their own picnics. The $8 for two tiny bean tacos was a rort and by the time it got to dinnertime, they'd run out most of the original menu items, but were still charging the full $9.50 for an improvised, slapped together beef pattie on a bun with pesto and about three leaves of rocket. Not good enough! Considering most people would be there for about 12 hours, it would be easy to spend $30-$40 on sub-par fare in addition to the $150 ticket already outlaid. Healthier, affordable options, or allowing picnics should be the way to go.

As testament to the good time I had, I've since bought albums from at least three of the artists I saw (and am still trying to find out where I can get something from Conway Savage) and have a new respect for Nick Cave, who I've always thought of as a wannabe rock version of Leonard Cohen. More festivals like this, please!

Festival rating: 8/10
Enjoyment rating: 9/10

Poetry Smoetry

I write poetry occasionally. I don't pretend to be very good, but I often feel compelled to jot down a description of the way I'm feeling in words that are more weighty and evocative than your average.

That being said, I dislike reading poetry that seems contrived. I have a red flag for rhyming poetry, because rhyming poetry is often the refuge of people who don't really understand what poetry is (especially people who don't write creatively very often or at all). Hallmarks of a non-poet: the rhymes are unoriginal and forced.

So what is poetry? This is where I admit to being elitist and vague. My definition of poetry is an expression or description of a thought or emotion, or an event or scene that represents a thought or emotion.

As an example of what I mean, I believe that when Keats wrote about autumn, he was using autumn as a metaphor for impending death and by describing autumn scenes, it represented his acceptance and celebration of the period of his life prior to his impending death.

Hence, the 'poem' that I received as part of my cousin's wedding invitation is not poetry. It's just a rhyme politely saying they don't want any useless junk so please donate to their honeymoon travel fund instead:

In our home we have the things
That living together always brings
Toasters, tumblers we have bought
And because of this we thought
A honeymoon would be great
If wedding guests wish to participate
So we can ski overseas or travel far and wide
But never leave each others side
And when our honeymoon is done
We will thank you all for the fun!

There is, of course, another brand of poetry, which is the poem that just simply isn't very good. I will preface this rant by saying that I KNOW poetry is a subjective thing so what I don't find very good could be someone else's shining example of poetry in its best form.

Poetry that isn't very good usually contains one or more of the following:
Rhymes that are forced: If it isn't coming naturally, then it's not really representing a thought/emotion truly
Rhymes that don't make sense: Rhyme for the sake of rhyme is a crime
Metre that is forced: Creates an ugly disruption to the flow of the poem without adding meaning
Does not represent a thought or emotion: See purpose of poetry
Does not evoke a thought or emotion: Why read it?
Words or lines that don't add to the reader's understanding or investment into the poem or poet: Good poetry says what it needs to say in the number of words it requires to say it and not one more. Good editing will fix this; sloppy poets will be revealed through redundant words and lines
Lack of awareness of form: Just like putting a bandage on a wound does not make you a doctor, writing a poem does not make you a poet. I believe there needs to be an awareness of the purpose of poetry as a means to communicate or capture a thought or emotion, even if the only person to understand that thought/emotion is the poet.

Now, I know I should say egalitarian things like 'anybody can be a poet if they write poetry' to encourage more people to appreciate the form, but it truly is an art that requires dedication and practice and I don't want to denigrate the art by calling any old ditty a poem.

So, A for effort - you can rhyme 'fire' with 'desire' - but you have a long way to go before you're writing poetry.

The pup's all right

Curtain fail

For the second time this week, attempts to usurp the curtains in my living room have failed. My current curtains look like they belong in a childcare centre from the 1970s. I am currently trying to find an inoffensive pair but they have both fallen short - literally - despite measuring and re-measuring the existing curtains.

Perhaps it is one of those situations where new curtains will never fit the window. It reminds me of that scene from Sam & Max Hit the Road where you go into a vortex and Max keeps changing size so he can't enter some of the doors (the trick is to throw a switch to change the configuration of the vortex).

My windows change height when they don't like the curtains I choose.