When it’s winter and nighttime in this great southern land, it’s summer and daytime up north, which means this fiendin’ sista gets no sleep – I’m nightly on the tube, high as a kite on sports. By day, with bleeding eyes and chilblained fingers, I groan through the perfunctory.
Welcome to zombie-land, you’re stuck on this fun ride for three months solid!
I’m not about to feign regret. It will happen again next year, and 2012 will be disgusting since it’s an Olympic year. Like I said, it’s the way daddy made me.
But wait, I recall musical digressions too.
Reggae/Dancehall is meant for sticky summer nights, if only for the batty riders and dry-humping. But Gyptian, my beautiful Jamaican brother, braved our Melbourne cold and so did I. He was beautiful. His stage presence and voice were incredible. Granted, there was no band, just some dude mixing riddims which shits me no end, but did I mention Gyptian is beautiful and brotha can sing?
The night was further blighted by a police incident. ‘Nuf said.
Wherever you are, nothing beats local talent and Karnivool is phenomenal. Ian Kenny is a weedy bespectacled musical god. I happily destroyed myself in an albeit lame pit – I know, I’m as weak as pus – but my hoarseness and aching neck paid tribute to those Perth boys. I close on them with Fade and testament to just how hard these fuckers work.
Oscar+Martin, a joyful answer to Friendly Fires and Sparkadia, and down-the-road local boys from Two Bright Lakes, was also a treat. I was nearly the tallest, a novelty, and definitely the oldest, sadly not a novelty, at this gig. The best bit by far was the kid taking puffs off his inhaler before dipping into a killer hip-hop skit. And those drums, man I loves me some drums! Here they are in video…
Finally, I mourn the passing of a legend.
On July 23, 2011, Amy Winehouse died. She was love too raw, too exposed. She numbed the hurt of love to death. I rend my shirt for the one who gave pieces of her soul in prescient lyrics and infallible tones unceasingly, and am ashamed that I have nothing but endless tears to give back…
If my man was fighting
Some unholy war
I would be behind him
Straight shook up beside him
With strength he didn’t know
It’s you I’m fighting for
He can’t lose with me in tow
I refuse to let him go
At his side and drunk on pride
We wait for the blow
We put it in writing
But we are writing for
Just us on kitchen floor
Justice done presiding
My stomach standing still like you reading my will
Still stands in spite of what his scars say
And I’ll battle til this bitter finale
Just me, my dignity and this guitar case
Yeah, my man is fighting some unholy war
I will stand beside you
And who you dying for?
B, I would have died too. I’d like to
If my man was fighting
Some unholy war…
You died and became immortal, Amy Winehouse. And I grieve.
So begins my battle – nearly dried out, newly rested and clutching sketchy drafts – to reclaim the second half of fiftytwoin52….