in the hunt

i'm tossing around the concept of pub ownership again. The bar in Melbourne fell through and I still seem to have the bug I suppose. I've set myself some limits though.

My first stipulation is strictly pub rather than club. No late nights, no DJs, no 'talent' issues and no kiddies scoffing pills whilst off their tits on Smirnoff Ice. I want nice meals, pints, a well stocked jukebox and a cosy bar. Naturally a well chosen wine list and a few single malts on the top shelf. A nice little area for the smokers so they aren't out on the street mingling with the great unwashed. A glass chiller and a glycol taps rig. And I don't want to pay a fortune for it.

Fingers crossed.

black hole

sometimes, after a supreme effort in your cups, you end up with a shocker. A hangover so vile death seems preferable. Where one dare not cough for fear losing control of one or more bodily functions. A place so terrible bacon, paracetomol and Gatorade cannot rescue you. Where the light hurts your eyes and water tastes thick and greasy. Your bones ache and your fingers shake.

I'm going back to bed.

the stag is loose

i'm off to a buck's day today. My man Obie is getting hitched, and we're roaming the pubs of Ballarat town and the day should be ripe with foolishness and frothies. The day is warm and sunny, my pockets are full of cash and my heart is full of the devil. I'll be back with a sore head and the full report on the morrow. Slainte!

bad bones

i find people's different drinking habits fascinating. Take my friend Ruddo for an instance. He is a secondary school teacher and part time rock and roller who rarely if ever has a couple of beers after work. I've never seen him have a wine with dinner and he can go a month or two without a drink some seasons of the year. But when the mood is on him, he is a veritable force of nature. Take last Saturday as an example.

His football team, North Melbourne, got roundly thrashed out of the finals for the second year in a row that evening. Sources report that he was fairly pounding the beers down during the course of the game and as the result became inevitable his work rate increased. Shortly after this the man appeared at my place clutching a six pack and needing a friends ear. Luckily, I'd had a wine with tea and was vaguely in the mood for a couple, so I braced up to the kitchen table, grabbed a bottle of Jack and had a yarn with the lad. Bear in mind the time is approximately 10pm at this point.

Fast foward eight hours. We haven't left the table. The bottle of Jack is empty, as are maybe 8 or 9 beercans. A bottle of Coruba that had maybe a third in it is also empty. In addition my treasured bottle of Jamesons distillery reserve is two thirds gone. I've been drinking quietly while my man gets it off his chest. The pain of the football loss has long been forgotten. Other woes have been addressed. The inequality between state and private education. Ladies lack of understanding of the stresses of being a modern man. The perfidious nature of the music industry. People who annoy him and those who really need a good thumping.

Ruddo, whose sense of time is not brilliant under normal circumstances, is stunned to see it is now 6am. After questioning the accuracy of my timepiece, an attempt is made to arise. On the third attempt he is successful, but unfortunately the effort has taken it's toll and upset his stomach a little. After a discreet stagger to the bathroom, all offers of a bed or a taxi are refused. A stroll homeward would be just the ticket (he does only live a couple of blocks away). Somewhat unsteadily, my man departs. 15 minutes later I wander out the back to allow the dog to do his business and have my last fag, I find Ruddo has made a good ten metres progress over the quarter of an hour and is hanging onto the fence having a breather or 'giving himself a pep talk' as he put it. All offers of accomodation are again refused and he disappears into the night.

He popped in later the next evening, very subdued. The walk home, about a kilometre, had taken upwards of an hour. He'd also spent the day bedridden and being violently sick every half hour. Probaly going to give the beers a miss for a week or two he reckons. Fair enough.

two turntables and a microphone

i've got a guilty secret. My music collection is a many splendoured thing. There's folk aplenty. Planxty, De Dannan, Christy Moore, Nick Drake, Dylan, Neil Young, John Martyn. From the Smiths to the Fratellis, if it indie I've got it. Funk, soul, blues, psychedelic, garage rock and punk are all in good supply. Dance floor fillers from the Supremes to Daft Punk. Enough reggae and dub to keep the most dedicated stoner in an easy skanking stylee. The dinosaurs like Led Zep and Floyd. Dean Martin and Sinatra, Davis and Coltrane. A veritable Mojo of tunes. But hidden on top of the metaphorical wardrobe, like a well hidden copy of Fiesta Readers Wives is the forbidden music.

I love hip hop. Not just the worthy conscious stuff, or the acceptable white boy jams. The Lil' Jon, Snoop, Jay Z, Dre, Kanye, Xzibit nasty ass commercial misogynist gear. With fat beats and lots of swearing. From old stuff like Tone Loc and Sir Mixalot to new cuts like Chamillionaire and 50 Cent. I love it with all the passion a 36 year old white dude with absolutely no cultural affinity can muster.

Sad but true.

the best policy

i'm not a paragon of virtue. If I see 20 bucks in lying in the gutter, I'll pick it up and spend it. I've nobbled the odd Christmas tree from Crown land and once or twice I may have told a wicked fib on a tax declaration. But stealing music gets my goat a little.

Its not hard to buy music these days. Classic albums are 10 dollars a throw, less sometimes and new releases are often less than $20. You can buy any tune in the world for $1.69 on iTunes. Don't even have to leave the house. But somehow people find this too big an ask. Somehow all the thought and sweat and art that a musician pours into making a song ain't worth shit. You see the technology exists to obtain it for free....

Which is fine, but don't expect another Dylan, REM, Johnny Cash, Prince, U2, Clash, Led Zepplin, Pink Floyd etc in the foreseeable future. The artist that takes time to mature, who needs a few albums to blossom, who uses the studio as an instrument just ain't gonna get subsidised while the dollars dry up. If you can be marketed and soundtrack an ad you have some chance, but you better be able to record cheaply and digitally because you sure as hell aren't going to be allowed to make a White album or a Rumours anytime soon. You'll have to tour your arse off just to live, and charge top dollar too as rising fuel costs make even that income stream dwindle. On top of that the market becomes more competive as punters increasingly see live music as festival based entertainment rather than as individual shows. If your child can write, or has an ear for melody get them to do a marketing degree. Ad agencies are the record companies of the future and while people still feel more squeamish about nicking a can of coke than they do about downloading for free, theres half a chance a musician might actually get paid for their efforts.

springtime for squitter

the dog is loving the first days of spring. He's obviously a warm weather animal, as up until now any time spent in the backyard not directly connected with his ablutions has been accompanied by pathetic whining, barking and panicked scratching at the door. The last two days of sunshine have brought out a different side to the animal. A proud explorer, who on occasion will venture past the back shed unaccompanied. A ferocious slayer (and sadly eater) of lizards. And a contented animal happy to bask in the sun until the smell of frying sausages coaxes him inside.