MIDDLE AGED MUM

 

I went down to the cross-roads late one night (corner of Smith and Johnston) and just as I thought he would, the devil appeared. He was wearing a long jacket, big leather hat and twisted sunglasses with a psychedelic reflection. The Devil said ‘whaddaya want?’ I said ‘Look, I’m trying to write a musical comedy show called Songs From The 86 Tram, what should I have as the first song?’ The Devil thought about it and took a long slug on his rollie before blowing smoke in my face. ‘A depressive ballad about a suburban empty nester missing her kids.’ Flames appeared and he disappeared into the night, not before handing me a flyer for the rose street markets. This is how I found the inspiration for this song. Many have come before me and tried to question the Devil’s logic. ‘But Justin’ they cry, ‘it’s the first track, you can’t start an album with this song, it’s too morose and not obviously funny enough.’ I laugh in their faces, and eat my Velish soup straight from the saucepan. The truth is folks, the Devil knows comedy and he knows the darkness in our hearts and the humour that is born from it. This song was originally written on guitar but the producer and I realised that transposing it to piano would suit it more. It makes you think of a mother getting up at a high school concert in her best blouse and belting out her troubles politely. For me, the opening line sums up the entire album ‘I’m not sure this is the direction I wanted to be going in / and I’m not just talking about Preston.’ The thing with this record is that unlike most musical comedy I’m not ‘trying to be’ this kind of song I am ‘being’ this kind of song, that’s why the vocals are down in the mix and nestled in with the piano. I know this will rub people up the wrong way but enough about my love life. Ageing women tend to feel invisible in society, so I suppose I like the idea of reflecting that through meek vocals.  

 

WE ARE TRAMILY

 

I love writing white boy raps. Being a big Beck fan I’m inspired by his slouchy hip-hop ways on Odelay. I had a crack with Folkstar, and hadn’t written one for a long time. The album is lifted straight from the stage show, and I retained the sequencing. I felt the second track needed to be an in your face ‘call to arms’ for passengers. What better way to deliver this than through some Aussie hip-hop. Again, the difference here is I didn’t want it to be a pastiche or winking at the audience affair so this is technically one of the less “funny” tracks that is hopefully just cool. I channelled OziBattler’s voice for this one, and tried to ride that Aussie rap pronunciation. I like the fact the character within is actually quite earnest and says stuff like ‘I wish everyone would just rap all the time / we’d have a better time’ along with ‘I fit in, like a nun with a hymn / like a derro with a dim sim.’ Production wise the second producer Chris Scallan put that big ol’ beat under it I was like a little kid at Christmas. Look Mum, I’m a real song. There’s also a nice element of sitar underneath, which you don’t often get in this genre. A timely pro-indian salute? In the live show the Smith St junkie gets a whole monologue, but I couldn’t get him a song on here, so the solution was to have him wandering around in the background carrying on. There was some great moments where I’d be in the studio going nuts only to wander out and find the producer slouched at his desk in tears.

 

SUDANESE

 

This song was a real challenge for me. I never write political or controversial stuff, but realised that if 86 was going to be legit, then it needed an ethnic character in the mix. Us lefties are getting a bit too PC, especially with comedy. It’s like: ‘don’t do ANY accents or it’s racist.’ Thing is, in Australia satire and ribbing can be a sign that you’re comfortable with another people. Anyway, this song is performed in an African accent that I devised studying periodicals such as YouTube. (I’d also just read Dave Eggers What Is The What). I then did some homework making sure the lyrics weren’t offensive. I sent them to a chap who works with Sudanese people and this was the one he pulled out: ‘You have things that we don’t have, like rage top 50 and bubble o bills / We just have militia pops, it’s just an angry face with a liquorice gun.’ He said the one thing that annoys them most is being constantly associated with warfare. I like the way the vocals sit right out in front of the mix, it’s intimate and channels that documentary vibe. I wanted to make the instrumental chorus more profound so we added some synth and sampled African singing and drums. The first thing my guitarist said was ‘that’s a bit lion king.’

 

TRISHINE

 

So basically, I sort of think Trishine is the most structurally perfect Australian comedy song ever written. It’s all there: it makes fun of bogans, it’s high brow and low brow, it has swearing, wordplays, a high concept musical key change gag not to mention some eloquent, intelligent chord progressions and heart-achingly understated string arrangements. I should be given an order of Australia for this, or at least get a phone call from Rudd. I’ve channelled eighteen years of growing up in Burnie, being looked at funny by bullies, feeling nervous when I walk past pubs with hard men in hats peering out from silent beers, wasting my teenage years playing football, desperate to be accepted by the well-liked kids with their expensive football boots and sideline dads,  macho fronts and dirty jokes when I could have started some psych-rock band and been touring America by now. That endless nebulous of self-loathing and alienation I endured at the hands of witless, tactless, blue singleted, meat faced bar accessories, I’ve burned it up like coal and powered this delicate, beautiful, multi faceted phoenix, flying high above the Australian zeitgeist like a galah with the plumage of a peacock and the heart of a wedge-tailed eagle.

 

(INTERLEWD)

 

I thought hard about how much incidental stuff to include from the live show, like sounds of the tram and conversations between characters. Despite being the guy who brought out Wow Wow’s Song I am actually conscious of not wanting to annoy people too much. I remembered back to year 12 parties and how frustrating Tarantino’s Pulp Fiction soundtrack was and how’d you’d always be skipping the talking bits. I included this little snippet just to help bring home the concept nature of the album. I wonder if this is the first example of an album sampling itself from a later point within the same album. Ie the Northcote kid is listening to Old Man At End, the last track on the record   

 

NORTHCOTE (So Hungover)

 

Musically, this is one of the strongest dudes on the album, which I think is why it’s had so much radio love. This really shows off the prowess of my band ‘The Awkwardstra’ locking in nicely on bass (Andy Hazel) and drums (Hugh Rabinovici). The guitarist (Gordon Blake) does some great first take fuckabouts and captures that ‘first band at Pony’ vibe, while Hitz Rodriguez (Jamie Power) is safe as houses on tambo.(The track was written on tambourine). This wasn’t an easy one to record as I was trying to lay the music down first then do the vocals, but the monologue is a different length every time I do it. Thank goodness for ProTools and the cut and paste feature. I was chuffed to hear someone compare it to ‘The Gift’ by The Velvets.  Normally I just get compared to Joe Dulci or Crazy Frog. I’ve always believed that for musical comedy to justify itself as a valid art form, the music needs to be just as good as the lyrics and the two need to service each other, not compromise. This is a good example of the musical bed providing the context for the vocals while allowing for a ‘rockout bridge’ so the music has its time in the sun. I like how thoughtfully mixed it is too, you can hear the lyrics easily without sacrificing sonic oomph. I’ve been trying to find that sweet blend between music and humour for years and I think this is it.

 

IRISH GIRL

 

The Irish accent provided a suitable mask to pull off the female voice, otherwise it’d sound too much like me. It was also a good vehicle to explore some frustrations like the backpacker being marooned in another country. The song was incredibly difficult to record, because we wanted to get the guitar down first then do vocals separate, but like Northcote, timing wise there’s no way to control how long the vocals go for. For such a simple song it took a whole day, and the producer had to make loops out of each of the three guitar chords and after I’d done my vocals go back in and layer the guitar chords over the top. Then the picking pattern would change mid chord and it wouldn’t match up! This is the first time I’ve recorded with my first ever guitar, a nylon Yamaha I bought when I was eleven. That boppin’ harmonium sound that comes in for the second verse is me playing an accordion really rapidly so it makes this continuous oscillating sound. It’s my trademark. I use it in ‘I’m So Post Modern’ and on ‘Orange’ on Brown & Orange. I tried very hard to write a character that represented the modern young woman, without being cliché or dumbed down. I was criticised by an early girlfriend for making Irish Girl too cynical and negative, and became paranoid that it might come across as misogynistic, like I’ve disempowered her by making her unlikeable. And I’m like, shit no, I’m trying to show that a man can write a thoughtful, three dimensional portrayal of a woman and make her funny and witty and intelligent. I even borrowed a line from my female friend ‘For Christmas I’d like the ability to get my period before or after music festivals’ which always gets a huge laugh live as all the girls in the room go ‘yeah!’

 

TRAM INSPECTOR

 

This is a good example of juxtaposition. I’ve thought ‘what’s the lamest most stagnant and dull thing in the world? Getting a tram ticket.’ Therefore, it should be matched with the sexiest, slinkiest most jivin tune available. Songwriting wise this is my best to date. It has a pre-chorus and everything! I’m not sure if ‘yacht folk’ has been invented but I can’t find the genre on Myspace. Studio wise I laid down my guitar and vocal and then got each of The Awkwardstra to step in and work their magic. The drums are a combo of synth and real. The thing about studio recording is even when you think you’ve got plenty of wickets in hand (Oz version of ‘covered all your bases), you are met with the most obtuse of problems, like the drummers snare sound wasn’t matching up with the synth snare. (Hugh’s a jazz man and has a tightly wound kit) So Chris had to take apart the percussion bed and put it back together again, placing a sampled handclap sound to repair it. It reminds me of Bowie’s Golden Years which I adored as a child, there’s a real lightness and a swing which my music’s never had before. (not to mention listenability). A reviewer mentioned Beck and I’m like ‘ok, ready to retire now.’ Harry Angus lays down some nice brass too, he’s a great improviser, at the end I said ‘it needs something dramatic and weird here’ and he just nodded and did his thing. I’m fairly annoyed that national radio didn’t touch this. Too Melbourney? Not funny enough? C’mon – the chimney’s smoking and I got an armful of logs!

 

MAN ON A TRAM

 

Again, a bit of playful juxtaposition here. Take most predictable middle of the road character – conservative business man and provide unlikely format ‘dr suess style spoken word piece.’ Of all the tracks this is by far the most simple, just voice and guitar and the producer often cites this as his favourite. For most of my stuff its musician and comedian doing battle to win out, but with this one the music has been mutated and made a bit clowny itself. The guitar is providing bass and percussion, rather than melody and has a jittery timing to it, like the way a spider moves up a wall. I’m wary of making albums where every song starts to sound like the next and there’s not much chance of that happening here. Brown and Orange was a bit like that too but I think on 86 it makes more sense as each song is a different character. 

 

SONG TO NOD OFF TO

 

So, the next night, I went back to the cross-roads. Once again the devil appeared. ‘Oh whaddisit this time?’ he roared. ‘I was playing five hundred with Kurt Cobain.’ ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I need some help. I’m about halfway through my show and I’m not sure what the next song should be.’ The Devil stroked his dirty goatee and pondered. ‘Musical comedy….alright, whattabout a four and a half minute multi-layered instrumental?’ He grinned at me and drank a frothy glass of milo. ‘That’s perfect I said, thanks’ ‘Now fuckoff!’ he declared, ‘down to the rose street markets, I hear they’ve got some good childrens book handbags!’ I hurried home and wrote the most ‘god I wish I wasn’t who I am but actually Boards Of Canada or Lemon Jelly’ piece of dreamy acoustic escapism. No synths!

 

IN MY DAY (Nan)

 

I first wrote this song in one hit, (of cocaine) on a cassette, the whole structure was there, and most of the lines. (of coke) I spent the next year or so performing it and redrafting the lyrics until I found a set of gags (to hold audience hostage) I was happy with. This is the beauty of doing the comedy cross-over, you can ‘work your material’ (polyester) up in front of an audience and work out which lines (of people, trying to get out the door) are sticking and which aren’t so by the time you hit the studio (anger issues) you’ve got a final version that you’re happy with. Most of the tracks (of heroin) on this album were written like this, I’d pretty much fart out the whole thing in one take (toke) and then go back and hone the lyrics. Most songs had about ten different drafts (of beer), and each line has to fight for its right to (party) be there. I guess that’s the writer in me (so tell us about your longterm battle with being a wanker) coming to the fray and realising the importance of redrafting. (your hair). This track made me nervous cos it’s the most ‘Comedy 101’ on there and I was real worried that it would stick out too much and annoy people. (a bedroom philosopher song? Never.) I was going to leave it off for a while. This was one track that required quite a few takes (tokes) as I couldn’t do the guitar and vocals separate because (I’m shit) it was just too weird, it really kills the (brain cells) flow of the track and means the pauses aren’t the right length and it messes with the comedy timing. So I think we spliced (splice! Great combo of icecream and icypole) a few vocal takes together which is quite a common process for me (sorry, were you talking? I just zoned out, I was thinking about the girl off madmen)  Initially we turned up the treble and record noise and made it sound like an old 78 but it was a bit distracting so I toned down the record effect so you just get the basic idea. (the basics? When are they playing? When’s the next Gotye record? When’s dinner? I want wedges).

 

NEW MEDIA

 

Oh dear, poor old Melbourne artists, why do I seem to have it in for you so much? Is it because I feel like a perennial outsider and can’t help but be fascinated and intimidated by the gracefully aloof shopfront of fashionably nondescript cool you maintain with your exhibitions, bikes, black jackets and beards? Is it because I am Australian and my psychological instinct is to attack anyone who appears to be lauding themselves over society in any way? Is it because I’ve had one too many friends send me a Facebook invite to their ‘cross-platform’ project, only to turn up and see a ceramic owl set on fire next to a bowl of ballbearings, accompanied by a 10, 000 word artist statement, telling me how it reflects the internal struggle of man’s fascination with the contextless universe and god’s disconnection to his genitals? Dunno. But it’s fun. So here it is. This song is a real live favourite, cos I have friends come up with the BEST expression of slight hurt and bemused disbelief saying ‘but I’ve had my jeans on for six weeks.’ These are the kinds of songs where I’m not sure how much to ‘band it up’ on record cos live it works real well just me and guitar. But then my biggest fear is making some novelty thing that you listen to twice and sit on your bookshelf and ultimately I want to make music that you can a) put on at a party and not have everyone call cabs and b) maybe fool about to on your bed. I’m still a while away from that and my back catalogue could act as contraception. I like that there’s more sitar in there (I’m a big Cornershop fan) and you don’t often hear it being used as a background texture. This song has a pay-off bigger than Slash’s guitar solo in ‘November Rain’ with Chris channelling his days mixing the soundtrack for Baz Luhmann’s Australia. Pompous. Bombastic. Ridiculous. Everything good art should be. Take that Melbourne you sweet denim bitch. You know I love you right?

 

OLD MAN AT END

 

With light rain starting to fall from an overcast Fitzroy sky I strolled back to the cross-roads and waited. This time the Devil did not come. I waited for three hours and where normally he would have appeared in a firework of flame there was only a big ol’ tram dinging its bell. I moved out of the way but the tram kept clangin’. I went  to the driver’s side and peered in. From the dark space a familiar face leered around. He waved an arm and opened the tram doors for me to climb on The carriage was empty. I stood next to the driver’s window as the Devil cracked a can of beer and floored it. ‘Where we goin?’ I asked, lurching backwards and grabbing onto a green pole. ‘The end my friend, to the eeeend.’ He was yelling and waving his arms around so I guessed he’d had a few by now. Together we rolled through the night. The moonlight casting off the glittery floor like dirty diamonds. We were somewhere past Preston when the Devil reached into his jacket and pulled out an old black tape. He pressed it into the stereo and a simple, moody song came through the speakers. ‘I’m coming to the end of my tram ride / and I’m not just talking about Telstra dome.’ It was strange. It was my voice, but I couldn’t recognise it. ‘Who is this?’ I asked ‘It’s you’ said the Devil. ‘This is the end mate. The eeeend’ he started coughing and laughing wildly, swigging his beer and swaying from side to side. I sat on a seat and listened to the rest of the song. It was amazing. The old man’s monologue finished with him repeating ‘find out what the hell it’s all about’ while those graceful, brooding minor chords cycled over and over. Then, the backing vocals started, soaring and pleading, following the chords like a jetstream of melancholy. They continued to build until I detected bass and electric through the tinny speakers. The vocals soared, floating for a moment before being pushed over the edge by a powerful drum roll. The song erupted into a sonic fireball, undulating and crying primeval into the ambient abyss. It was the song of my dreams. Epic, grandiose and defiant as the ghostly electrics pleaded to the melodic moon. I closed my eyes and saw neon orange and green  energy spheres gunning through time, pushing a tired old body higher and higher. My heart overheated and my brain ordered the release of tears. I was hearing myself for the first time, whispering some truth, a message, just for me, so gentle, so pretty ‘you …are.…OY GET OFF! My eyes opened. The tram had stopped. The song had ended. The devil loomed over me, his crude mouth blowing me a beery belch. ‘Get the fuck off.’ I stood up faintly, I really needed to wee. ‘What now?’ I asked, but he was gone. I stepped out and saw that I was inside a tram depot. I zipped up my jacket and trudged toward the front gate, that amazing song still playing in my ears.

 

 

The song Northcote (So Hungover) had its origins as a sketch I wrote for Channel 10 comedy show The Ronnie Johns Good Times Campfire Jamboree Half Hour Show (Now on Television) in 2005-2006. I guess it was depicted to be takin’ the piss out of the emo / punk scene – about three years before the hipster thing blew up. 

 

 

Here are some original scripts from the recurring Underground characters. None of them were filmed in their entirety, but mostly chopped up (by Chopper ha ha) and cut in with other writer’s contributions. 

 

UNDERGROUND - ORIGINAL

F: How’s your band?
J: We just got signed.
F: That’s a bit mainstream.
J: No, I mean signed by the audience, everyone at our last gig stuck their fingers up at us.
F: Tough crowd. We got signed too, but we’re totally independent.
J: No label, keeping it real.
F: No, the record label is called Independent records, it’s an off-shoot of Sony.
J: Oh. What’s your deal?
F: We have to make an album every fifteen years, plus we get clothing sponsorships, rage guest programming rights, a skill-tester filled with cigarettes and a packet of 10 000 mixed Myspace friends.
J: You’ve sold out.
F: But we have total creative control.
J: No I mean your t-shirts, I tried to order a men’s medium but they were out. So what are you called?
F: Finding Emo.
J: I don’t get it.
F: Exactly. So how’s your album coming along?
J: Okay, we’ve laid down some tracks.
F: What kind of sound?
J: No, I mean actual tracks. We’re all working for Cityrail to pay off the studio hire.
F: Right. What’s the album called?
J: B-sides, c-sides d-sides and rarities. It’s a greatest hits concept EP.
F: What’s the concept?
J: It’s a secret album. Every track is a secret track recorded in a special frequency that only dogs can hear.
F: Are you worried about people burning it?
J: No, we’ll have copy control.
F: I meant in a fire. Hey, we’re having a launch next week, you should come along.
J: Yeah, whereabouts?
F: The local army airbase. They’re going to do a test launch aimed at North Korea.
J: Overseas market, cool. Hey, did I mention we just picked up a grant?
F: Well done.
J: Yeah, Grant Taylor, our bass player. We literally picked him up from the side of the road, he was passed out.
F: Yeah right, did you have to deal with an agent?
J: Yeah, Demestos mainly, he was in pretty bad shape. Maybe I could support you sometime?
F: Your band?
J: No I mean emotionally, make you cups of tea, rub your feet, listen to you grumble.
F: You’re not really my genre of person. Plus, I’m kind of going out with my music career.
J: Are you defacto?
F: Yeah, but Centrelink don’t know.
J: Okay. See you.
F: I guess.
J: Whatever.
F: Whatever is passé.
J: Oh, um, whatever two?
F: I guess.

UNDERGROUND - SMASHING THINGS

J: Sorry I couldn’t make it to your gig.
F: Were you busy?
J: No, I just didn’t want to go.
F: That’s pretty rock. We rocked out. We smashed up our gear afterwards.
J: Oh, that’s pretty rock, does your record company supply you with new equipment.
F: No, we’ll probably move into spoken word now.
J: Hmm, that’s not so rock. Yeah we did a gig the other night where we smashed up the band room. We tried to glue the couch to the roof.
F: Did it work?
J: No, we only had clag.
F: Still, pretty rock. Did I mention we smashed up our hotel afterwards. We threw the bed out the window.
J: Gee what happened?
F: The inner coils kicked in and it bounced back up.
J: That’s pretty rock. Well we got kicked out of our hotel for smashing it up, and then went back to my house and smashed that up.
F: Gee, what happened.
J: Mum woke up, so we glued her to the roof.
F: That’s way rock. After we got kicked out we smashed up the street. Our drummer borrowed a crane and wrecking ball.
J: That’s rock. Did you hear how we smashed up the city?
F: No.
J: Dave our guitarist borrowed his uncle’s F-14 hornet Jet and we carpet bombed the place, then glued the jet to a skyscraper.
F: Pretty rock. We were planning to smash up the southern hemisphere.
J: Really?
F: Yeah my cousin is a scientist and has a home-made atomic bomb.
J: Right, did it work?
F: No, it was a dud.
J: Pretty rock.
F: Yeah that’s all it was. A rock.

UNDERGROUND - BAND FIGHT

F: Hey.
J: Whatever.
F: Do you want to form a band?
J: Yeah okay.
F: Right, you’re out of the band.
J: Already, why?
F: Creative differences.
J: But I didn’t say anything.
F: It’s your look, it’s not right.
J: I can change.
F: Okay, put on these. (She pulls out sunglasses. J puts them on)
J: Is that better?
F: Yeah, you’re back in the band.
J: Fine. I quit.
F: Why?
J: I think with this new look I can have a solo career.
F: Good luck with that. Sunglasses are passé. (She takes hers off)
J: Oh. Can I be back in your band?
F: Fine, but we don’t wear sunglasses anymore.
J: Okay (he takes them off. Flick puts hers back on) What are you doing?
F: I’m being ironic, on purpose – that’s cool.
J: Right (he puts his back on), well you’re out of the band.
F: You can’t fire me.
J: Why not?
F: (She takes her glasses off) I already quit.
J: (He takes his glasses off) This is stupid.
(F takes out a country hat and puts it on.)
J: What are you doing?
F: Hats are the new sunglasses.
J: Do I get a hat?
F: No.
J: Good, I don’t want one.
(F takes her hat off.)
F: I’m quitting my solo career. I’m going to form a band.
J: Oh, can I be in it.
F: No.
J: Good. Bye.
F: Apparently.

 

 

In 2005 author pal Liam Pieper (fellow Voiceworks edcommer) was sent my album In Bed With My Doona to review for Beat. No doubt inspired by John Safran’s Music Jamboree, he took editorial sensitivity to fabulously dangerous levels by not only running the review by me first, but offering me the chance to write it myself (under his name). This post is in tribute to the legendary generosity of this heat-seeking media rapscallion.

EMAIL TRANSCRIPT EXTRACTS… 

LIAM: Deliciously corrupt!
250 wrds, if your interested

ME: I guess I shouldn't rave about it too much - or they might figure you are my mate or something. Dunno. But would like to try it. 

LIAM: Don't worry about going overboard, I'll edit down any overboard self-sychophancy. A good trick is to rave about the album, then bag out one track, then praise the singles.

The review ran. Life went on. 

 

THE BEDROOM PHILOSOPHER – IN BED WITH MY DOONA

 

 

The Bedroom Philosopher (aka Justin Heazlewood), made his debut on Triple J’s morning show. There, he churned out a doona-full of quirky acoustic vignettes – showcasing an ability to sound like a pre-sexual man-geek yet muster images both goon-guzzlingly Australian and spine-gigglingly surreal. In Bed With My Doona, his debut studio album is an ambitious comedic experiment that self-proclaims to be: ‘The Seargent Pepper’s of Indie-Folk comedy.’ Amazingly, it’s not that far off the mark.

‘Love Theme From Centrelink’ is a lush, breezy showcase of the record’s sublime production quality, while ‘Megan The Vegan’ is a perfect folk-punk tribute to anyone who’s ever lived in a sharehouse dictatorship. Folkstar is the unexpected hit of the album, featuring sleepy, witty rapping over a trip-hop acoustic dub sample At times, The Bedroom Philosopher seems to possess’ the musical innovativeness and lyrical smarts of early Beck, creating a uniquely amusing sound.

While a couple of basic ‘ha-ha guitar’ tracks possibly nudge the disposable side, the appropriately heart-wrenching ‘Heart Song’ reminds you that The Bedroom Philosopher not only possesses a truly inspired comic edge, but also understands the dynamics of an beautiful pop song. Current single, ‘I’m So Postmodern’ is one of the funniest of all songs of all time – an effortlessly random, relentlessly clever opus that plays backwards on itself to reveal subliminal messages about a TV doctor’s smock. In Bed With My Doona is an unabashedly original, landmark debut. It has enough moments of earnest, playful genius, to deem it an important entity in both Australia’s comedy and musical landscapes.

 

Liam Pieper

 

 

“Is there anything more hipster than making fun of being a hipster?”
youtube user rhonan, 10 years ago.

 

To celebrate the pleather anniversary and long-listing in Triple Js Hottest 100 of the Decade, The Bedroom Philosopher (AKA tram dude) reflects on the cultural flashpoint of his accidentally-on-purpose Khe Sanh for millennials. 

 

 

• At the height of its powers, Northcote (So Hungover) was a question on Rockwiz and an answer in The Age crossword. There was talk of it being on a Fantail, briefly. 

 

• Adalita was approached to be one of the nurses in the video. 

 

• It was originally going to be called Thornbury (No Homeowner).

 

• If you play the track backwards, you can hear samples from Agro’s Cartoon Connection. 

 

• Okay, so, not to let artistic intention get in the way of a good pigeon-holing but (yawn) first and foremost, it was a song satirising the music scene, not hipsters. The song has its origins in a sketch I wrote for Channel 10s The Ronnie Johns Good Times Campfire Jamboree Half Hour Show (Now on Television) for which I was a writer in the mid 2000s. I penned a couple of sketches called Underground which featured two indie musos trying to out-cool each other.

 

 

• The song was written with gags aplenty as part of the 2009 Melbourne Comedy Festival show Songs From The 86 Tram. An early version had me trying to do two voices as per the original sketch, before I settled on one. “Rage Against The Sewing Machine” is still page one of my pun resume.

 

• I always thought of the main character as having the name ‘Drake.’

 

• The song was recorded in late 2009 by Chris Scallan with my band The Awkwardstra laying down the tracks. Gordon “Gordo” Blake (Vicuna Coat, Damian Cowell’s Disco Machine) did a particularly good job on lead guitar. 

 

 

• Triple J started playing Northcote (as per the Z-Sides & Demos USB) in February 2010. It was soon on medium rotation and fared well on Super Requests with Rosie Beaton. It was the most requested song on five occasions in April.

 

• At last refresh it had a JPlay (site that used to track all songs played on Triple J) ranking of 1147/84191 (somewhere between Diana Anaid and The Reefer Song.) It was last played at 1:50am in 2017 (I wouldn’t stop calling). It reached #12 on the Independent music chart. For this I was given a keyring and drinks voucher.

 

• There was a moment where Triple M were considering adding it to their rotation. They featured it on some kind of ‘cool or not’ segment where people phoned in. If there was ever a tipping point for the song going mainstream this was it – but Bazza said no. 

 

 

 

• Jane Gazzo interviewed me for Channel V – a career highlight. (We’d last chatted in 1996 when I’d rung up Calamity Jane on Super Requests to tell her my nickname was Phonze, I was going to beat the Parklands High School 50m freestyle record (which I didn’t), and could she play Bentley Rhythym Ace (which she did.) 

 

 

 

 

• The Northcote music video was shot over two days, working from 7am until midnight. It was ambitious, taking in eight different locations, including Soundpark rehearsal studios (where Courtney Barnett recorded her second album with Idge, the sound engineer in the video). Two of my band members (inc. drummer Hugh ‘Mad Dog’ Rabinovici) were going away on holidays, so Josh Earl had to fill in on bass.

 

• Yarra Trams were very supportive. The most hassle we had was towards the end of the second days shoot when some of the hipster ‘extras’ were caught drinking on the tram. Hey, those dudes were method. 

 

• The video featured many special guests including Tim Rogers, Kram, Angie Hart and Damian Cowell, formerly of TISM. (Tim was nominated for best supporting role in a medical procedural by Smash Hits.) 

 

 

• I formed a supergroup of Melbourne indie musos (fronted by Sad Sanderson, played by Awkwardstra bass player (and fill-in drummer in the video – Andy ‘Nature Boy’ Hazel) to be the band Pose Tattoo. They even played a live set at the video launch, with the songs uploaded to Myspace. Turns out everyone’s favourite abandoned music festival recently lost 12 years of data in a server migration. Unfortunately this includes the only known output of Pose Tattoo including their 3CR anthem I’m So Sad (Hey! That’s Sad).

 

POSE TATTOO: (EMMA HEENEY, JULIAN NATION, CLAIRE HOLLINGSWORTH, WILL HINDMARSH, D. ROGERS & Sad Sanderson (aka NATURE BOY HAZEL). Absent: EILISH GILLIGAN)

 

 

• The video had a budget of $9000, with the director, producer and much of the crew donating their time. Half of this was for my prosthetic fringe. (The other half for Sad Sanderson’s prescription cardigan).

 

• It was directed by Craig Melville and produced by David Curry. It went on to win several awards including ones from the Australian Director’s Guild and The Australian Cinematographers Society. For this we were given a keyring and drinks voucher. 

 

 

• In the days leading up to the video release, Metlink commissioned me to write a parody version of Northcote to promote their online tools. I filmed Hurstbridge (So Sober) over two days and in an unfortunate bit of timing, the parody version was released to the public before the original! This confused a lot of people, especially the vitriolic bloggers on infamously narky site Mess+Noise who suggested I was the ‘online tool.’ 

 

 

• The video attracted a lot of comments (which I’m still getting over), which inspired me to write a version of the song made up entirely out of YouTube comments. To get meta, it included comments made while I was on Triple J being interviewed about the song and the comments it was getting. When I later went on Triple J paraphrasing one of the comments, I dropped the C-bomb at four in the afternoon and got in a lot of trouble.

 

 

• Soon after the release of Songs From The 86 Tram the distribution label who put out the album and song (the aptly named SHOCK) went broke, taking the money from 3000 single sales with them. At this point I concluded that the music business was a bit shit.

 

 

• The reaction to the song, in particular the whole Hipster Thing™ was surprising and unintentional. The timing was pitch-perfect to capture the trend for lampooning a new ‘cool’ subculture of artists, bohemians, designers and fashionistas. Hipster was a term of derision, suggesting this lot were a superficial tribe of posers who dressed and spoke a certain way. This was aided by the video which had a costume designer channelling the American Apparel fuelled trends of the minute. (Is it worth mentioning Vice magazine and the fact I often found that periodical profoundly uncomfortable to read? I mean, the point size is tiny and I’m very short-sighted.)

 

• I suppose the video gave the song a newfound edge of meanness which it was never intended to have. Honestly, I saw it as a few puns about musicians and a light-hearted acknowledgement of the bitchiness and competitiveness of the industry. It didn’t help that right next door there was a video called Being a Dickhead is Cool (released three months after Northcote, itself a crude distillation of 2005’s game-changing series Nathan Barley which is the first major record of the hipster archetype (portrayed as obnoxious, shallow disruptors) or you could go even further back to 2000s High Fidelity which features an exchange between Jack Black’s character and a muso looking to start a band (“we want to retain our pop sensibilities, but, you know, go further out…no gigs yet.”) Bondi Hipsters appeared in 2012 which along with the debut of the bohemian-skewering comedy Portlandia (2011) seemed to me a much more obvious subcultural lampoon; nonetheless cementing Northcote as a flagship fixie in the hipster-bashing satirical fleetfoxes of the decade.

 

 

• You might think this is all a bit of fun and no big deal or a bit of an overthink, but bear in mind that at a bar in Sydney one of the editors from Mess+Noise told me that a lot of musicians he spoke to were genuinely offended. They saw my song as a mean spirited attack on their authentic ways. When I supported Dan Kelly in 2011 he said he and his crew thought it might be about them. All of this from a throwaway short-play making jokes about Molly Meldrum and Domestos.
• It’s almost (and I can’t empathise almost enough) – and I know I’m at risk here of weighing in above my station – but it’s              a l m o s t  as if,  like people, (i dunno), took the song…
• a
• teensy
• bit
• too
• seriously

 

 

 

Shout-out to all Beddy Phil fans – especially my American friends who seemed to become enraged when they didn’t understand all the pop culture references of the song

 

 

• Northcote created a sub-cultural high pressure system in which the boundaries between emo, punk, indie (and don’t forget ‘capital a’ alternative) were melted down and cut with yuppie to create the offensively ambiguous hipster catchall. (Didn’t the term originate in the 1950s anyway – Jack Kerouac and his mates going to jazz cafes?) The storm roared in stereo confusion with the line between The Bedroom Philosopher and the ‘character’ I was playing wearing as thin as the imitation leather in Drake’s jacket. It didn’t occur to me for a second that anyone in a regional town would see the photo shoot from the video and think that was actually what we looked like. “You’re obviously playing a character,” said members of my inner circle. But of course, so many took it literally. (Hello to everyone in Ballarat, Bunbury and Burnie).

 

• (I could talk more about aforementioned cultural/artistic flashpoint amplifying the standard-issue tall-poppy backlash for appearing too successful but psychologists have stipulated I don’t have the space and I respect you too much to grizzle any more about fame after Funemployed).

 

 

• Bear in mind [for me it’s usually Sooty]  I had always considered myself indie which was a term of endearment for being authentic and not compromising your ideals. It didn’t help that Stuff White People Like was released a year earlier. I began the decade feeling like an op-shopping individual, but left it a  f r a n k i e  cutout digging on  Dave Eggers and fonts.

 

• It really did feel like a witch-hunt. (The blah witch project.) A kind of low-stakes character assassination in which everyone went through their phone contacts to determine whether people were legit or a knob. The general rule of thumb was the beguiling: “Anyone who denies being a hipster is one and anyone who claims to be, isn’t.” Many people (okay, Yon from Tripod) seemed genuinely confused about whether I’d turned or not.

 

 

• I mean, my video had ‘gone viral’ but had I inadvertently also contracted a disease recasting the DNA of my intellectual property as an effete, striped, toothless werewolf of fashion? 

 

• So what if I had? So what if I was? There are worse crimes in this country than aspiring to be cultured. Blow me down, when the blowback from Northcote wasn’t taking the form of thinly veiled homophobia or a class war against trust fund babies flaunting their disposable incomes, I suspect it may have been fuelled by Australia’s ingrained disrespect / distrust of intelligence and everyone’s least favourite ‘A’ word The Arts. Suddenly wearing glasses and going to Wes Anderson movies (you know, daring to espouse a lifestyle of reading books and attending the theatre) was grounds to be ridiculed and despised. A kind of rebooted War On Nerds was taking place by bitter middle-class sports jocks cranky they didn’t get invited to life’s after-party and classless bogans pre-emptively striking with disproportionately insecure reactions that anyone appearing clever must also think they are better than them. Isn’t it ironic (don’t you think) that these same people were the ones bullying us in high school for being introverted dweebs who tried hard in class. What, just because we didn’t peak in high school we’re gonna get picked on all over again? With the peer-pressure-prison of social media infecting my consciousness like a trash magazine crossed with a high school reunion, forgive me for feeling that sometimes I’m reliving grade seven all over again. 

 

Parklands High School (Nairana HOUSE) photo shoot – 1993. CREDIT: PIXIE FOTOS

Yeah – you know I’m cooler than you, punk. I’m the psychological bully – and we always get our man in the end. What’s that saying? Names will always hurt me but cancer sticks and stones green ginger eases the pain. 

 

 

• Look, there has been a huge misunderstanding (also the working title for The Bedroom Philosopher Greatest Hits concept EP). Because my own 70s retro-Beck-cardigan-frullet persona was so bohemian to begin with – it was less evident which part of me stopped and the Northcote character began. So, say, if Dave O’Neil strapped on the Northcote garb for a Spicks & Specks thing, it’d be cut and dried what was going on.

 

• The Northcote phase of my career came just after I’d played John Safran in John Safran’s Race Relations. It was the first time in my life I’d ever worn jeans, and I must admit I quite enjoyed feeling a bit more common people. Until 2010 I was infamous as the only bloke in Fitzroy wearing flared trousers (shout out to Tim Rogers). I enjoyed the support that skinny jeans gave (kinda like swaddling for nervous legs), so I’m the first to admit I wasn’t making anything particularly obvious by wearing skinny jeans on and offstage.

 

 

 

 

• Don’t underestimate how much Australians despise ambiguity. (Wait, did I say despise? As if Australians are that passionate about anything other than sport and anti-authoritarianism – okay, don’t underestimate the indifference Australian’s have towards subtlety.)

 

• As previously stated, one of the more concerning aspects of online hipster-bashing was the not-so-thinly-veiled homophobia that came with it. You can appreciate how disappointed I was by comments calling out ‘metro-fags.’ I mean, if I’d wanted to get called poof I’d’ve included Launceston on the tour schedule. 

 

• My take? A <bold> lot <bold> of guys were having trouble with how sexually attractive I am in that clip.

 

• Did you know? I am actually really good looking and charismatic on camera and could have cleaned up in an ABC series about a mentally sensitive social worker in a sharehouse and his romantic tribulations (Working title: 50 shades of Brown & Orange.) 

 

writing OUT my will. CREDIT: HELEN MELVILLE

 

• A fan once emailed to say she had Northcote stuck in her head while she gave birth. (She was in Wales.) 

 

• There’s an instrumental version where my character texts the whole thing. 

 

• Steve Kilbey once auditioned for the part of Tim Rogers.

 

• I have other songs.

 

• Thanks for reading Northcote Fun Fax (I’m talking to the Turkish hackers, spambots and three other people who visit this site – two of which are me). I shall leave you with some other stunning trivia about my 85 minutes of fame (the time it takes to get from Bundoora to Docklands). 

 

FURTHER READING

1. The full list of comments from the Northcote (So Hungover) lyrics page on this site is an archive of love and fury. 
2. David Foster Wallace said irony was destroying our culture. 
3. The director Craig Melville cut together the original animatic of Northcote to enjoy. You can now appreciate how the video may appear to dogs and unwell children. 
4. A tell-all interview with the Melbourne Leader sums up how I felt at the time Northcote blew up. “I was turning sausages by myself and swearing.”
5. Truly haunting vision of me performing on the Frankston line. 
6. A large swag of photos from behind the scenes of the video can be found on FB. 
7. The original scripts from the Underground segment on Ronnie Johns Half Hour. 

 

CREDITS: Most photographs by Helen Melville. 

 

 

“How can one be truly critical in an age of mass camp?”
Naomi Klein, No Logo.

 

 

 

RAGE COMEDY SPECIAL –  2/7/24 (Mum’s 70th birthday): 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

BUNYIP.com readers might remember The Bedroom Philosopher from his JJJ favourites I’m So Post Mortem and Northcote (So Hung-Over). Declyn Mash caught up with the intriguing or reclusive comedian about his new web series PUP!

What are you hoping to achieve with this series?

What are you hoping to achieve with this interview?

I asked you first.

Okay.

Why make this series now?

I felt it was important that non-humans have a voice.

Are these puppets a part of yourself?

I give the characters credit for being the architects of their own narrative. You could say they have a hand in it. [Makes finger-quotes on ‘hand.’]

It’s been ten years since your Northcote triumph.

My friend drives a Northcote triumph. She knitted it out of rescued greyhound wool and balloons. It runs on sauerkraut. 

Are you still proud of that song.

You suggest I was ever proud of it.

Aren’t you?

As Nan said when I asked her what she thought of the video ‘It’s fine.’ [Appears sullen and withdrawn. I press him on Nan but he declines to stop talking].

How do you think the song has aged?

Dude, the song was dated before it was even released. Connex was taken over by Metro trains four days before I released the album. I’m fine with that now. I consider myself a national archive for pop culture references. I’m a ‘wayback machine’ with glasses. Whatever you make gets a big boost in 20 years when the nostalgia fever hits. In 50 years my silly head talking on an iphone 3 will be used as a promo for ‘what were the 2010s about’ and that is basically what my teenage self always dreamed an intensive fifteen year career as a professional musician and comedian would culminate in. You think I’m being flippant but anyone who’s looked at the statistics on how much new content is generated on the internet daily will attest – being remembered is no mean feat.

Like ‘Chocolate Rain’ [The viral video from 2010 by Tay Zonday]

I have no idea what you’re talking about.

What would you like to be remembered for? 

I brought joy to Tasmanians who often resented me for succeeding and having ambition. Also to all the girls who have beaten me in thumb wars, they were kind of cheating because our hands weren’t level and they did that thing where they raise their elbow up like a chicken wing and it tips the whole playing field and catches me off guard and gave them an unfair advantage.

Your tense got a bit confused there. 

I am confused and tense. 

Any final thoughts?

I have a web series called PUP! which airs Tuesdays at 2:22.

Oh, we’re going to include that in the bi-line already – do you have anything else?

I’m selling an LG front loader washing machine. Do you have anything else?

Um….no….I had something here about a world record attempt.

Are you serious about journalism?

No, it’s sort of a side-hustle because I want to get into life coaching as a second language.

 

YOU CAN VOTE FOR ‘NORTHCOTE’ IN JJJS HOTTEST 100 of the decade. Voting is now open and closes on March 9. THE NEW WEB SERIES “PUP!” AIRS ON THE FOLLOWING PLATFORMS AT TUESDAYS ON 2:22

 

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Comedian Bill Hicks once said any artist who participates in a commercial was “off the artistic roll call, forever.” Bill was the original Gen-X soldier, declaring a war on advertising when anti-corporate sentiment was at its peak. I wonder what he’d make of today’s climate, where ‘selling out’ is something bands strive for rather than avoid. The Internet has reinvented the game, the music industry has tumbled and we’re empathetic towards artists needing ad-sync revenue. I can see the punk-philosopher’s eyes narrow, his puckered lips dragging on a cigarette.

“Oh Bill” he retorts in a winy voice, mocking me. “No-one’s buying records anymore, it’s so hard to make money at our concerts. We have to pay venue hire.” He throws a hand up, “Okay squirt! Well here’s a thought. Maybe, and hey, I’m no expert, but maybe, the problem is the fact say, oh I don’t know – (pause) you’re not very fucking good!” He holds his glare for a moment before exploding into a chesty cackle. “Hey buckaroo – if you think the music industry is hard, maybe you should try working in a fucking SWEAT SHOP where nine year old girls make the shoes you’re endorsing with your “fashion rock” and you’ll see that compared to making two dollars a day! I repeat TWO DOLLARS A FUCKING DAY – you kids ain’t getting such a bad deal – you sexless, godless, computer-generated wind-up clapping-monkey sell-outs!”

This catchcry continues to haunt musicians from the deep – bellowed from the ghettoes of the Internet. The 90’s hangover stands at the back of the gig with its arms crossed, threatening to bankrupt bands of their hard earned Indie-cred. Generational battle lines have been drawn as i-groovy Gen-Y tells dino-cynic Gen-X to get with the program. Did you not hear the news? Marketing won. They bought the Internet, an interactive station that we live inside 24-7. We review ads like short films and romanticise about 50’s ad-men. While bands have never sounded slicker, ads have never looked artier. With the world in recession and the user no longer paying, advertising in art has advanced from awkward compromise to base necessity. Hey, maybe it’s not all bad?

The notion that music should be commercially independent is relatively new. During the 1800’s artists, writers and composers relied on sponsorship from patrons and philanthropists. In the 1960’s musicians were on a short leashes, micro-managed by big labels and sent on packaged tours. The revolt came in the late 70’s with the punk underground and a notion that grass-roots equalled purity, mainstream meant compromise and labels were corrupt. The 90’s exploded the code, as Alternative bands managed to be underground and mainstream at the same time. It was an irony so severe it eventually proved fatal (I am of course talking about Ratcat), triggering another backlash against the corporate world, this time aimed at advertising.

During the 2000’s the Internet not only meant a closer connection between fan and artist, but a shrinking of the borders between the corporate and creative sectors. The News Corp. owned Myspace harked a new era of ‘independence’ with a grass-roots platform threatening to cut out the middle man/woman. Artists were given a record company kit and encouraged to pitch their lot in the marketing stream. It was the poster, the newspaper article and the radio rolled into one. This ‘band in a box’ mentality altered the way we consumed music. Carrie Brownstein, writing for NPR says “as exciting, democratizing and demystifying as a more global and decentralized music industry is, this bottomless sonic stew also means that we’ve largely divorced artists from place, history and physicality.”

In the old days, you would hold a CD in your hand, lie on your bed and pour over the details. It was a physical connection that carried with it a certain emotional and financial investment. By comparison, albums are now downloaded in bulk, fed into a normaliser and lost in the shuffle. Carrie argues that when music is stripped of context, it’s also stripped of artist intention. “We don’t care about album sequence (which is all about intention) or look at the band’s artwork or the label they’re on (again, all intentional decisions)…because as music fans — as consumers — there is nothing more appealing than something that is boundless. Therefore, we don’t really care what an artist’s intention is as long as his or her product is accessible to us.”

And so we relax our ideas of ‘artistic purity’ as we relax our belts from the glut of free music and movies we’ll never have time to digest. It’s little wonder we’re unfazed to hear Broken Social Scene in a Cadbury Commercial. Ads are just another form of airplay, and we’re happy to engage with them – the effort of searching the lyrics is investment enough. In 2007 Feist leant her song to a campaign for ipod Nano. The ad featured the official music video playing on an ipod. For the first time the artist and product were promoted side by side. (Co-promotion is common in films.) Purists got that syncing feeling while screenagers had an Apple bobbing party. Sales of ‘1234’ went from 2000 to 73, 000 in a week. In the media there was little protest, just praise for Australia’s Sally Seltmann who penned the track.

Rather than selling out, the new marketing model is “Buying In,” as explained in the book by Rob Walker: “Instead of being manipulated by marketing, consumers are using it to their advantage; and instead of being shaped by products, consumers are using them to express individual identity and social outlook.” In this design obsessed decade, brands like Apple and American Apparel model their products as ‘artworks.’ Purchases become ‘lifestyle choices’ that we can then promote on Facebook. On a network where friendships are commodified, songs are just another accessory to decorate our profiles and bolster our status.

Inspired by Morgan Spurlocks ‘The Greatest Movie Ever Sold’, Melbourne anti-folk artist Giles Field recently attempted to find product placement for his new album. He contacted local beer companies, pitching ad-space in exchange for funding.
“The idea was to place a radio style ad in the middle of the album and also sell the rights to the band name. So it would be Giles Field and the Mountain Goat Beers.” Despite his best efforts, Giles found his lack of profile made it hard to attract backers. “I got to the point where I figured I didn’t need to sell out for a high figure. I emailed Mountain Goat and said ‘I’m willing to be called Giles Field and Mountain Goat Beers for four beers,’ but they didn’t write back.”

While Giles’ case is exaggerated, it is indicative of today’s climate. Lead singer of one band I spoke to said, “We wish we could sell out.” Music publishing has become a lucrative and practical form of income, especially in a country where small population makes it near impossible to sustain a career on sales alone. Says Giles: “I would sell out in a heartbeat. I don’t see a problem with it. The only way music can really be art is if you write a song in your bedroom and show it to no-one. As soon as you’re asking people to pay money to come and watch you, as soon as any money is exchanging hands, that’s selling out for me. I don’t have a problem with that. The thing that people spend time on in their lives, you should get money for it. You don’t expect a teacher to teach for no money. I’m a musician, I expect to be paid for it.”

What would Bill Hicks make of all this? Would he get behind Converse’s Three Artists: One Song campaign? Would he mind The Clash leasing London Calling to British Airways? His message hasn’t mellowed with age: “You’re another corporate fucking shill, you’re another whore at the capitalist gang bang and if you do a commercial, there’s a price on your head. Everything you say is suspect and every word that comes out of your mouth is now like a turd falling into my drink.”

All comedians want to be rockstars, all rockstars want to be comedians and everyone wants to be Flight Of The Conchords. By this theory, musical comedians should have the best of both worlds right? Yeah…nah. Musical comedy is the estranged uncle of the stand-up scene and the ‘special’ cousin of the music industry. That said, it’s a rich and troubling genre that I’m wont to share with acts such as Tim Minchin, Tripod and Ben Lee.

Musical comedy started when sad clown took up the lute. Inside every musical comedian is a serious balladeer trying to write the great Australian folk song. Structurally, funny songs are the opposite in that the lyrics overshadow the music. That is why many comedic songs have watery chords, so they don’t get in the way of the jokes. I once had a friend tell me my music was too good for a comedy song.

How does a prog-novelty practitioner know if a song is working or not? You give it the laugh test. Straight stand-ups argue that musical comedians are cheating, because even if no-one is laughing you can still enjoy the music, and you get a clap at the end. (Guitars are six-string clapping machines). Muso-comics have a cat-like state of awareness that allows them to hear the crowd over the music – the Cack Foldback.

You can tell when a funny song bombs, because afterwards friends will say ‘the audience were just concentrating on the lyrics.’ I once played I Think My Cat Has Got Depression which ran through different kinds of mental illnesses and related them to cat behaviour. (Depression – sleeping all day. Schizophrenia – meowing at nothing. Eating disorder – throwing up lizards). If I’d delivered the idea as stand-up it would have succeeded. Instead, I played a Radiohead-esque ballad, subverting the genre, and leaving poor Sydneysiders confused. It’s hard being a pioneer.

Yon from Tripod describes their bomb-out moment: “We had this song called Food on the Table. The first lines were: You’ve got to make a living/So here’s our show. We were going with the comedy maxim: Just Tell the Truth. No matter how up the vibe was and how much choreography we injected into the song, we came across as ungrateful assholes.”

Josh “Train-Cakes” Earl describes: “I had a song about a girl who has a nut allergy, eats a peanut and then goes into anaphylactic shock. As she was trying to grab her epi-pen I was lecturing her about the fact that a peanut is not actually a nut but a legume. I thought the comedy would be in how men can’t admit they are wrong, and have to argue the point, but the audience just looked at me like I was a dick.

Inspired by Weird Al, I once tried a parody of Pulp’s Common People, called Awkward People. No matter how much spit and sweat flew from my face, I got the impression that kids didn’t want to hear a sacred song bastardised. I think we are in a decade where music has never taken itself more seriously, thus my parody of Do You Realize? (That You Have The Most Food On Your Face) went poorly at Harvest Festival. It’s hard being ahead of your time.

1971’s Harold and Maude is a twisted coming of age story and wildly eccentric romantic comedy. Harold is a deadpan and detached young man living in a mansion with his overbearing socialite mother. His favourite game is pretending to kill himself, either by hanging, fake blood in the bath or floating facedown in the swimming pool. His preferred pastime is attending funerals. It’s here that he meets Maude, a vivacious free spirit who steals cars and sees the world as her playground. She’s cheeky, beguiling and interested in Harold. She’s also seventy nine.

Thus begins this profoundly off-beat and darkly quirky tale, as Harold bounces between his suffocating home life and the dazzling dimension Maude paints for him. While his flabbergasted Mother enlists him in the army and sets him up on ‘computer dates’, Maude has him smoking hookahs, stealing police bikes and rescuing trees from the sidewalk. It’s delightful to see Harold’s transformation, as his menacing aloofness dissolves to a wide eyed wonder at this women from another planet.

Harold and Maude is a cinematic blueprint that certainly influenced the likes of Wes Anderson. Visually, it’s a feast; chocked with strong colours and dynamic compositions. Scenes open with dramatic panoramic shots, while the 70’s browns, greens and blues are captured in warm sepia tone. Just as Life Aquatic featured the songs of David Bowie, (and an appearance by Bud Cort) Harold and Maude is soundtracked by Cat Stevens. The bursts of studio recordings inject a warm energy and lightness to the story. In one memorable scene Maude struts through a graveyard with a yellow umbrella, backed by Tea For The Tillerman.

The film’s success lies in the performance of Ruth Gordon and Bud Cort. It’s a testament to their skill and charisma that these two highly improbable characters burst from the screen with elegance and authenticity. Cort has an adorable and captivating face, both androidinal and cherubic, and conjures some joyfully unhinged expressions. Gordon powers the film, radiating charisma like a sassy sun. She brings to the role playfulness and vigour, but also a sensuality which is fascinatingly anti-stereotype.

The script is sharp and intelligent, mixing macabre physical comedy with snappy dialogue and some painfully optimistic philosophies. To off-set the wackiness, the film has an anti-war bent. Harold’s Uncle is a one armed Sergeant returned from Vietnam, pulling a drawstring to salute with his empty sleeve. To protest against this spiritual repression, Maude mentors Harold to be ‘impulsive and fanciful,’ and while some of her rants can grate, there’s some splendid exchanges.
Harold: Do you pray?
Maude: Pray? No, I communicate.
Harold: With God?
Maude: With Life.

On first viewing it’s easy to get caught up in the idiosyncratic humour and age politics. The film doesn’t shy away from this, and there’s a hilarious monologue from the priest warning Harold against ‘co-mingling with the withered flesh and flabby buttocks.’ Yet on second viewing the film reveals a deceptive emotional depth. In an easy to miss sequence, Maude uncovers a Jewish concentration camp tattoo. In this context, the pair singing If you want to sing out, sing out / If you want to be free be free passionately off-key, brought me close to tears.

Like all great films, Harold and Maude stops you in your tracks and reminds you that life is full of beauty that can’t be seen from inside a cage. Its anti-conformity theme will appeal to the misfits, while the love story is positively punk in its daring. Where the themes, humour and soundtrack have aged beautifully, the same cannot be said for the fashion.

After watching the music documentary Dig! I was checking out The Brian Jones Town Massacre. Wild front-man Anton Newcombe had called their 1996 release Thank God For Mental Illness and the title fascinated me. It was about the most audacious thing I’d ever seen. Who would dare celebrate mental illness in anyway? Mental illness was the thing of dreary pamphlets and scary people on buses, not critically acclaimed lo-fi albums from the American underground. Even if the title was being ironic, glib, sarcastic or otherwise, it genuinely encouraged me. My life was defined by psychological disorders and as a survivor, it’s something I wanted to wear as a badge of pride, not shame.

I’m annoyed by how little empathy there is toward mental illness. Despite a solid advertising campaign during the 90’s (Jimmy’s got depression, can I catch it?) and being told that 1 in 5 Australians suffer a mental disorder, we’re still happily recycling the issue in the too hard basket. This lack of awareness is reflected in parliament where there are frequent calls for the Government to allocate as much funding to mental health as it does physical. In 2008-2009, there were 12.3 million scripts written for antidepressants, an increase of 46% in 12 years. Yet based on my statistics, only 10% of these people talk about it freely. There is still big time stigma attached to even low-level disorders like anxiety. Mental illness = fail.

Mental illness is too easily associated with being a loser. How quickly we forget those who wrangled fragile minds to succeed as artists: Russell Brand, Kurt Cobain, Ray Davies, Stephen Fry, Bill Oddie, Sinead Oconnor, Axl Rose, (all bi-polar). Syd Barret, Daniel Johnston, Brian Wilson (schizophrenia). Woody Allen, Jim Carrey, Leonard Cohen, Nick Drake, J.K. Rowling, Sarah Silverman, Jeff Tweedy not to mention our own Andrew Hansen, Natalie Imbruglia and Heath Ledger (depression). One listing took me by complete surprise. As a teenager, how much better to be handed a pamphlet about depression with Beyonce on the front than a grim stock photo of a dude on a park bench. Mental illness needs better publicity and cooler public faces, even if they are obnoxious rock stars like Anton Newcombe.

I grew up watching my Mother suffer schizophrenia. While for a large part it was tragic and disturbing, when I think about what I’d ‘thank god’ for, I am reminded that Mum also possesses a madcap sense of humour and appreciation for the soft-hearted silliness of life. She once gave me a rare insight into her ‘voices.’ She was paranoid Mick Jagger was coming to get her and was communicating with Mozart to help, but he’d said he was too far back in time to be of any assistance. I found it delightful. Even the maddest of worlds has its own sense of logic. In the same way we respect the customs of other cultures, we too should respect the integrity of those who see our world through a fractured kaleidoscope.

Anyone talking to themselves on public transport (and not in possession of a hands free kit), usually becomes my favourite. I’ve always felt oddly comfortable around the mentally ill. Once you get over the instinctual fear of the unknown, you can appreciate the honesty of their features, childlike lack of self consciousness, and their captivating, often amusing quirks. I find those who have been broken by life pure and fearless, and there is a space in my heart that weeps for their opened minds. As the Jeffrey Lewis album title says It’s the Ones Who’ve Cracked That the Light Shines Through. I wonder if there is an element of the divine in their self-conversation.

“Will you follow me down?” Newcombe sings on Thank God For Mental Illness. We would all do well to follow our loved ones down the rabbit hole of psychological injury. We might appreciate that the line between creative genius and self-destruction is whisper thin. Once we overcome our fears through patience and understanding, we can celebrate this truly brave struggle against these common and treatable conditions.

When people ask me what I do I’m reluctant to say “comedian.” The job-title carries with it certain social ramifications. In Australia, the land of the larrikin, it seems such an audacious claim. Mate I know everyone’s a comedian, but I’m foolish enough to expect someone to pay for my services. When I do own up, it’s met with a surprised smile somewhere between delight and pity. First comes the line “So tell us a joke” followed by the awkward pause when I fail to launch into a diatribe comparing Julia Gillard to April O’Neil from Ninja Turtles. If I’m lucky I’ll be asked “where do you get your material?” to which I’ll answer “my life I guess.” If the person hasn’t been put off by my passionate aloofness, they may close the interview with the lightly patronising “Gee you’re brave to get up there.” I note this polite awe isn’t enough to draw them to my next gig.

Australia has a love/hate relationship with comedians. In one sense we are genuinely impressed by those who dare walk beneath the scorching sun of judgement to elicit laughter from a shady audience. Too often though I cop a tone of resentment and disrespect. In December, a major festival booked Tom Gleeson as a headliner and wrote on their website: “Love him or hate him, you would have laughed at least once.” This for one of Australia’s most acclaimed comics. While we worship musicians for their ability to operate an instrument, a skill most people don’t possess, comic ability seems superfluous when everyone is funny around their friends. Watching the audience for Sam Simmons, I note a group of young boys yelling out nonsense in a bid to dissuade this new threat to their laugh pack. The culture of heckling has always perplexed me, as if trying to amuse a group of strangers isn’t difficult enough.

I’ve died a successful stage death a number of times. The hot lights drill me like interrogation beams. My mouth dries and the microphone feeds back like an alarm. Inside, trains of thought derail and nervous systems short-out. Worst of all is the wall of silence which has never been so deafening, as the faceless audience sit in protest against my punchlines. Nothing compares to the walk of shame for the bombed-out comedian. Backstage you stew in a fog of shit, everyone making a special effort not to talk to you lest they catch it. Your insides are awash with self-loathing, the sediment of adolescence brought painfully to the surface. Muso’s might be ignored and actors reviewed poorly, but nothing compares to the blunt stab of not being funny.

There’s a cliché that comedians are depressive off-stage, which bemuses people. It makes sense to me. To write stand-up you need a hyper-aware mind, constantly observing society and drawing parallels and juxtapositions. As most creatives will attest, this crafty brain is prone to backfire and turn inwards, launching scathing attacks on your self-esteem. Unlike other artists who have a sense of humour to fall back on, comedians can find theirs tapped dry. For someone who mines ones own life for material, it’s little wonder that a feeling of sheer emptiness takes over on darker days. A lack of humour means you start taking yourself too seriously and this is the bacteria from which depression breeds. Learning to build up a thick skin while replenishing your stocks of self is a trial and error period that lasts years and takes true grit.

Why would we do it? For the warm shot of endorphins and adrenalin that a roomful of laughter brings. No sooner does it subside than we work towards the next affirmation fix. It’s a jaunty meditation, the brain and mouth synchronised, tossing up the ball of an idea and slam-dunking the punchline. I see stand-up as binge communicating. A series of one-sided conversations you’ve had a chance to prepare earlier. It’s a liberating walk along the precipice between brilliance and disaster.

It is – Extreme Therapy.

As funny as it sounds, I don’t think we take comedians seriously enough. This attitude is reflected in the media, which struggles to critique it appropriately, making it difficult for artists to hone their skills. There are no comedy specific arts grants and apart from the Gala, it’s near impossible to find straight stand-up on TV anymore. I’d like to feel proud to be a comedian, but how can I be self-deprecating at the same time? I guess you can’t have your cream pie and wear it too.

Computer says that Cool began in Africa in the 15^th century when a tribal leader began wearing an expressionless mask not only during times of stress, but also in times of pleasure. It was dubbed “mystic coolness”. This “artistically conscious interweaving of serious and play” evolved through the African Americans who brought it to the U.S. in the 1940s via Jazz clubs. It was dubbed Bohemia. Followers followed, copiers copied and scruffy preppies with half a novel now had an excuse to talk to women. Later, James Dean smoked a cigarette, Elvis moved his hips, The Rolling Stones got out of bed and white Cool was born, or more accurately, adopted. This borrowed swagger was on-sold to capitalism, who paraded it to sell slacks and dull movies.

Today, Cool is a homogenised pop culture buzzword used by the West to attribute social power. Humans are tribal by nature. In caveman times tribes became powerful by carrying the best clubs. Now, young people become powerful by attending the best clubs. Cool is a superficial class divide, based on popularity rather than material wealth. Instead of the upper and lower classes, there are the cool and the uncool. Ironically, while Cool appears to transcend money concerns, it is more often than not a direct descendent of economic status. Cool is a commodity.

When I was in High School the popular kids all had the same Air Jordan shoes and Billabong jackets. These items were expensive and carried with them social capital. In College, the hipper members of my group were skaters, graphic designers and musicians. They wore designer cargos, used high range computers and instruments (double garage rock) and took overseas trips. They were well groomed and relaxed, often due to the cannabis they could afford. Their carefree ‘bohemian’ attitude could be directly attributed to a financially sound home environment. Cultivating your own artistic profile takes time. Time is a luxury that money affords. Poorer kids tend to be too busy struggling with home stress and working to check in with the latest fashions and gadgets. (But who wants to peak at high school?)

In recent times, the Hipster movement has become the face of modern Cool, stirring up an unprecedented level of venom and reawakening class divides. For many, the images and attitudes portrayed in Vice Magazine of young thin people dressing ironically and making out in bathtubs pokes at old school wounds. Unlike the Punks, Indies and Emos that came before them, Hipsters have embraced irony as their chief political code. The worshipping of pop trash icons, coupled with a nihilistic celebration of porn culture is so pseudo-anti-faux that it cancels itself in. Their self-appointment at the top of social food chain is felt by many as an attack. In caveman times, such a threat to our territory would have had us bellowing war cries. Today, we type “douchebag” in capitals.

In the online feedback to my satire song ‘Northcote (So Hungover)’, the target was identified as “private school inner-eastern suburb white boy wankers who haven’t left home yet.” The common thread of resentment stemmed from an economic class debate, with the blue collar attacking the ‘trust fund’ art students, reflecting Australia’s working class roots and distrust of intellectualism. One commenter sent me an elaborate ‘Hipsters vs Bogans’ maths equation. It showed that while Hipsters make less money than their trade working counterparts ($25K vs $75K) they invest more of their income in gaining social capital (Fashion, music gear, socialising. 67% vs 33%). Bogans spend their money on cars, mortgages and families and are generally time-poorer than Hipsters, a concession they resent.

While Cool may have evolved organically from the black Jazz scene, it is now part of the Honda Jazz scene. It has for so long been exploited as a social currency; forcing youth to play off against each other, that it’s wise to take it with a grain of organic sea salt. Perhaps mankind’s desire for Cool has existed since caveman times, where an ignorance about the latest trends in cavewear prompted the saying ‘have you been living under a rock?’