So Fucking Rock

He makes my Top 6 comedians that I have seen live. On stage he is naive and charming and potty mouthed and dark and naughty and cutesy. All in the one person.

I've seen Tim Minchin on stage, in TV comedy galas, and being interviewed by Australia's greatest intertviewer, Denton . And now I actively chase anything Minchin related. Which I seem to be shouting from the rooftops because no less than 4 people reminded me about the doco screening tonight.

Rock and Roll Nerd is a pretty extraordinary documentary. Not that it is telling an amazing untold never-before-seen story. Rather, it is almost banal in that it presents the tale of a not-so-successful person, in this case a comedian, as he progresses through aclaim and to success. The extraordinary thing about it is the fact that it is so intimate. And knowing how much preparation and planning go into film making, it must have been made by psychic cinematographers.

Before fame, Tim looked nothing special. Before he tortured his hair and wore guy liner, he looked hilariously unfunny.

I kind of wish Rhian Skirving had started filming in the time between the curly smiley fellow above, and the dark eyed grunge god we know today. The steps in between, the processes of the decisions for straightening and lensing and lining are really what intrigues me, rather than just the fact that he did it.

So the rags to riches story follows Tim at his first solo show at the Melbourne International Comedy Festival (sigh!), winning an award and getting picked up by an auntish (tangent: why is there no reasonable female equivalent of avuncular? Discuss) but savvy producer from Edinburgh. He goes to the Biggest Arts Festival In The World (swoon!), and with the relentless work of his sister and producer, performs a sell out show, and wins the Perrier Best Newcomer. Success!!

Watching that whole process of getting a show up, getting the crowds in and getting the reviewers to speak in glowing terms at the Ed Fest was not actually something I had watched before, and having lived it, it was quite strange to see it go on on the screen. Seeing the nerves about getting the crowds in early, watching the flyering and box officery, witnessing the emotional impact of glowing reviews (and the slammers too...). It was like watching a goldfish bowl of experience that I have already been through. Except Minchin was a lot more successful than The A Team. This time, anyway.

While he is over there, his very adorable and newly pregnant wife is at home, slaving and a social worker. After the festival, she flies home to Melbourne, and he heads to London - where the work is in comedy.

And while he's there, Sarah miscarries. One of the most incredible scenes of the film, as the initially reluctant father mourns the loss of the child he was too far away from to protect. It was at this moment I knew that the person behind the camera was obviously not just some blow in, but someone that the Minchins knew beforehand. In this scene, and particularly in the Bad Review scenes, Minchin's vulnerability was painfully bare and raw.

Unlike most footage of comedians - all bravado and no reality. In this doco, we see a scared little boy (like most of the males I know, to be honest... They would hate it if they know I thought that about them though, so don't tell them), who wants to be recognised for the talent that he knows he has. There is something endearing about his megalomania, his narcissism, his needy need for ego stroking. Possibly because I love to be the Performer's Ego Stroker. But it made him seem real, seem more like a human, and less like a piano-playing funny-man demi-god.

Knit me a snorkel.

I'll only need it for 10 weeks and 2 days.

The state of my head just above water, possibly sinking to snorkel depth, is something that I thought I had shaken after Term 1.

But here I am again.

Lucky, knitting turns my brain off. In the summer months I forget about it, cause it would be like wearing a blanket on your lap. But in winter, that is exactly what you want!

I have nearly finished Scarf 1 for the season. I want to go to the wool factory, but I don't think that will happen til Week 4...

Family Assorted and Hand Gestures

My Very First Parent Teacher Interviews.

Went rather well I think.

I am totally incapable of speaking another word this week (you mean I have to teach tomorrow?) and I may have given myself RSI from too much gesticulating...

And now? Bernard Black, pyjamas and knitting await!

Puffin Up

Proposed Tattoo.

Maybe orange beak and feet instead of orange background...?

Read To Me

The Reader is another novel where I have already seen the film version. Only I think I enjoyed the film much more than the book.

Questions of German Guilt are always fascinating to me, being that way inclined myself (prone to guilt. Not German. Or Nazi). When I was in Berlin, I was astounded by the lack of references to Hitler, the man. Goebbels got a run, as did Goering. The Holocaust was acknowledged and never denied, but the Chancellor himself was never really even referred to. Not even in the Holocaust Museum.

The idea that one man's twisted vision was not only not fought against, but was upheld and fought FOR by millions of otherwise sane and reasonable Germans.

Bernard Schlink's novel, more so than the film, explores the loss of innocences of Michael, and how he feels about his experiences at the hand (and body) of an ex SS guard. As a part of the post WWII generation, he is coping with the righteousness of railing against the past, of blaming their parents and questioning their lack of action.

Hanna's character, without Kate Winslet's giant swimming pool eyes, is not nearly as sympathetic in the book. She is always the predator. Always the manipulator, always the heartbreaker. Before the Oscars, Winslet and the film were accused of Nazi sympathising, which I think was just a bad PR choice by rival studios. While the film does evoke some sympathy for Hanna, it does so because of her crippling pride and illiteracy. The fact is Hitler, while monstrous in his actions was actually human. As were all the people that signed on to be a member of the party, to be an employee of the Reich, to wear an SS uniform. And each of these people had reasons for why they signed on. The novel, and more so the film, explore the humanity of the monsters of the Holocaust. Both are worthy of attention even for the questions they raise about justice, blame and guilt

Power to the Author!

Atonement.

–noun. satisfaction or reparation for a wrong or injury; amends.

I have seen this film, and I loved it. Despite Keira Knightley and her overpowering jut on the bottom half of her face. Her underbite makes the smoking look simulatneously natural and staged, if that is indeed possible.

Compensating for KK and her jaw is the oh-so-lovely James McAvoy (oh my!). And That Green Dress. I don't often wish to be super thin or super rich, but looking at that dress makes me want both. Because you can't have one without the other.

Generally I am not a huge fan of the multiperspectived narratives. Sure they can be done well. Run Lola Run is nothing short of brilliant, but that is more about multiple perspectives in time. Magnolia, the pin up film of the multinarratived tale just shits me. What with Tom Cruise and the frogs. I never got how so many film buffs like it so much.

Atonement the film shifts in charater perspective and in temporal frame. And it does so cohesively and with style. It has a fantastic score, with the digetic bleeding into the non, to tie in the shifts and keep a strong sense of self-awareness to the story telling. The film doesn't let you get too lost in the narrative, and I mean that in a good way. The novel doesn't introduce this self-reflexivity until the epilogue.

What with having read the novel after seeing the film (by a number of years), it is Keira, James, Vanessa Redgrave and the cast from Joe Wright's film that I see, rather than the casting of my own creation. Which I usually don't enjoy as much as my own imagination's version. But in this instance I got to spend more time alone with Mr McAvoy under my doona, so I didn't mind too much.

The form of the novel give the idea of The Author As God more weight than the film does. The notion that a writer can atone for their mistakes through their work makes more sense, and has more power in the reading than it does on the silver screen, with Vanessa Redgrave playing just another character reading words that someone wrote for her. Ian McEwan himself has scribed these words about the cathartic processes of writing himself. And sure, he was never a 13 year old girl, and so it is doubtful his actions directly mirror Briony's. But what mistakes has he rewritten? And the other author's of the world?

While there are whole tracts of description - of war, of the grounds, of the hospital - that I found dull and emotionless or repetetive, it was just as easy to slide over them to the real story of the characters.

After putting down the finished book, it was one of those reading experiences where I felt sad. Not just because Robbie & co didn't get their happy ending in real life, but also because I had finished, and now it was time for me to leave Cee and Robbie and Briony, and get back to the world of reality. With no green dress.

Funny Ha Ha

As a part of the 10 Days In Melbourne series, as a celebration of the Melbourne Comedy Festival

Mr Lyons may have pipped me to the post on this one (pun intended), with his stand UP entry. Go there for some wisened historical ranting about the artform. But I shall press on regardless.

The reason it is my favourite artform is because it is so simple, yet so so complex. All that really needs to happen for stand up comedy to be created is for one individual to stand up in front of an audience (of more than one, preferably, but it is not essential) and say things that are amusing. They don't even really need a mic, though it does make it seem more performance-esque. While they perform (if they are in anyway a good comic) they need to recreate the material they have written as though they have never spoken those words before, as though they are thinking those thoughts for the first time. Simulataneously, they need to be gauging the audience, measuring how much they are enjoying the material, and levelling the rest of their performance to create the most hilarious experience for the crowd.

They need to use all the crafts of language and delivery to illicit a very specific reaction. Incongruity, truth, pun, shock...

In the style of Jase, the comedians I have seen perform a full show live include:

David O'Doherty, Wilson Dixon, Tim Minchin, Brendon Burns (these guys I saw in Melbourn), Wil Anderson, Danny Bhoy, Dylan Moran, Bill Bailey, Greg Fleet, Jason Byrne, Stephen K Amos, Jimoen, Janey Godley, Mickey D, Jay Sodagar, Howard Read, Boothby Graffoe, Adam Hills, Andrew Lawrence, Andrew Maxwell, Eric Walton, Andrew Bird... I'm sure there is more. I haven't included comedians that I have seen on video or heard on recording. And I also haven't included those that I have seen as a part of a magazine show or gala event. I also haven't included some all time greats, like Bill Hicks, Richard Pryor, Lenny Bruce etc. Because I haven't seen them live.

So. The Best. The Top 6. Here we go.

1. Brendon Burns.

The first show I saw of his was called Not For Everyone. No kidding. Burns is shouty and offensive and nothing is sacred. I saw him first in Edinburgh in 2003, where I was travelling solo. Somone thrust a flyer into my hand that compared him with Bill Hicks and I thought "Meh, why not?" (even though Burns would have had veto over the content of his flyer, he was still railing against the comparison).

I was dumbstruck. Amazed. Total Talent Crush. True Comedy Love. His material was sexist, homophobic, revolting and offensive. And I loved every minute.

Brendon Burns is an Australian who has lived in exhile in Britain because he uses too many 4 letter words to appear on Rove. Which as far as I can see is a reason to crown him and chain him to the Harbour Bridge in order to make him stay.

I saw him again the next year, with the best show I have seen him do - Burnsy vs Brendon. It was about the fact that he as a person didn't actually like his angry shouty performance persona. And it was brilliant Comedy Gold.

He won the Edinburgh Comedy Award in 2007, which I didn't see live, but have seen on DVD. Again, his understanding of how to make an audience react is flawless. It's one of those shows that I can't say too much about. The less said the better. (I ordered it from the UK, and then found it in JBHiFi in Melbourne. Grrr)

But when I took the whole A Team to see him in Edinburgh in 2008, his show was, even I must admit, self-indulgent and less than 100% hilarious. I laughed, a lot, but not as much as I had. And not all of my party were as into it as I would have liked them to be.

His show in Melbourne this year was a hilarious return to form. He got a great review in The Age, and a couple more here and here . Trent (who hadn't seen him before) laughed his arse off, and once more, Burns was the highlight for me. Again.

I've now seen this comedy deity 7 times. And if he was playing tomorrow in West Bubblefuck, I would be the FIRST in the door. Again.

2. Tim Minchin

Another Australian, but this time with a more musical bent. I had seen him on tele, and heard some of his stuff. Which I thought was OK. But when I saw him live in Edinburgh in 08 it blew my tiny mind. Ascerbic, athiest and biting. Again with the offensive material, that is just so delicious.

The man is a talented muso, and while his singing voice is not exactly classically beautiful (much like him) it has power and passion, and is very easy to listen to.

The man seems to have some anger issues with organised religion, with pseudosciences and spiritual claptrap, with a need for logic in the world, and with taking criticism. Watching and hearing him exorcise these demons is fascinating and hysetrical.

3. Dylan Moran
... It seems this list is so far full of angry funny men. I am seeing this pattern in this post, and there it is again in my life.... Hmmmm.

Moran rose to astronomical fame with Black Books as Bernard Black, the beligerent drunkard bookshop owner.

His stand up is similarly drunken and angry, if a bit more articulate and less muddleheaded than Bernard. I saw Monster II in the West End in 2004, and then again at the Seymour Centre in 2005.

And the head on him! He looks like he has just washed a toilet with his skull, after drinking 2 bottles of merlot. I saw him crossing the road in Fitzroy a week ago (CLUNK! That was just the sound of his name dropping onto the floor. Did you hear it?), and it looked like he has just finished drunkenly bellowing at a wall. As only Irishmen can get away with.

4. Danny Bhoy

The half-Indian Scotsman with the Irish sounding name. Close up, he looks like a sexy, smirking, fully grown manchild. On stage, his long legs and huge eyes give him a bit of a Muppet kind of effect.

I've seen him spindle out some observational tales about 4 times now - the most recent of which was in West Bubblefuck, where I took some of the Boys from the Factory on an "excursion" under the guise of Danny Bhoy doing lots of material about national identity. Which is true, but I doubt any of them used his show as a Belonging text in their recent assessment. Nevertheless, it was a total blast. I also may have let it slip to my students that I find Danny Bhoy outrageously attractive, and that I have been taking shares out in binoculars companies in order to finance my stalking habits.

Danny Bhoy (notice how for him, I use his full name, where the others just got the journalistic surname treatment? Discuss) tends to do the observational stuff. He is nauseatingly cheery compared to my first 3 picks - he tends to find the joy in life rather than find things to moan and shout and write satirical songs about.

5. Bill Bailey
Another musical genius, another Black Books bumbler, another wierd hairdo.

I saw Part Troll on the West End in 2004 (cause I missed him in Edinburgh in 03), and was amazed that his on stage persona - much like his co star - is a lot like his very likable character in Black Books, but with a lot more intelligence, and savvy.

Like Danny Bhoy, Bailey is more about finding the joy that the rage. Observational musical comedy. And why not?

What is also just too funny to cope with is his face. Just his face. Too funny.

6. Greg Fleet

(I nearly picked Adam Hills. But that was maybe because I used to hate him so much, and now I quite like him, rather than used to not know who he was and now I love him. The gap is much the same so its easy to get confused)

Even though his material is so heavily focussed on rehab and being clean and I used to be a junkie (and the time period of how long he has been clean seems to stay the same as the years go on. Its always about 3 years.... curious...), Greg Fleet has a delivery and a manner that is just so damn likable that I cannot go past him. Its a laconic and laxidaysical Melbourne lexicon (which this sentence isn't). Again, I've been to his shows a number of times, and seen him do charity and gala spots too, and I just never get tired of the way he builds tension and interest and the way he makes you feel like he is just having a chat at the front of the stage. It might be his floppy tshirts. Maybe that's what gives him the relaxed feel.

On Monday night (shit was it only this week??!) I saw him do a spot at the Mirabel Foundation gig, and he was as likeable as ever - even though I'd heard some of his tales already. Then he came out and did some banter with Rebecca Barnard - they went to school together and did ceramics, and FUCK I am pleased I didn't have to teach them! - and then sang Shook Me All Night Long which was just gorgeous and one of the Special Moments of the festival for me.

Fleet also does the funny offensive shock value stuff, but he does it through anecdotes and a funny-thing-happened-to-me stories. Which I guess could be called anecdotes...

Melbourne? Yes please!

A wise woman once said "I'd rather Melbourne than marking."

And it is too true.

So there are many things that make Melbourne good. Not so good that I want to move there forever (despite the repeated requests). But good enough to make me keep wanting to go back.

1. The Coffee.

My addiction to caffiene is no secret. And it is also something that I don't want to give up. I am not excessive about it. I NEED one good coffee a day. I like 2. More than that makes me a little bit flighty/buzzy/anxious/insomniac. But that doesn't tend to stop me anyway.

A strong flat white is the poison of choice, and there are far too many places that totally nail this beverage.

2. The Cafes

This might sound closely related to No. 1. And I admit there are some correlations. But the baristas and the owners of the cafes take the ambience and style of their establishments seriously. They make it Different. They make it Cool. On purpose. Artworks, mirrors, table arrangements. The fact that they fit a whole cafe into a space that may usually be allocated to storing a bicycle and some ski boots.

Brother Baba Budan on Little Bourke puts their chairs in the ceiling.

A Minor Place has a whole paper-stencil-house motif going on. (evidence of how cool they are is that cosey couple in the corner are staff from ANOTHER funky cafe.) And they are set up in what appears to be a cottage (pic above)

The problem that I have with the cafes in Melbourne is they are all so good, so cool and interesting and fun. And when one has only 10 days, there are only so many meals. So it means making decisions. And I hates decisions.

3. The bars

There are too many to name. Each has its own quirky vibe, and I would happily give a small left hand digit for one of them to set up in West Bubblefuck. It is because the Wise and Way Cool (I can say that cause I don't live there) Victorian State Government has much more realistic and relaxed laws about entertainment licences - live music, serving of alcohol. Plus there is a very beautiful and serene lack of poker machines. That noise you can hear? Its not the evil money sucking con artists. That is the sound of celebrating angels.

Plus I love the fact that they are hidden down alleys, up innocuous staircases and behind deceptive facades.

The Carlton had a whole taxidermy glamour thing going on

The Alderman felt like I was drinking in my best friend's loungeroom.

The Lounge had great food, and was so much a classier student bar than the Rege. No offence to the Rege.

I didn't get to Atticus Finch this time. But even the name makes me want to make it my local.

Keithy took me to a few other places, but my Current Conflict with Alcohol meant that there was not as much consumption as I would have liked.

4. The People That I Know That Live There.

They know who they are. And I love them.

5. The shoes. (pics to come)

I went a bit shoe nutty. I couldn't help it. It was only 4 pairs...

6. Trams

Ever since The Tram To Bondi Beach, I have thought they are the most romantic form of PT. I love the DING! So much cooler than a horn.

Penetration

I realise the Ick factor of a post titled thus.

But I am going to leave it there. Becayse in this case it works.

In My Skin is the memior of Kate Holden. Again, reading the memiors of someone I know very little about. Apparently she is some contributor to The Age or something.

Holden has a beautiful crafty way with words. Her imagery is striking and original, and stunningly evocative.

It is another book in the trend of Prostitute writings (Belle, and the Manhattan one too. I guess you could include Geisha, but I hated it. So I won't). But mixed in is The Junkie tale. I always find the stories of The Working Girl really interesting - especially when it is an educated woman with feminist leanings who is being entirely honest about using her body as her means of employment. I mean, we all prosititute ourselves. I should know. I worked in advertising. But the Junkie stuff just doesn't push my buttons. Possibly because addiction is such a repetetive subject.

I cannot find a bad review of this book. The first few pages are full of pull out quotes from glowing reviews, it is kind of nauseating. It seems to be on bloggers lists of My Favourite Book all over the internets.

And sure, I love they WAY she writes. But I found the structure unnessicarily confusing - turning back on itself to tell an anecdote that happened 6 months before. And of course the repetetive nature of turning tricks and scoring tastes needs to be reflected in the story, but it all got a bit samey for me.

I do love the title. The motif throughout the book of needles and men getting inside her, through the membrane of her body, simulatneously not affecting her, but drastically changing her. These two types of penetration defined her, gave her a sense of identity and belonging (there is that word again...), but at the same time, a part of her character - or her mind, or her soul or whatever - was clinging to the idea of who she was as a person. Daughter. Sister. Lover. Writer. Reader. Friend. Person. Underneath the User and the Whore, she was still trying to keep Kate.

I also love the cover on this edition. But as gorgeous as her composition and description is, I can't see myself using excerpts at The Boy Factory to hone their skills in adjectives and metaphors...

Return To West Bubblefuck

A hysterical mother, mistakenly believing me to already be in NSW as of last night, requested I zoom home to attend to my violently ill brother. So rather than a leisurely waltz up the New England, with perhaps a sojourn further down the coast, I Have Returned.

And the brother? He is fine.

But as I stumbled to Henry The Mazda in the Bronze Carpark (nothing but the best for Henry), struggling under the obscene weight of my Melbourne purchases, and then raced at crazy paces, led only by the starlight, I was feeling pretty mixed about coming back. I think it was a good idea in order to stop the tears to cease playing the multiple (three) versions of Halelujia.

The night was thick, like Guiness on either side of the road. And the stars out here are so so bright, it is almost like they guided me back. Mostly the truckies weren't arseholes, and I found an Oporto on the way that gave me just enough chilli (ie heaps) and cooked the chips perfectly (ie heaps).

Unfortunately, the mountain of work I left has not marked/planned itself. Bugger.

And now I am here.

I've had 8 days in Melbourne

And 2 to go.

I have been so wrapped up in the experiences of things, and there is so much that I want to write.

All of the posts will prob have to be post dated, I suppose.

This city makes me want to write, makes me want to read, makes me want to learn to crochet and kinda makes me want to lock myself in a hotel room with a cute Boy. It makes me feel creative, and makes me want to take up smoking.

I think an annual pilgrimage to Melbourne would be good for my soul.

But terrible for my credit card.

Well, how 'bout it?

To say that The Boat That Rocked was a film that rocked would be a gross understatement.

A deliciously hilarious fictional history (am still reading up on how historical the fiction is...) with an ensemble including some of my favourite performers (Nick Frost, Phillip Seymour Hoffman (the busiest American actor), Bill Nighy, Chris O'Dowd & Katherine Parkinson (both of IT Crowd fame), Rhys Darby... and on, and on and on...) written and directed by the normally overtly sentimental Richard Curtis.

Its a Stick It To The Man/Coming of Age/Sort Out Daddy Issues/Music based Comedy/Boat film. A genre of now 2 films I can think of - the other being The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou. I wonder what it is about being set on a boat that allows a young man to confront his issues of abandonment with his father. Possibly the forced isolation and the claustrophobia. I would have too much difficulty remembering not to trip over every door frame I stepped through, and coping with seasickness to deal with parental abandonment, but maybe that's because I'm not anybody's son...

Highlights include absolutely delicious art direction, the use of vinyl and all its crackly black plastic audio goodness, hilarious performances and a rescue scene that shits all over Titanic from a great height. A character called Twat (by name and nature) played perfectly by Jack Davenport. And the soundtrack was sublime!

As far as I can tell, reviews have been less than glowing.

The UK tele said it was a muddled and only fitfully brilliant film

David gave it 3 stars, and Margaret 3 and a half (but then I have always been more of a Margaret person anyway.)

I thought the film was a joy, almost from the start. I don't think it went too long. I still wanted more at the end. I knew RC wouldn't leave us with a sad sad ending, and he delivered.

Nick Frost was as usual hysterical, but more nude than I have seen him in the past. Turns out, chunky boys with facial hair do it for me... Oh, wait. That isn't a surprise...

Bill Nighy was perfect. Every time I see him in something I think "This was the role he was BORN to play" and really this is it. He is exactly the right amount of pompous, lanky and wrinkled.

And Chris O'Dowd... Again, it comes as not much of a surprise that a funny Irishman makes me go all distracty and not think straight.

Tom Wisdom, playing Mark, is a dead ringer for Our Heath. Esp in the leather pants. Quite scrummy, really. And Mark offered the greatest insight into the male psyche since Swingers

So in honour of TBTR:

Top 6 Boat Films, in no particular order

1. The Boat That Rocked

Gotta love a nautical British comedy

2. The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou

Wes Anderson and another star studded cast. I defy you not to want to wear red beanies!

3. Titanic, only because it was so enormous

I still can't get over the hype and shite that followed this film. Sure, it was huge. But the effects on it were really not all that great. Plus they weren't Kate's real boobs.

TBTR had hints of water exploding down hallways. But this time I was giggling

4. Jaws

I think we're going to need a bigger boat

5. The Imposters

Oliver Platt, Stanley Tucci and Billy Connelly. Cross dressing screwball about how messed up actors are. "I Hate Them" is the best cream bun on mouth line ever.

6. Speed 2

How unlucky does Sandra Bullock want to be? First Dennis Hopper, now Wilhem Dafoe!??!

It's A Sickness

I know I really need to get out of town. I know this, because I have been teaching for 11 solid and exhausting weeks. And all the boys have gone home or their respective native habitats and The Factory is empty.

And while I am Oh So Excited to be going to Melbourne, to soak up all that is good in the universe...

I miss the boys!

And there is no comfort in marking their work... Mostly cause it is mind numbingly shit. It has been only a day away from their piss taking, them calling me Missus and them asking me inane and rediculous questions and them hanging shit on me for my love of Manly.

And so my Early Holiday Mantra comes to me again:

Gotta Get Outta Town.


...At least none of them saw me bra shopping this morning....


PS Craving for students abated. Cloudy tore my tickets at the cinema and chatted while I waited for my bro and Bambi made me a too hot Oporto.

The Huge Sigh Of Relief

Yes, there are 115 papers waiting to be marked. Yes, there is Term 2 to plan.

But for now?

11 weeks of insanity at The Boy Factory have come to an end.

To Melbourne, to comedy, to rendevous of all types.

"First one and then the other, my friend. First one and then the other."

The Best Albums to Not Get Caught Speeding To

What makes for a good driving song? The soundtrack to the road trip can seriously affect how the trip goes - how fast you drive, how much you enjoy the drive, how many hours you can keep clicking those Ks away. I always find towards the END of a long road, my patience with my own music collection wears thin, and I am reaching for the skip button more frequently than I blink. In order to keep on truckin', a repetoir of solid sounds is most certainly required!

In the last 4 weeks I have driven 2378. A 50th on th Gold Coast, a wedding in the Blue Mountains, and a just-for-the-hell-of-it-cause-its-my-birthday-and-I-gotta-get-outta-here trip to Cathie. And with all those Ks, one needs tunes.

The criteria...
Must have some pace. Lilting beautiful ballads have their place, but it is not on the open road. The beat shouldn't be too fast, else the driving will be. And it shouldn't be too repetetive, else it will become boring.
Drum beats need to be clear enough for digits to beat out on the steering wheel, a la John Cusak in the opening scenes of Say Anything (sigh!)
Lyrics. Essential. The road is no place for the instrumental. Must be audible and recognisable and preferably known by heart to be belted out loud enough that one becomes light headed from lack of oxygen, and there is doubt about teaching a class on Monday morning without the husky voice.


And seeing as Top 5s are so Hi Fidelity, I like Top 6s. So in no particular order...

1. Only By The Night- Kings of Leon

A recent one, to be sure. But I defy you to keep under the speed limit as Caleb and his hairy Christian brother hit the waily parts of Sex on Fire or Use Somebody. The steady beat keeps the left foot bouncing and the thumbs on the steering wheel percussion are relentless. His voice is so much older than it should be!

Plus, once this record is done with I tend to skip through my faves from the back catalogue.

2. Vampire Weekend - Vampire Weekend

I've gotta agree with Ms Martha Elaine Belden. This is a killer album that it is impossible not to grin maniacally along with nearly every track. And, still in agreement, Oxford Comma is undeniably the best song on there, impossible to pass at just one listen. I love how their lyrics seem to be an injoke, a self referential smug allusion that only the truly pompous of us will understand and love.

For a NY band, they sound so terribly English, which of couse I love the pants off. Sam The Pommy Camera Man tried very hard to convince me that they were, but my musical geekery would not allow it. Anyway, their lovely slightly pompous lyrics, oh-so-catchy melodies and their bouncy high guitars just make you want to leap hills in a single frollick!

3. Made of Bricks - Kate Nash

I've never really been one for girly pop. I like my music with a bit of guts. But I really like this chick. She is a little bit Lily Allen (which is a bit of a dirty word in our house), but I find her stuff less posey and more like the theme song to reading Frankie. Very vintage floral frocks, but with the word Fuck inside. This album is also excellent for trying to deal with anger management, (particularly when coping with wayward teenage boys and their complete lack of respect for females generally. As previously whinged about here). Foundations and Merry Happy are highlights, particularly this side of the mountains

4. A Weekend in The City - Bloc Party

Concept Albums are just not made enough, I reckon. Even though this album was released WELL after my time there, just the opening chords/beats of every song have me walking down Finchley Road or standing on a tube platform or climbing the far-too-steep steps on a red double decker.

For the times when I am driving to The Big Smoke, or coming back, this album always seems to fit. Hypothetically, when one is preparing to see one's Ex's parents for the first time in AGES, a couple of listens to The Prayer will always help (but still doesn't quite prepare you to meet The New GF... hypothetically of course...). And I Still Remember is pretty much the most beautiful song ever written. The swelling up of joy when the beat kicks in starts way down in the bottom of the belly and explodes up and out and fills up the car and the freeway and all the valleys below. Best for the F3, but does nicely on any open road. And in fact this album is so good, it pretty much works for any occasion. An All Occasion Album.

5. Neon Bible - Arcade Fire

A scathing, satirical spit in the face of the Post 9/11 US, written from the safety of Montreal in Springsteenesque* rhythms and harmonies. Seeing these guys at the 08BDO was something akin to a religious experience** (. Kind of ironic, seeing as they write music which I interpret to be fairly seriously anti-religion. But not anti-faith, just anti-commercialised, homogeonised, bible under the neon sign kind of crap.

Obvious choices for driving songs include No Cars Go but especially Keep the Car Running. But my fave is Intervention. Again, swelling melodies and steering wheel percussion reign supreme on this album.

This album is particularly perfect for the Hunter Valley drive through the vineyards.

*In our household, this record is known as That Bruce Springsteen album. The fact that he has played with the Win & Regine on stage at one of his performances makes me grin like a lunatic, and heartily agree with the cinematographer.... "YES!!! YES!!! HOLY SHIT!!!".

**Followed immediately by another more violent religious experience - RATM at BDO. Just the thought of it gives me goosebumps!

6. Old Trees & New Branches - The Bastard Children (formerly CWQ)

Not the most populist of choices, but that is just because you haven't heard them yet.

CWQ (as they were then) played at the same venue as us when at the Edinburgh Festival last year. And despite the fact that I live only 1500kms (HA! Only...) from them, I had to travel 17 000kms to see, hear and discover that I am totally in love with every beardy one of these boys. They dress in 3 piece op-shop suits, wear flatcaps and fedoras and grow facial hair. Their songs include harmonicas (is there a sexier instrument?), piano accordians (the second sexiest instrument), the mandolin and their recordings include a sax.

The moniker of The Bastard Children is so apt - they have bastardised their sound from gypsies, country, folk, pop, rock... A bit like a Convict Rock sound. Good driving music, yes, but even better as drinking music...

Special mentions must also be made.

Laid, by James. Bitter, sexual confusion. That drum bit goes great guns on the dashboard. And those high notes are so much fun to no hit. Plus this song always comes up in trivia.

Anything by The Cure works exeptionally well for the To The Coast Mountain drive.