The ‘Blasko-Zone’ (2005)
I watched the ARIA’s recently with my usual mix of gentle jealousy and hormonally creative fascination at the hypothetical plethora of deluxe flirting opportunities one could encounter at an after party with Australian music royalty. I mean, I’ve never been to one – but could easily imagine myself swaying nervously in a darkened corner, flicker-peeking at Sarah Blasko and constructing tenuous blueprints of a plan to intercept her on the way to the bar and ask her whether she had listened to my album which I eerily gave her while backstage at the Tasmanian Falls Festival this year.
Here is a brief script of the conversation. The setting is, Sarah, (I suffer from delusions of first name basis) after just having performed, is chatting to band mates and packing her car ready to leave. I have just walked all the way back from my tent where I changed from shorts into pants on a thirty-five degree day in the hope it would make me look more intriguing. I am standing in bare feet with clip-on sunglasses and turbo ruffling my hat-flattened hair, frozen in fear, clutching my album and swivelling like a nerd-compass, so that at any given time, my vision is within forty-five degrees of the ‘Blasko zone.’
After realising I’d been staring at her for thirty minutes, that she was about to leave, and swallowing a shot of adrenalin cordial –
Justin: Hey sarah, great set.
Justin: (Having exhausted all prepared material) Uh. It was good.
Sarah: Yeah it’s a great venue.
Justin: I’m playing. I’m a comedian. I’m on later. I do musical comedy. Uh.
Justin: I’d like you to have my album.
Justin: Okay. Have a good one.
She accepted the unit – possibly placed it in some kind of nifty satchel, rejoined her long term acquaintances, and stepped out into the minimally seething paddock of Tasmanian rock festival gregariousness. I turned to my friend Josh and made a droll expression with my eyebrows – Justin code for “what have I become?”
It’s been nearly two years since that exchange, and there has still been no e-response. I feel sorry for Sarah. I understand her pain. I can clearly see her sitting at her PC, sipping chamomile tea, anxiously wriggling bohemian toes inside indie slippers of some variety, drafting emails to me that she’s never quite happy with.
Sent: Saturday, December 30, 2006 12:20 PM
Subject: Hi you creep.
Message: Hi Justin. Look, I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to see you play at the Falls Festival. I was off watching the beautiful girls, or someone – I can’t remember – some real musician, anyway. If your set was anything like your album, it’s probably better that I didn’t see it. I understand from some of the writing I’ve seen on your website that you might have a crush on me. I just wanted to nip that in the bud and say that I don’t think we’re compatible. Musically, I create effortlessly palpable soundscapes marinated with majestic arrangements and heart floodingly urgent melodies propelled by my laserflower fresh voice and emotionally accurate lyrics. You sound like a pre-sexual scrabble champion, who’s found a bunch of guitar chords in a Christmas bon-bon. Even if you totally switched genres, and were the lead singer/songwriter of an indie bohemian artrock outfit called ‘The tea bag rockets’ sounding like Sleepy Jackson meets Air meets The Flaming Lips, it would still be too late. Your wayward comedy fumblings have left an unsettling magnetic stain on the ipod of my memory.