I am without genre…
A little girl
Changing her clothes
Four times a day
Lazy and lucky
Sitting so patiently
Nowhere to go
No more hiding.
I am without genre…
A little girl
Changing her clothes
Four times a day
Lazy and lucky
Sitting so patiently
Nowhere to go
No more hiding.
It had been almost three months since we had said goodbye. There was crying and raging and my favourite vase got smashed. The nice blue one my mother gave me just before she died. It had all been too much. The late night jam sessions fuelled by booze that brought a black clouded mass to our white washed apartment. The filthy dishes piled up in the sink, the overflowing ashtrays, the empty syringes. You had me so trapped with those addictive poetic mumbles that spurt out your mouth into mine before travelling down to settle in my heart.
Farewells are rarely forever and your sugar-laced voice still holds me tightly against the wall, your fingertips remain gently entwined around my wrists. “Just one more time” you promise me.
Saturday night comes around quickly and I make my way downtown. The last glimpses of sun highlight the sky various shades of orange. I slip through a crack in the doorway and wander down the cement smeared corridor entering the dark intensity of the club. The walls are painted smoky shades and people are already seated three feet from the red and blue illuminated stage. The tables are small and candle lit. The naked flames dance away in the reflection of my eyes. I drink down the cool, clear sparkle of my vodka tonic in silent anticipation for all the players to take their places.
It takes two shots of whisky and a flat, foreign beer before finally the trumpet player arrives. Slowly and gingerly, three men leave their drinks at the bar and make their quiet way to the platform. Each one is about forty and dressed in a bohemian array of old suede sneakers, faded black jeans and corduroy. They all have a fine shadow of stubble and their hair generously licked with grey. The trumpet player lifts himself up from his chair and stalks his way over to join the other musicians, a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders. Once positioned, he unwraps his instrument from her velvet shroud and runs his fingertips along her thin neck. Wetting his lips in anticipation, he tips his face towards the sky. Cautiously he begins to weave his humming breath and the crowd is suddenly charmed like cobras with taunting bursts of sharp melody. The kaleidoscopic judder hits the ceiling, fractures and scatters down greedily consumed.
The supercharged drummer taps away furiously. An exotic explosion of tribal Moroccan beats reverberates around the room, moving bodies in seats and feet in empty spaces. Every now and then during one of these solo confessions the trumpet player crouches down on one knee. Cradling his instrument like a lover in his arms he looks down at her with a glimmer of contempt while nodding his head to the strong, bird wing flutter of the bongo drums. He takes a quick sip of a pink alcoholic mess of a drink and wipes sweat from his heavy brow. His glassy eyes flash a cold razorblade gaze through the soft naked flesh in front of him. This executioner raises his brass seductress back to his lips and breathes into her, bringing the world back to life. In the planned chaos, a complex fusion of deliberate composition and improvised verset resounds through the crowded floor space embedding dynamic vibrations in every open ear. An exquisite clamour in the lust speckled, spirit soaked room.
When it is all over I am left supercharged, my body enticed, my blood churned. Then suddenly you are there surrounding me. Your sweet, electrifying touch envelops me and claws away at my senses. “Just this one more time” you whisper in my ear. We stumble out into the hazy night, sensually infused and ride in the back of the taxi seated like anxious lovers. Back in my den my blonde mistress prepares herself. She is eager and warm and ready to penetrate. The silver spoon already discarded I press the needle tip into my arm and I admire the way the light dances in her amber coloured tears. I slowly inject the yellow junk into my vein before leaning down and picking up my trumpet. As that familiar rush surges through me I place you gently against my lips and begin to play our song, one last time.
© JULIETTE GILLIES
I have spent time against the wall
Head hung, forehead knocking
I have been inside that box
I have punched and raged
Been lost, found, forgotten
Wished to be somewhere else
Anyone other than me
But I am me
I am here
Matt Corby, Into the Flame EP
Into the Flame is an EP by Australian singer-songwriter, Matt Corby, released on November 11, 2011. He may have been a runner up on 2007’s Australian Idol, but rather than offer a flash-in-the-pan career based on his good looks and charm, this Sydneysider has stayed true to his heart. Having spent the last few years developing his sound overseas, he has triumphantly returned to Australia with his latest EP.
Produced by Tim Carr at Studios 301, this release is a move towards indie rock by the self-described folk singer. Into The Flame opens with ‘Brother’, which has experienced a meteoric rise in popularity (thanks to support from FBi 94.5 and triple j), and it’s still crack for the ears.
‘Soul A’Fire’ is a strong, whisky-soaked muddy blues ballad, and then there’s ‘Untitled’, a song with harmonies so gentle and lyrics so soulful it could easy pull the heartstrings of the toughest brickie. The angelic Bree Tranter (ex-The Middle East) lends keys to the whole album, and her haunting vocals on the beautiful ‘Big Eyes’ are perfectly matched to Matt’s own surprisingly powerful set of pipes.
This is the third release from Matt Corby, whose recent series of Secret Garden shows have connected his music with his fans in an intimate local setting – and in doing so have helped him build a cult following that will outlast all the Idol fanatics. Penning all the songs on Into The Flame (no karaoke here), Corby is proving himself to be a serious songwriter who is not afraid to take his listeners on a deeply personal journey.
Displaying maturity beyond his years, Matt Corby’s big vocals overflow with heartfelt, raw emotion, making Into The Flame an honest and uncompromising delivery.
Originally published by The Brag, Issue 440 (November 28, 2011)
Husky, Forever So
Album of the Week
I am not the kind of person who defines something as ‘perfect’ recklessly. For instance, I’m yet to find the perfect jeans, the perfect vanilla scented candle or the perfect hair conditioner – but I think I’ve found the perfect album. It seems almost impossible that Husky’s debut, Forever So, could really be their first offering. Or that something this good was recorded in a makeshift studio in Northcote, after a few nights watching ‘how to’ sound-proofing videos.
Winners of triple j Unearthed, this indie folk four piece have recently returned from the US where they were working with Noah Georgeson (Devendra Banhart, Joanna Newsom, Os Mutantes). Superbly engineered, Forever So transports you through time and space while invoking vivid imagery and stirring emotions. Lead vocalist Husky Gawenda delivers believable and enchantingly poetic lyrics to accompany sublimely crafted instrumentals: ‘Tidal Wave’ draws you in and sweeps you away like a gently rolling sea; ‘Animals & Freaks’ is both a heartbreaking and aching beautiful track; ‘History’s Door’ conjures up images of pretty young things clad in Wayfarers hitting the open road in an old Valiant to play guitar by a bonfire on a beach.
There is nothing fake or forced about this album; there are no fillers or B sides. Each song is a flawless combination of acoustic guitar, refined percussion and harmonious vocals. These Melbourne boys have done so well with their debut, that it will be interesting to see what they come up with next.
Unpretentious, dreamy and ambitious, Husky’s debut is a masterpiece of cohesive, fluid energy that draws on the strengths of each band member to create something which, if it’s not perfect, gets very, very close.
Originally published by The Brag, Issue 437 (November 7, 2011)
Emma Davis single and video clip launch ‘Feel a Thing’
Supported by Patrick James
Friday November 25, 2011
Wandering through the graffiti coated corridors of Hibernian House, we eventually locate the sold out Emma Davis single and video clip launch for ‘Feel a Thing’. But we are early- or they are running late- and we have time to admire the street art. Soon enough everything is ready and we are greeted at the door by the singer-songwriter herself. Apologising for the delay she invites us to help ourselves to the cookies and alcoholic milk provided. Entering the gig space there are cupcakes, tea lights and the floor is scattered with pillows. Waiting for Emma to begin her set a photographer drops a tripod on me and I experience firsthand the seesaw effect of the wooden crate I’m sitting on. But I’m undeterred.
It’s a sold out show and the crowd, made up of friends, family members and fans, are enjoying their BYO beverages when support act Patrick James takes to the stage (joined by Scotty Stevens on banjo). Patrick’s acoustic indie/folk is well received; he’s a superstar in the making.
Emma appears a little after 9.30pm and by then my splinter-pricked arse is numb. First up is the debut of the ‘Feel a Thing’ video clip and it’s worth the wait. Conceived by filmmaker and writer Byron Quandary it stylishly depicts the night time wanderings of a sleepwalking family. It’s haunting, in brilliant juxtaposition to the optimistic ukelele. Emma starts her set with ‘Losing Faith’ dressed in a white shirt and pant pajama combo. Mark Stevens, also in his jammies, join her on double bass and vocals. There are a few technical difficulties but it adds to the charm and intimacy of the venue. There is nothing more boring than a gig that sounds the same as the album. Another pyjama buddy, Leroy Lee (clad in plaid), offers up some expert banjo and harmonica. The crowd is buzzing and transfixed by the time Emma performs her second single ‘Machines’ and it results in Emma being showered with bras from the audience members.
The gig finishes with an impromptu encore cover of ‘I Like You So Much Better When Your Naked’ and there is more disrobing and clothes throwing. Emma is funny, a little shy and very sweet, and there is nothing forced or dishonest about her collection of upbeat break-up songs and tales of disillusionment, which she performs skilfully and earnestly. The show comes to an end and once again Emma is at the door thanking everyone for coming- which isn’t necessary; it was our pleasure.
Originally published by The Brag, Issue 441 (December 5, 2011)
With the support acts done and the red curtain closed, the tension builds and the excitable crowd are silenced as distant drumming begins and Jinja Safari appear at the back of the theatre dancing their way through the crowd in a procession of afro beat percussion before taking to the stage now adorned with Tibetan prayer flags, flickering candles and a giant backdrop painted with the Jinja Safari symbol. Armed with guitars, a sitar, drums, bass, keys and a glockenspiel the band dance barefoot with frightening energy, building the crowd into a jumping, singing frenzy with the very popular ‘Mud’ and ‘Peter Pan’. Occasionally the vocals get a bit lost by the mixing desk but halfway through their set lead singer Marcus yells “eleven, eleven, eleven, eleven” in honour of the landmark day.
Jinja Safari knows how to delight an audience with their antics. At one point Marcus and Pepa climb simultaneously onto the speakers on either end of the stage. With Marcus blowing on a vuvuzela, Pepa leaps up and swings precariously like a baby orang-utan across the light rig to join Marcus on the other side. Jumping down from a height that made my ankles shriek, he is up and dancing merrily through the haze of an overzealous smoke machine. They concluded with ‘Mermaids’ and as a group of dancers stormed the stage, Pepa, unable to be constrained any longer, throws himself into the crowd and surfs over a sea of hands. Theatrics aside they delivered a great performance. If you catch a Jinja Safari gig you are in for one wild time. Just don’t forget your animal mask.
Humming radiation breathes
Dead, stale life through the
Looming cement atrocities,
Housing the tired dull zombies.
They scurry like ants
Fondle the wallet in their pants and
Hollowly fulfill their “dreams”.
Ice like noise
Fills me with
Of the coldest heat
Up my veins and into
I hug it, caress it,
Love it tight.
And I welcome it
With arms outstretched
All this freezing
“You are lucky to be alive”, the nurse told her.
“Can you describe him?” Asked the policeman.
“Describe who?” The woman asked.
“The intruder. The person who attacked you.”
Had she said that? Had she really said there had been an intruder? The woman could barely move on the hospital gurney. The stitches pulled with each breath and she was thirsty. She watched news reports about a young woman who had been attacked in the kitchen of her home and was now recovering in hospital. She didn’t realise at first they were talking about her. Her work colleagues sent her flowers and her mother visited every day. He came too of course with false sincerity and crocodile tears in his eyes. Not for a second did she doubt that after he left each night he went to ‘her’. He and his slut were free to roll around on the 1200 count Egyptian cotton sheets all night if they wished, now that she was conveniently confined to a hospital bed.
It took a little while for her to realise that the physical description she had given of the intruder matched her husband perfectly. The police noticed it sooner. When they questioned him he denied it of course but then she played them the voice message from his whore telling her was a terrible wife and that she should “just drop dead”. She had her phone in her hand when the maid found her outstretched in a pool of blood on the marble kitchen floor. Her husband turned up much later at the hospital with no alibi. Naturally his fingerprints were all over the knife. It was the one he used to cut up meat when they had barbecues. She didn’t exactly say he had tried to kill her but for some reason any effort to protest his innocence refused to push past her lips.
The lawyer told her it was an open shut case. They were even considering a charge against his bitch for conspiracy. Of course she didn’t tell anyone the stab wound was self-inflicted. That she had listened to the voice message, walked calmly into the kitchen and grabbed the knife. She had fully intended to bury the cold steel blade deep into her heart but filled with misery the poor organ must have retreated to the size an acorn. When she plunged the sharp edge into her chest she missed her heart completely. A full recovery was expected. With the attempted murder charge against her husband, she was sure she would get to keep the house. She made a mental note to burn the sheets.
© JULIETTE GILLIES