Tuesday, April 17, 2007

Hey, Glovebox Rox

Sure it took place a few days ago but I don’t care dude I’m a busy man I have a lot of things going on in my life and before I can process what happened you know I’m in the middle of something else and so it goes…

Caught Dylan Moran live at the Arts Centre on Friday night. Best thirty-nine bucks I ever spent. We were up in the balcony and it’s a steep one, folks, seriously, it’s like we were carved into the face of a sharp rock and down below, under the spotlight, is this little speck and he’s Irish and he’s pulling his hair exasperated-like and barking out gut-busting indignities at the world, throwing jaffas at the crowd, etc. and it’s so delightful, his misery, so gigantically riveting, this escapism (more the remarkable given that I had just survived an unusually demanding day at work that depended wholly on my leadership, something I do not know how to do or like to do, preferring short bursts of activity and long, slow mental drifts) and so grotesquely endearing I wanted to tuck him into my sock and bend over and watch him rant on my leg.

Post-coital Dylan Moran, De Campi, Tobe and Suze left the city for Brunswick in a tram that became very crowded very fast we were relieved to get off at the Brunswick Green, one of the best pubs in town (and there are many), who happened to be playing some Pixies’ rip-off by Ryan Adams called Nuclear, one of his better songs actually, it's real good, we ate a plate of wildly great chips, gorged hard, this is after De campo complained vehemenently at the price of two longnecks ($18) but hey the chips weren’t even ours, they were Kirsty Stegwazi’s, who we ran into serendipitously, it was her birthday, what a fine lady, we munched her chips and she didn't even seem to mind, nor make any effort to stop us, got to love her. De Campo was noticeably chuffed. Lucky Kirsty luvs her sum De Campo.

We sneakily stormed Cloud City with a slab strapped to our undershirts, still the owners, these young kids, who have had noise complaints and threats from the police and who despite our indiscreetness, tried to stop us from entering, presumably because of our propensity for zaniness (plus the the whole cops thing of course) and it wasn’t until Prince Nania came to the rescue that the chumps cooled their jets and let us in and we extracted the lagers from our undershirts. On stage Barrage (who seemed subdued and not giving a shit), Panel of Judges (rock me Amadeus, I mean c'mon, that new Sister Ray/Krautrock number is the best) and The Renderers, who were country in the places they weren’t Velvety.

We then moseyed up to the Railway Tavern, this three-storey monstrosity because I heard some weird disco rubbish that sounded kind of fun coming from the inside, it was a smart move because eventually we caught Glovebox in their alarming flesh. Good grief, the lead singer looked like a middle-aged aerobics instructor at a Florida retirement condo circa ’86 crossed with a jack o’ lantern, Jackie Stallone and one of Mike Myers' Jewish ladies singing horrific, X-rated lyrics. It was a little hard to take, but still...I danced.

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