Much Better Sundays

Linking, because Channel 3 has all the exciting stuff

Things I love about all-ages gigs:

1. Not being out super late. Especially on a Wednesday night, this matters.
2. Less people. And they’re not drunk, or really tall. This means: plenty of room to dance, not getting bashed by ginormous boys. Also they are actually there to listen to the music and have a good time, rather than to be seen.
3. Your little sister can go. And your mother.

Things that aren’t so good are when you double-book yourself so that you have a Leonard Cohen documentary to attend the same time as the gig. Luckily, we were planning to meet my sister for dinner afterwards, and she texted us to say that Cut Off Your Hands and So So Modern hadn’t played yet. We got there during the last Cut Off Your Hands song, but admittedly it was So So Modern I was going for.
Read the rest of this entry »

Tyrannosaurus, the Special Olympians, the Lunch Box Boys and Snowfield
Room 101, Friday 6th July

Room 101 certainly is cozy. And underground. It reminds me of when I was younger and I imagined underground music was literal, and that all the venues were below street level. I remember this night was so cold, I almost didn’t drag myself out. But the fake fire and music rewarded me plenty.

The Lunch Box Boys are cute! So cute they don’t seem to have a MySpace. They’re a high school band from the Hutt that only just fit into the alcove that counts as a stage at this bar. Heather Barnes was reserved in her opinion, saying they flirted too much with ska; but you see, I like ska so that wasn’t a problem. I would say they were cabaret, kind of rocky and jazzy, with two keyboards, drums, bass, guitar and sax. We need to bring back cabaret. I feel so old saying it, but they have great potential.

The Special Olympians were just an urban legend for me until this night. I cannot say anything, except that they are super special and I’m glad they only emerge from their cave once every year. Too much sunshine would mar their unrehearsed brilliance.

Tyrannosaurus played a set that came off better than their previous one at the Mighty Mighty. I think they’re very cool and I wanted to interview them but now their guitarist has gone back to Invercargill; a like the dinosaurs, they are extinct. While they existed, they were screamy/shouty and slightly bashful, and had a song about whether Christians could be communist. A short-lived but loud and beautiful dream. Sigh.

Grayson Gilmour, with Date with Doom and Albert Williams
Happy, Friday 29th June

‘It takes a lot for me to crawl out of my shell and play a damn show.’

Last time I saw Grayson Gilmour at Happy, the room was half full of interested punters. Last night, people had to give up their seats so that more could be squeezed inside. It was like a Tokyo subway train.

Apart from the brilliance of the performance, one thing that struck me was the weirdness of the situation. My mother once told me of a New Year’s Eve party she attended in the Iraqi desert. In the middle of this utter emptiness, there was a roomful of humans crammed in, celebrating, together. Why do we feel the need to cluster? To feel that we are not alone? Add to this the concentration of a spellbound crowd, or the manic energy exhibited at a gig. At a ska show a friend pointed out, ‘This is so strange. These people stand up there and make these movements with their hands, and everyone goes crazy.’

Grayson Gilmour shows have always been particularly strange in terms of crowd behaviour. There were maybe two hundred people there last night, all staring, energy directed, at this skinny blond guy with hands a-flutter. All these people, concentrated, on one thing. Weird.

Grayson is one of those people I am secretly (or not so secretly) intensely jealous of. The Musician types. The ones who just get it, get the rhythm, the tone, the harmony, and make it sound beautiful. Complex and personal and original, his songs make me think of lonely places and train crashes. Like the sudden smell of candyfloss in a glass of rosé wine. Performance? Top notch. First class, etc. I especially enjoyed the toy piano.

Support was lent by Albert Williams; I may be biased in his favour because I used to go to high school with him. But he’s awesome. I have no end of respect for the courage it takes to stand up with only a guitar between you and the audience. Very Jeff Buckley-esque, haunting guitar and vocals. And I like that he cares so much about things outside himself. To me it’s not idealistic; it’s realistic. Time the indie music scene got some fucking balls.

Also Date with Doom, with a sound that belies their name. Funky. No, really. They have a saxophone and a cello, which makes them special, though I must admit the vocals started to get on my nerves; I feel that they’re not really needed. Their drummer has the coolest expression when he’s playing and blinks a lot.

The End.

The past two weeks have taught me that there are many learning curves involved in living with people that you are not genetically related to for the first time. Sandwich bread or toast? I’m sorry that my cough is keeping you up at night, and yeah, I haven’t practiced piano in a while but it’s time I got back into it. Has anyone apart from me noticed that there are ants meandering up the kitchen wall?

But one of the biggest things for me has been the television. Although my family has always owned one, we’ve never really watched it. It’s always been a hideous grey seventies object decorating the corner of the living room, activated only when there’s something on involving murders in the English countryside. But my new flatmates utilise the television several times a day, whether there’s something good on or not. News flash: THERE IS NEVER ANY JUSTIFICATION FOR WATCHING DAYTIME TELEVISION. There is always something better to do. Always.

I hate the way that television absorbs your mind and saps your spirit. It really is a monster. The slack eyed expression of the TV watcher, the buoyant cheerful consumerism of the ads, the way each half hour leads into the next until your evening/life is wasted. It’s a direct plug into your brain, transmitting the absolute worst of mass media culture. We don’t need paranoid conspiracy theories about security cameras, corporate propaganda and council bylaws. As long as that box sits in our living rooms, they’ve got us.

The shrill whine of the set is fast becoming one of my pet hates. Since we have quite open plan living, if I’m downstairs I can’t avoid it. I love my flatmates dearly, but on this I will not compromise. It’s one of those input/output things. None of the great people in the world, activists, writers, artists, musicians, ever got anything done by watching TV.

I wish there was some way I could disable the TV set without anyone knowing it was me. Unfortunately, since we’re house sitting, the television is not mine to throw out the window. Our reception is pretty terrible as it is, but if anyone knows how to make it worse let me know. Come round sometime and I’ll give you a cup of tea, and we can destroy the idiot box between biscuits.