Much Better Sundays

What do you feel when you hear really good music? There’s a chill in your bones; a feeling that the moment can never be repeated… You are almost at the tip of a cresting wave, a tiny part of a movement that cannot be stopped. It’s almost spiritual.

That’s what I feel, anyway.

What if you were to chase that feeling? Dedicate yourself to bringing that spiritual moment to others. Spreading the love. Growing the scene. Propagating the doctrine of Really Good Music.

There is a man who does this. He is known as Blink. He is the mastermind of A Low Hum and all it produces. He is a Good Guy. And he likes white trash food.

He says that his favourite would have to be a bacon burger with extra egg and cheese from Paradise Seafoods in Island Bay; or the kung po chicken from KK Malaysian on Ghuznee Street. He also likes Mr. Bun, on Cuba Street, populated by various forms of bird life. This is where we talk while somebody outside rings a bell. Really loudly.

If you have not heard of Blink’s Good Works then either you do not follow the cult of music or you have been living under a stone. Either way, it may be important for the purposes of this article to let you know what A Low Hum is. It’s a Thing. It’s a movement and community of music. In the past it has manifested itself as a monthly magazine, CD and band tour; as a musical camp extravaganza; as a record label. But in the future it could be anything.

“A Low Hum is whatever I want it to be,” says Blink (real name Ian Jorgensen). “One of the things I like doing is fucking up people’s ideas of what it is. There’ll be something I’ll do, like a record I’ll put out that no one will have expected I’d put out. I hate being pigeon holed.” I hope the pigeons around us in Mr. Bun can’t hear this. They might get angry. The staff have to keep chasing them out the door.

It has undoubtedly been a Good Thing, because people seem to enjoy it. It stops young people from watching too much television, and makes the pale white indie kids go out and socialise. With his musical mags, rags and hags Blink has brought bands to small New Zealand towns that had never before seen amplifiers, given small underground acts the support they needed to become known across the country and created a sense of community in the music scene that is almost tangible.

“There are moments where I’ll sleep on the floor with no sleeping bag because I’ve given mine to someone who forgot theirs and I’ll shiver all night,” he says. “There’s times when the van breaks down… I spent thirteen thousand dollars on van repairs last year. It has depressing moments but all that shit washes away when all these people come out who would never have had the opportunity to see this band and they’re having the time of their lives.” This is dedication as we know it in our modern commitment free world.

His favourite movie of all time is Footloose. “That’s how my life is, just one big dance,” he says. “That’s what I’m all about, bringing dance and fun to small cities. I’ve realised that everything I’ve done in my life has been subliminally influenced by Footloose.” Though there is another point to movies, he thinks, rather than just subliminal messages. “I love going to shit movies, because I love to eat the ice cream. I’ll often go to movies at night because I can’t be bothered going into the freezer to get some ice cream. What do they do to it? It’s so good!” He then confesses that he has tried to replicate their ice cream by pre-rolling his own and storing it in plastic bags, to no avail.

Blink is passionate. That is obvious. And not just about ice cream. Even if he has learnt to let his inner exhibitionist run the show. “That whole monthly magazine and tour was just something I said at a party!” he confesses. “Now I just say I’m going to do things. That happened with camp; I’d never even thought about doing it until I told someone about it. Then I realised it was a pretty cool idea, and it evolved from there. I like talking shit, because when you put something on record you have to follow it up.”

Blink likes music. He’s been obsessed with it from his tender pre-teen years. “All kids like music,” he says. “If I met a ten year old kid who didn’t like music, I’d punch them.” Apart from occasional displays of violence, however, he’s no Russell Crowe. Not only is he much nicer, but he knows when to stop flogging the proverbial dead horse and leave the vocal duties to others. “I’ve played guitar for sixteen years, but I suck. I wasn’t meant to be a guitarist or songwriter, and I think it would be a healthy thing if a lot more bands realised that pretty early on in the piece.” When he’s alone, however, the inner artiste shines through. “Whenever I get bored or stressed I go out and play these long droney notes on my keyboard. I don’t know what chords they are. The only way I can tell a C is if it has a little C written above it.”

Blink’s brainchild and what he rates as his greatest achievement happened out the back of Wainuiomata and was attended by only about four hundred people. Camp A Low Hum has now passed into music mythology. When speaking of camp, eyes glaze over and voices grow hoarse. Did Blink see this coming?

“I always knew it was going to go off, whether ten people were there or whatever, just because it was the perfect festival,” he says. “I was really stressed, because I couldn’t tell anyone one who was playing! Camp could never have happened without all the other stuff [the magazines, tours, CDs]. I could never have asked people to come along not knowing who was playing if I hadn’t built that trust up.”

What does Blink think he did so right? “The bands played twice, which was the most genius idea I’ve ever had and I don’t know why no one thought of it before; lots of space, no queues and a good vibe. People created their own party. Every night there were the Lions Lodge parties which became fucking famous, the ‘no pants’ pool parties and [French band] Ladybird did acoustic sets everywhere.”

It was important to Blink that he create a festival he would actually want to be at himself. Although there were a few noise control headaches, he seems to have succeeded. “[American folkies] Polka Dot Dot Dot’s set in the forest was the highlight for me, because I didn’t know where they were going to play. That scene just encapsulated everything I’d tried to do with camp, the surprise. No one knew what was going to happen. In the morning no one had heard of this band and then they were everyone’s favourite, that was the success of camp for me, that moment.”

How about next year? We’re boiling the billy already! “Next year, it’s just going to go off! There’s going to be so many secrets!” he says. “There’s only going to be two hundred more people than there were this year, so people are going to have to be pretty onto it to get tickets.”

When asked about the associations between A Low Hum and religious cults, Blink finally confesses. “People were accusing the camp of being a cult gathering, and essentially it was. There wasn’t any reason for people to go unless they believed in me. If anything, it’s a cult of party!”

However, if you are looking to join the cult of party anytime soon, you may be out of luck; Blink is currently taking six months off from the intenseness of A Low Hum to pay back some of the debt he built up last year by working as a fashion photographer. “Photography is my skill and my trade, but one day I’d like to break even on A Low Hum,” he says. “With the tours, I was only ever making a little bit of money, or losing a lot, so I’m not going to put myself at that kind of risk again.”

If you’re feeling a little lost, you can join the singles club, a chance to meet interesting and attractive new music every month at alowhum.com. Otherwise, you’ll have to hang out until later in the year for more spirited shenanigans – plenty of time to enjoy the rejuvenated music community inspired by Blink’s humming.