- Joined
- Oct 5, 2004
- Posts
- 14,145
- Reaction score
- 7,088
- Location
- Melbourne
- AFL Club
- Collingwood
- Other Teams
- Rochester FC, Waroona FC, Pacers
Always a favourite of mine. He seems to have had a writing job with every short-term magazine and radio show in the land. However, it is on his website where his true genuis is revealed:
November 22nd 2006
I knew Eskimo Joe would be big from the first time I saw them perform. Bouncy and energetic, they made a favourable impression on a credulous audience when they supported us at Newcastle Uni in the late 90’s. After the show we packed our van in anticipation of leaving while the young terriers yapped at our heels, forensically probing the details of our record deal: royalty rates, options and terms of agreement. Later, I took up heroin as an excuse to get away from them. Next day the phone rang early. It was their manager; hunting money. Unfortunately it was my understanding that each band was dealing independently with the university and I had to ask that he refrain from contacting me further in regards to the matter. Perhaps they never got paid for that night, the acid burn of financial setback spurring them on to make albums of ever-greater commercial viability. When next they shared a bill with us they played so far over their allotted time that our headlining set had to be cut short. Take that! Even then the nascent chart toppers had a good head for business. Quick to realise that their ascending star would soon outshine our cooling red dwarf, they rammed through a new industrial relations policy for the venue while still on stage. This powerful new incentive-based system helped them achieve some remarkable productivity gains with the time that would have otherwise been wasted by our performance. Six months later they were mere taillights on the horizon to our spluttering jalopy. I have never met them again.
I was, however, at home on the couch when they stepped on stage at this year’s Arias. Their triumphs were a long overdue affirmation of the benefits of sound business management as applied to the creative process. Years of touring must have afforded them ample opportunities to talk shop with some of this country’s richest, most successful bands. Nary a sub clause pertaining to packaging deductions and their impact on the Published Price to Dealer has not been thoroughly investigated by the intrepid trio since that fateful evening in Newcastle. The Arias, then, were a chance to savour a few well-deserved accolades. Where the rest of us build a second story onto our house to advertise our wealth, the modern Australian rock star avidly grips a clutch of Arias and drones endlessly in perorating tribute to the faceless drones who were apparently instrumental in their victory.
Several weeks earlier in Rolling Stone they made it clear how much an Aria meant to them. The interested reader was left touched upon discovering that their new record is in fact a concept album, taking for its inspiration the elusive dream of winning an Aria - surely the highest peak to which any musician can aspire. “I had a really conscious projection of this record”, Kav Temperley explained to a slavering journalist as she sought to polish his market-researched choice of sneaker with her dripping tongue. “And it was based on that Arias we went to”. The commercial cycle of Australian music is now complete. The Arias celebrate commercial success and thereby spawn next year’s contestants, eager to craft their new records as a means to win more Arias.
It wouldn’t have surprised me if the cream of Australia’s young talent had donned academic gowns and mortars and been given a free MBA with every appearance on stage. Aussie bands are open for business and the discerning customer can expect a portfolio of fully franked dividends with every album purchased. Wolfmother smashed their gear with the decorous contrivance of an act that has received the full backing of the Business Council of Australia. Their performance was a bullish board meeting for the company shareholders. In their lounge rooms, Australians thumbed the prospectus and made preparations to buy.
I confess to blanching a little when Rob Hirst from Midnight Oil asked where all the complaint rock had gone. I had personally been complaining for a good two hours by the time his self-serving diatribe leeched onto the screen. For all of the sanctimonious preaching his band indulged in during their tenure, it is worth remembering that most of their fans were exactly the bourbon-soaked, petrol guzzling, avaricious idiots we have to thank for our current government. No amount of hectoring about the US military has managed to keep our sycophantic nation of moral eunuchs from cowering beneath America’s skirt tails. How has the world improved in the wake of Midnight Oil’s recorded output? By delivering Peter Garret as another impotent Labor party hack; resolve draining from him faster than the blood from a slaughtered chicken on a hook.
Of course Hirst was careful to exempt John Butler from charges of negligence in the service of artistic protest. Listening to John is like taking green bags to a supermarket – it makes us feel good about ourselves without actually having to sacrifice anything. Those dreadlocks and hippie affectations challenge none of our preconceptions about the sort of people we expect to be saving the world on our behalf. We can keep right on destroying our planet so long as there is a reassuringly feral-looking minstrel playing slide guitar somewhere on the bill at every outdoor festival this summer. In a smashing piece of good fortune, choosing John as our green charity of choice has made him a millionaire. Perhaps there is a tax deduction on every CD purchase over $2. Here’s some advice Australia. Save the next 30 dollars you were going to spend on one of his poxy recordings and give it to someone who can really do some good.
Of course Australia’s roots musicians have made a canny decision in choosing to eschew the use of electric powered instruments. Imagine how the market will open up when, with our country a desiccated husk of cracked brown earth and rotting animal carcasses, the government is finally left with no choice but to limit our electricity consumption. Everywhere air conditioners sit idle as John Butler and Xavier Rudd, pointedly refusing to alienate their audience by blaming it for its wanton profligacy, tap out their sweaty rhythms on whatever organic instruments they can fashion from the dead environment. A prescriptive message that was sadly too late to save the planet, will, nonetheless, receive long overdue official recognition when the purchase of their CDs becomes subsided by the Pharmaceutical Benefits Scheme. Their rank and foetid hair, so resolutely carbon neutral without need of shampoo or water, will help shade faces looking for respite from an insistent sun, unimpeded by that pesky ozone layer. As the markets bark in assent, mum and dad investors everywhere pool the last of their dwindling savings into the hottest stocks on an even hotter continent.
November 22nd 2006
I knew Eskimo Joe would be big from the first time I saw them perform. Bouncy and energetic, they made a favourable impression on a credulous audience when they supported us at Newcastle Uni in the late 90’s. After the show we packed our van in anticipation of leaving while the young terriers yapped at our heels, forensically probing the details of our record deal: royalty rates, options and terms of agreement. Later, I took up heroin as an excuse to get away from them. Next day the phone rang early. It was their manager; hunting money. Unfortunately it was my understanding that each band was dealing independently with the university and I had to ask that he refrain from contacting me further in regards to the matter. Perhaps they never got paid for that night, the acid burn of financial setback spurring them on to make albums of ever-greater commercial viability. When next they shared a bill with us they played so far over their allotted time that our headlining set had to be cut short. Take that! Even then the nascent chart toppers had a good head for business. Quick to realise that their ascending star would soon outshine our cooling red dwarf, they rammed through a new industrial relations policy for the venue while still on stage. This powerful new incentive-based system helped them achieve some remarkable productivity gains with the time that would have otherwise been wasted by our performance. Six months later they were mere taillights on the horizon to our spluttering jalopy. I have never met them again.
I was, however, at home on the couch when they stepped on stage at this year’s Arias. Their triumphs were a long overdue affirmation of the benefits of sound business management as applied to the creative process. Years of touring must have afforded them ample opportunities to talk shop with some of this country’s richest, most successful bands. Nary a sub clause pertaining to packaging deductions and their impact on the Published Price to Dealer has not been thoroughly investigated by the intrepid trio since that fateful evening in Newcastle. The Arias, then, were a chance to savour a few well-deserved accolades. Where the rest of us build a second story onto our house to advertise our wealth, the modern Australian rock star avidly grips a clutch of Arias and drones endlessly in perorating tribute to the faceless drones who were apparently instrumental in their victory.
Several weeks earlier in Rolling Stone they made it clear how much an Aria meant to them. The interested reader was left touched upon discovering that their new record is in fact a concept album, taking for its inspiration the elusive dream of winning an Aria - surely the highest peak to which any musician can aspire. “I had a really conscious projection of this record”, Kav Temperley explained to a slavering journalist as she sought to polish his market-researched choice of sneaker with her dripping tongue. “And it was based on that Arias we went to”. The commercial cycle of Australian music is now complete. The Arias celebrate commercial success and thereby spawn next year’s contestants, eager to craft their new records as a means to win more Arias.
It wouldn’t have surprised me if the cream of Australia’s young talent had donned academic gowns and mortars and been given a free MBA with every appearance on stage. Aussie bands are open for business and the discerning customer can expect a portfolio of fully franked dividends with every album purchased. Wolfmother smashed their gear with the decorous contrivance of an act that has received the full backing of the Business Council of Australia. Their performance was a bullish board meeting for the company shareholders. In their lounge rooms, Australians thumbed the prospectus and made preparations to buy.
I confess to blanching a little when Rob Hirst from Midnight Oil asked where all the complaint rock had gone. I had personally been complaining for a good two hours by the time his self-serving diatribe leeched onto the screen. For all of the sanctimonious preaching his band indulged in during their tenure, it is worth remembering that most of their fans were exactly the bourbon-soaked, petrol guzzling, avaricious idiots we have to thank for our current government. No amount of hectoring about the US military has managed to keep our sycophantic nation of moral eunuchs from cowering beneath America’s skirt tails. How has the world improved in the wake of Midnight Oil’s recorded output? By delivering Peter Garret as another impotent Labor party hack; resolve draining from him faster than the blood from a slaughtered chicken on a hook.
Of course Hirst was careful to exempt John Butler from charges of negligence in the service of artistic protest. Listening to John is like taking green bags to a supermarket – it makes us feel good about ourselves without actually having to sacrifice anything. Those dreadlocks and hippie affectations challenge none of our preconceptions about the sort of people we expect to be saving the world on our behalf. We can keep right on destroying our planet so long as there is a reassuringly feral-looking minstrel playing slide guitar somewhere on the bill at every outdoor festival this summer. In a smashing piece of good fortune, choosing John as our green charity of choice has made him a millionaire. Perhaps there is a tax deduction on every CD purchase over $2. Here’s some advice Australia. Save the next 30 dollars you were going to spend on one of his poxy recordings and give it to someone who can really do some good.
Of course Australia’s roots musicians have made a canny decision in choosing to eschew the use of electric powered instruments. Imagine how the market will open up when, with our country a desiccated husk of cracked brown earth and rotting animal carcasses, the government is finally left with no choice but to limit our electricity consumption. Everywhere air conditioners sit idle as John Butler and Xavier Rudd, pointedly refusing to alienate their audience by blaming it for its wanton profligacy, tap out their sweaty rhythms on whatever organic instruments they can fashion from the dead environment. A prescriptive message that was sadly too late to save the planet, will, nonetheless, receive long overdue official recognition when the purchase of their CDs becomes subsided by the Pharmaceutical Benefits Scheme. Their rank and foetid hair, so resolutely carbon neutral without need of shampoo or water, will help shade faces looking for respite from an insistent sun, unimpeded by that pesky ozone layer. As the markets bark in assent, mum and dad investors everywhere pool the last of their dwindling savings into the hottest stocks on an even hotter continent.
