Like A Virgin
Shit n’ tarnation, sure has been a long time since I was up on this thang, what with one thing and another. To start with, I’ve been taking to most technology with a +3 Hammer of late, if you know what I mean, that’s a feather in your funky little bonnet, baby.
When the smoke and whiskey breath finally cleared after the Beards tour, we were left feeling a little superior, after all, Slim and me obviously had the best beards out (well, that is a perfect use of past tense as right now, we have children’s beards, shame us and spit at our feet if you see us on the street, though I’ve taken to a veil and wearing a long golden tail to disguise myself, but now you know, so bring bright lances and give me a dragon’s funeral).
Strange thing – for some reason, Karnivool asked us to play three nights with ’em at The Metro in Sydney and you know us, any excuse to get liquored up and half nude in public, off we went.
We rounded up quite the team for this little outing into having the kind of stage to match our obvious more rock than thou skills (shit, they even let us smoke in the stairwell and switched some beers from VB to Becks for me, though with the amount of whiskey I was packin, what the fuck was the need?).
Big ups to Georgeous George, the soundguy and Dr. Jono Barwick, who cured my worst hangover ever with a Little Creatures Ale. You sweet SOB. I hope his daughters are as arousing as he is.
The thing about playing to Karnivool’s crowd that made it so easy to get half nekkid and ‘rapey’ was that they had no idea what was going on – either did we. I made a connection with some sweet ladies and was feeling damn good about it until I realised that they were definitely the kind of women who could get me put in gaol for a long time. Shit, I’d love the quiet time so I could write the great avant-fantasy novel of our generation, but child molestation just ain’t my bag.
After three nights of riding a burning steam train through what was otherwise a lesson in soundscapes and excessive lighting – minus a guitar, a pair of trousers, a hat and a shit load of dignity, we were laid to rest…
Of course we still had one last show booked before going on a writing hiatus (even though the first album isn’t even out yet, assholes) and that was to be with our hottest lover brothers, The Snowdroppers – but what do you know? The bastards hit the road with the north coast’s favourite ‘rockers’, Grinspoon. Good choice, fuckwits.
So next thing I know, we’re jumping off the bill too (hey, note to bookers – putting us on with crusty/homophobic/sexist/racist acts will get you a roylal fuckover by us, gleaming scepters in and out the metaphysical ass until it’s a weird cross between OZ season 2 and a Richard Miller novel. Read Squed. Do it.)
Same venue (Spectrum) the next night. Oh, are we pricks? Yeah. You should have seen my replacement trousers.
I feel bad for anyone who wasn’t there. I feel worse for the people that were; me resplendent and erotic, unreachable from my one foot tall stage, crotch apparently stuffed with a cucumber – it wasn’t but who am I to argue with the people?
The only real problem with the gig was that Slim, Blacktooth and D forgot themselves – this is The WH Show and I am unhappy to say that they all recieved a sound thrashing the next day for stepping out of line. Slim said that he was sorry, but I could tell that he was lying to me, his moustache dripping with beer foam and legs performing a weird shuffle that I later recognized as the same hypnotic stomp he had been using the night before; bastard! Using his powers on his own husband/leader!
In album news, we have a venue and line ups booked in Sydney so far, the line-ups will include most of the good bands in Australia. I mean GOOD not popular. Oh and if you’re thinking of sleeping with me at a show, bring money, I’m broke.