Acer Arena
November 28

The last show John Lennon ever played was with Elton John at Madison Square Garden in 1974. It was to settle a bet between the two men, who over the course of the 70s had become occasional songwriting partners and fast friends. When Lennon had several times publicly proclaimed Elton John and Bernie Taupin the "greatest songwriters since the Beatles", it wasn't the heroin talking. Elton John put out something in the order of one record a year in the 1970s, records which spawned such indelible pop rock gems as 'Rocket Man', 'Bennie and the Jets', 'Pinball Wizard', 'Your Song', 'Don't Let The Sun Go Down on Me', 'Daniel', 'Tiny Dancer', 'Goodbye Yellow Brick Road' and about a dozen more which took his single units sold to over 100 million. Add to that 250 million album sales and there isn't much to argue with the genius of that 70s output. That said, had Lennon lived to see the Lion King, Adia, Billy Elliott and the remaining mire of mid 90s tripe that Elton John released, perhaps his praise would not have been so effusive.

However! On the balance of things, we should value Elton Hercules John and his determination at the age of 60, to continue touring the world and playing sets over 2 and a half hours long, criss-crossing his back catalogue to his heart's content. I really don't care that he is now a rotund, batshit crazy, old man who looks like a lesbian. He'll wrote Rocket Man, and until such a time as when you have written a bonafide slice of pop genius like it, you can shut the hell up.

Ah, 'Rocket Man'. This is where things went awfully wrong at Acer Arena. A terrible, overblown arrangement, tawdry backing tracks and delay soaked repeat refrains of "Rocket MAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAN" over and over the coda for two minutes. It was so awful I almost cried. But for every horrid arrangement/murdering of your favourite classic, there was a great, spare arrangement of 'Mona Lisa's and Mad Hatters'. Or Elton busting out 'Take Me To The Pilot', 'Roy Rogers' or 'Tiny Dancer', filling the giant space with nothing but his virtuoso piano and his huge, emotive baritone. Some rare tracks from Elton John and Caribou. Amazing. Though these were muddled with extended excerpts from Billy Elliott and a raft of nineties filler noone cares about.

So, let us be honest, noone – or hardly anyone – was there because they think 'Songs From The West Coast' is a great record, or because they were hoping to catch a sans Eminem version of 'Stan'. Elton John is about nostalgia - great, hulking bucket loads of nostalgia. Seeing him live in 2007 is a bit like a mixture of Bob Dylan and the Rolling Stones: you revere them, they come to your town, you have to go. Bob Dylan may without warning change the key/tempo/lyric of 'Tamborine Man', and the Stones haven't made a great record since 1972. But you'd kick yourself to miss them live. So when Elton John tears magnificently into 'Philadelphia Freedom' every single person in the place is reliving whatever time in their life it was the soundtrack to: be it your first divorce, key parties, or if you're me, listening to the tape in the car with your dad on the way to the beach when you were six. It's glorious, and people shred skin off their hands trying to applaud loudly enough.

So I could have done without about half the set, and the sight of Elton John's huge, pudgy fingers projected onto the screens only served to illustrate that his wedding ring will need to be cut of with pliers if he ever wants to remove it. The best parts of the night were when he jammed on the keys, recalling Fats Domino and Jerry Lee Lewis and showing off the kind of musicianship which rarely exists anymore in rock. His voice, though it lost its top two octaves somewhere in 1986, is brimming with conviction, and roaringly takes off whenever he really hits his straps. It's inspiring, really.

We want rock stars to stay young forever, hopefully even to die off young. And if they don't, in the least we want them to retire gracefully. Artists are damned if they do and damned if they don't, forever stuck on the Moebius strip of criticism. Elton John said himself in a Rolling Stone interview in 1976: "I mean, who wants to be a 45-year-old entertainer in Las Vegas like Elvis?" Well that, and much else Professor Hindsight never predicted, turned out to be true.

On the balance of things, I'd say I'm glad I saw this show. Elton John is one of the few left standing of a dying breed: the 100% dedicated to showmanship, eccentric-rockstar-genius-songwriter. He's done more blow, had more sex, bought more art, flowers, houses, clothes and football clubs than anyone. He's sold out Madison Square Garden 60 times. He proved you could be fat, depressed, bald, gay and play an instrument as out of favour and unwieldy as a piano and still become a bonafide legend. I wish he hadn't murdered my favourite song, however, it was worth it to see 'I'm Still Standing', which though tubbily, he is.

Kirsty and Elmo live review Elton John via SMS

Elton John waddles onto the stage wearing what can best be described as Rhinestone Nanna chic. An embroidered cassock type overcoat with butterflies and roses sewn into it. A diamond earring visible from the back rows of Acer Arena that Kirsty's mum correctly notes could buy a house. "A NICE house." What is going on with his rug needs its own review.

E: He looks like a lesbian

K: What about that bling? Foul. Shit seats, row A.

E: Kidding! At the front you see it all close!

K: Jokes. Row A, third fucking elevation. You?

E: O noes! I'm in the left block on the floor.

Elton begins with a great version of 'Your Song.' Moves on to some rare 70s cuts from the Elton John album and Caribou. So far, so good. Oh wait. Here comes some stuff from the early nineties which noone remembers.

K: Dude, what is with the backing track? Cheese on toast.

E: LOL!

K: His fingers gross me out. Lesbian fingers for sure.

E: Man, is he tubby. Is he going to bow after every song? Sit down, tubby.

Pretty great version of Daniel and things are looking up. But then we get a complete murdering of the song we've all been waiting for: Rocket Man. Yes, an extended, 2 minute outro with vocal delays, awful backing tracks and videos of space which look like your seventh grade science textbook, really make for a whole new interpretation of a classic.

K: Sorry, but this a shit poor imitation of a once great artist. Feels like a cabaret act. We are 20 years too late, Keep.

E: So far, it's pretty bad. I'm dying on the inside. Please don't make me write the review.

K: That just broke my heart. Oh god, how does anyone make THAT song sound so bad? My mum loves though.

E: By losing the top two octaves of your voice in 1986. And abusing delay pedals.

K: I just snuck out, can't deal with the raping. Mum loves though, so let's be nice about it until she goes!

Finally the misery stops when Elton introduces a song as "written about New York City." Cue 'Mona Lisa's and Mad Hatters.' Almost wipes the horrible sear of Rocket Man from our collective memory. This is my all time favourite Elton John song, and I think seeing it live is ALMOST worth suffering the indignities of the first third of the show.

E: OK, this is my favourite.

K: Just stop yelling at me, Elton! Man, his voice is shot.

Now it's time to tread the 80s back catalogue, which surprisingly, has stood the test of time remarkably well. Or is it just that there has been some horrible shite up until now?

E: And now, for Eighties world.

Sacrifice, not so bad after all. Could be because Elton just sings it straight, plays the keys and refrains from irritating reinterpretations.

E: I'm on the other side now. A few good tunes and I'm in.

K: Good! I'm not, but I'm hoping to be.

A good run: Philadelphia Freedom, I Guess That's Why They Call It the Blues, Sorry Seems to be The Hardest Word. Tiny Dancer.

E: This is gold.

K: Better, yes. He obvs needs to warm up! Better now!

And now, the moment you've all been waiting for: a ten minute extended excerpt from … Billy Elliott!

E: Beer time!

K: Meet you there!

E: Back in now.

K: I'm buying a t-shirt.

E: HA!

(turns out Kirsty is not being ironic, but instead bought a really sweet shirt I wish I bought.) Ok, this is a really killer version of Take Me To The Pilot. Why couldn't he have just stuck with this material and fucked that Billy Elliott/Lion King crap right off?

E: It's better if you just drink a beer really fast.

K: LOL! that was good, but this is not. Where is Benny and the Jets?

E: Surely coming. Plz god, kthx.

K: And when is it going to end? I can think of 10 classics he hasn't played/ruined yet.

E: Three hours I reckon. Enough time for 'Don't Let The Sun Go Down On Me'

K: Yes! I didn't think of that. I'm keen for Saturday Night's Alright for Fighting and Pinball Wizard.

E: Just send him a text.

Two and half hours, actually, is what's on the money. Certain among us are disturbed by Elton's apparent inability to sweat. I walk right down to the front unobstructed to have a closer look.

E: I'm standing in the front row.

K: I know! I can see you. My mum is jealous.

Cue 'Benny and the Jets'. I am an official convert in these last few songs. 'I'm Still Standing'. Zing! I can see steam rising from Elton's pudgy shoulders, assured he is an actual human. He leaves the stage, returns almost immediately for the encore. He then spends 10 minutes signing about 30 autographs for people in the front rows with furrow-browed concentration. I find this unexpectedly heart warming.

For all the shit we are giving him, when you're up close you can see that Elton John is still getting a huge amount of joy from playing live. He tears into 'Don't Let The Sun Go Down On Me', and it seems certain that things are going to end on a high after all. Elton thanks the faithful Sydney crowd, who have turned out over the years to something like 45 shows in the city. "I'm going to finish with something that sums up for me how I feel about Sydney. I love coming here. This is for everyone of you. Thanks for all the love you've shown me, I love you too." OMG! What is it going to be? Goodbye Yellow Brick Road? Someone Saved My Life Tonight? Love Lies Bleeding? Crocodile Rock? God, I can barely stand the tension!

Circle of Life. The Lion King.

K: I'm out. See you out front.

E: OK, out the front. X

Operator Please
Yes Yes Vindictive
EMI/Virgin

Four Stars

Operator Please are supremely good at crafting near perfect slices of effusive, naggingly catchy pop-punk which capture the magnificence of youth in ways that only people born in the 1990s can. On this impressive debut, the young Gold Coast five piece mix 80s throwback electro keys, Poguesque violin, and a terrifyingly solid rhythm section under the hooky guitars and staggeringly unique voice of frontwoman and primary songwriter, Amandah Wilkinson.

Cut with Artic Monkeys' producer Simon Barnicott at the helm, Yes Yes Vindictive displays the band's skill at writing punchy arrangements, its love of the loud/soft dynamic. From the familiar brashness of 'Get What You Want' to the Beatlesque mid tempo changes of 'Two For My Seconds' to the lovely and reflective acoustic based closer 'Pantomime', Operator Please ooze versatility, vibrancy and smarts. Not to mention seamless chops and a lyricist in Wilkinson whose insights shame songwriters twice her age and more.

Signed to UK imprint Brille on their first EP, securing a major commercial endorsement, being linked on Perez Hilton and racking a million views of their single, 'Just A Song About Ping Pong' – which also went on to win the band a breakthrough artist ARIA award, playing the Reading festival. Two years into their quest and Operator Please are already where most bands only idly dream of. All that was without a long playing record to their name. Now Yes Yes Vindictive is proof that the hype is thoroughly deserved.

Elmo Keep

This review originally appeared in issue 673 of Australian Rolling Stone

Hard though it may be to recall, there was a time when U2 were a force on the make, and not the Compu-Global-Hyper-Meganet, iPod-schilling-uber-brand they are today. And that time was somewhere in the order of just over 20 years ago, when U2 stood on the cusp of the release of the record that would irrevocably change their future, and no less the future of rock music: The Joshua Tree. 20 years, and yet no relief from writer's puns on 'I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For.'

By the time of the Joshua Tree – the band's fifth studio album – U2 had already traded the Joy Division inspired, post punk leanings of Boy for the new wave spiritualism of October. Moved on to the bracing, militaristic straight edge of War and had achieved global success with its agitprop singles 'Sunday Bloody Sunday' and 'New Years Day'. Still that was discarded for the wilfully out of focus, European stylings of The Unforgettable Fire, which had teamed the band with the production duo of Brian Eno and Daniel Lanois - who branded U2 with the darker atmospherics which still inform their sound today.

With Eno and Lanois, U2 refined their uncanny ability to marry the cinematically epic soundscape with the inwardly questing lyrical couplet. Case in point, opening track 'Where the Streets Have No Name'. Having survived Eno's famed attempt at erasing the master tapes when the song's two different time signatures could not be reconciled, Streets remains one of U2's most rousing live staples. It stamped their anthemic blueprint, which has so often been ripped off since – not least by U2 themselves on their most recent releases. But this initial conjuring of some mythic, unknowable space remains Bono's most potent, with the band beneath him delivering it via driving snares and Edge's shimmering, multi-layered delays.

The Joshua Tree marked the start of U2's – and particularly Bono's – ongoing love affair with America. Points of reference on the album for him were mostly literary: Norman Mailer and the new journalism; Salman Rushdie's Central American odyssey, The Jaguar's Smile; the Southern Gothic of Tennessee Williams. These influences came to bear on brooding tracks like 'Exit' and its narrative stalking the trail of a killer on the lam, and the searing invective of 'Bullet the Blue Sky', which chronicled Bono's post-Live Aid travels through El Salvador.

Though it explored the personal in a particularly naked way, Bono's songwriting on the Joshua Tree did not annex the political. Take 'Bullet' - with Edge's shards of guitar intimating the bombing raids south of the US border - and closing track 'Mothers of the Disappeared' and its direct fingering of Pinochet's brutality. So as much as the band were seduced by America's wide open (literal and figurative) spaces, they explored its darkness in equal measure like an aural David Lynch. Other American folk heroes, like Nebraska mode Springsteen and Dylan (any decade), could be heard in the fable-like lyricism of the junkie ballad 'Running to Stand Still' – which, though it was written about Bono's boyhood home of Ballyum, Dublin, was a picture of urban decay which was sight unspecific.

Once described as a "rock and roll bolero", 'With Or Without You' is the twisted, throbbing heart of the album. A perfect summation of the corrosive effects of sexual jealousy, it was the most musically conventional though thematically complex love song of U2's career. On the Edge's specially commissioned Infinite Guitar, the song is an exercise in deceptive simplicity, with its coda repeating the same few noted figure, such was his stubborn refusal to ever play a solo. This song with its character's inability to leave an abusive relationship, became the band's first US 1.

So there U2 were, standing straight backed and serious in Anton Corbijn's desert portraits, staring down the rising tide of crap which surrounded them in 1987: Duran Duran, Rick Astley, Hewy Lewis, Reagan's America, Gordon Gecko. Though chewed out by Sinatra for "dressing like a bunch of bums", U2's low-fi visual aesthetic was their Irish way of rebelling against the US culture which they wanted to be a part of on the one hand, yet so steadfastly refused to be on the other. The self-serious tag would dog them for years to follow until they obliterated it with the Fly and Achtung Baby in the early 90s, but it did help to elevate them above the decade's artifice at the time.

True though it may be that U2 now live in a comfy creative semi-retirement, rehashing their own trademarks to a deafening chorus of nonsensical critical praise, listening to the Joshua Tree 20 years later makes plain its staggering timelessness. Its influence was brought to bear in later decades on everyone from Radiohead to Coldplay to Doves and Interpol. U2 may never reach the dizzying heights they did here and on Achtung Baby ever again, but news that they are working on their next record (slated for release in 2008) with Lanois and Eno once more at the helm is hope enough to hope that perhaps, they still haven't found what they're looking for. Boom, boom.

Sunday November 11, 2007

Has there ever been such a spectacular squandering of greatness as the Killers achieved with their woefully awful Hot Fuss follow up, Sam's Town? With its overblown Springsteen imitations (only without the pathos), and homages to John Cougar Mellancamp (only completely without irony)? Probably not. However, this matters not an inch to the sold out crowd at the Entertainment Centre, for whom it may be said the phrase "going apeshit" had been specifically coined. Though, I expect that if you weren't born at the time of what was being referenced on stage, you'd probably think that the Killers circa Sam's Town were the second coming of Jebus too. But they aren't. They really, really aren't.....

.. ..After an opening video barrage so overblown not even U2 would have come up with it (though the grainy black and white montages of the Joshua Tree National Park were interspersed with – a goat), there the Killers are, fronted by Brandon Flowers in his baby Bono silver lame suit jacket, prancing around and making Daniel Johns look like a picture of restraint. And no matter how many times they see it, people are always impressed by a falling curtain of shimmering gold confetti. By the singer wide legged, mounting the speaker stacks and emptily gesticulating via fist pumps. The guitarist with his fuzzy head of curls, leather vest and flying V – was this taking the piss? Sadly, no... ..

The Entertainment Centre is a notorious aircraft hanger with huge dead pockets where the sound turns to sludge. But several have been there – notably the Cure and Radiohead – and managed to circumvent the god-awful acoustics and the huge, impersonal space, turning it into a somehow intimate carnival of light and sound. The Killers seemed to have blown all their cash on that light up Sam's Town sign, with not much left over but to buy a huge, black velvet curtain to serve as a backdrop. Yawn...
 ..
Do not let it go unsaid, that Hot Fuss may be one of the most incendiary and almost perfect debut albums of the decade. Seemingly coming from nowhere, it was a searing, embittered rallying call to the done over and heartsick, with 'Mr Brightside' serving as a peerless, shimmering slice of hugely danceable invective. But Sam's Town is laden and clumsy, and with the exception of 'Bones' is almost completely bereft of the electro pop sensibilities, and fat-free, punchy songwriting  which made their debut so staggeringly impressive. ..
 ..
Whenever the band tore into Hot Fuss tracks like 'Somebody Told Me', ....'Jenny Was A Friend of Mine' or 'Smile Like You Mean It' it only served to demonstrate how far the Killers have the strayed from a winning formula on Sam's Town. And while innovation and ambition should always be applauded, the execution here is terrible.

While the band were at times reduced to a mire of drowning frequencies with the snare buried beyond recognition, Brandon Flowers' warbling was crystal clear at every painful moment – especially so in a maudlin acoustic track and in several short, piano led interludes which seemed to go nowhere. His constant strutting to and fro, and complete inability to ever be still and just deliver a tune with some kind of genuine feeling, meant it was all surface and no substance with the Killers this time around. "Smile Like You Mean It" was irony for real for one time in the evening. ....

....But the kids ate up like ice cream. Which if you like vanilla, you probably did too.

[Originally published in the Brag]
....

I admit that I stopped paying such devotedly close attention to R.E.M. after Bill Berry sadly departed and left them adrift in a sea of semi-mediocrity in which they slowly drowned their staggering legacy with a slew of half baked album releases. It was all for one with R.E.M., and having one of them leave with the band going on just didn't jive for me. Also since I stopped listening, a genre called 'jangle pop' has been coined to describe them. Fickle are the hands of time and sand through the hourglass of pop! Whatever! The release of this, R.E.M.'s first ever live album, is cause to pay attention again. And good thing I did too, because if there's one thing that R.E.M. still are, it's an amazingly great live band.

I can't help but notice that there are a lot of people onstage with R.E.M. who aren't in R.E.M. The addition of Seattle multi-instrumentalist Scott McCaughey and drummer Bill Rieflin (formally of Nine Inch Nails and KMFDM) has rounded out the band's sound and allowed for added depth to parts that could previously not be reproduced live. However, this raft of people serves to prove Michael Stipe an even more magnetic presence than previously, and pushes Mike Mills and Peter Buck further into the background – even when the former is on the mic for a track of his own, you still itch for Stipe to be back in the spotlight (heh heh.)

Let us be honest here, even in a show down with Bono, Prince, Justin Timberlake, and Kurt Cobain in a cast featuring any other dead person you could mention, Michael Stipe will out-charisma all of them. Really. Marvel at his angular, straight-backed dance moves! The power of his vocals as he interprets songs he has sung literally 1000s of times with all the urgency of his life depending on it. Even wearing that crazy batmask make-up makes him appear dark and unknowable, and not retarded.

Recorded live in Dublin's Point Depot Theatre, this show reaches all the way back to Murmur and up to Around the Sun. When Peter Bucks fingers the opening mandolin notes to 'Losing My Religion', the reaction of the crowd is to go instantaneously nuts – this track, 15 years after its release, is a towering testament to song writing and is performed here to note perfection. 'Drive' and 'Everybody Hurts' from 1992's masterwork Automatic For The People avoid nostalgia will ironclad deliveries.

Shot with typical reverence and steering clear of live music video clichés, R.E.M. Live is a pleasure to watch, even for losers like me who thought they didn't have it in them anymore. Forgive me, Michael Stipe, for I have sinned.

[Originally published in the Brag]

Fiendishly talented upstart wunderkinds, Operator Please, have just returned home triumphant from their first ever ARIA Awards. Nabbing Breakthrough Single for 'Just A Song About Ping Pong', it's proof that many, many people other than Perez Hilton think they're aces. It caps off a year of incredible highlights for the band who just fresh out of highschool, have embarked on the kind of career trajectory that most artists will only ever dream of.

There's a misconception about Operator Please. As so often goes along with success in Australia, there's a raft of detractors determined to find some way to explain their flight into the stratosphere. It's a very simple explanation: hard work. Savvy marketing has helped somewhat, but in the beginning, Operator Please opened doors on their own through sheer force of will and tenacity, using available tools like MySpace to spread their word.

A reputation for killer live shows solidified the hype. And now, with the release of their debut longplayer Yes Yes Vindictive, Operator Please have a truly impressive record behind them which reveals the breadth of their influences in a sound all of their own. With all the determination of youth, they're here to reassert your faith in the kids. Winningly named drummer Tim Commandeur caught up with us in Sydney.

Here we are two days after the ARIAs. You've won! How are you feeling today? What did you get up to on the night?

There was the afterparty. They had the official party at ACER Arena.

Great party destination, I know.

Yeah! In the middle of Homebush. Right in the middle of Sydney.

Right in the thick of it!

So we hopped the bus to the EMI party in the Cross. I almost didn't get in. So I just tried to keep my head down and walk in with the group. Then security grabs me, like, "hey you! How old are you?" So a friend from the label was there, she's saying, "Dude, they won an ARIA tonight!" (laughs) He still won't let me in. And my guts have dropped down, I'm nearly crying – I have to get into this party! (more laughing). Otherwise it's a cab back to Homebush and go to bed. So my buddy tells the bouncer, "he's my son. I'll look after him." Problem solved!

So how old are you actually

Nearly 18. I just said, "old enough!"

What made you want to be a musician?

At school I never wanted to say play, clarinet. Cause it's gay, (laughs). Sorry to all the flute and clarinet players out there! I wanted to do something cool. My dad was musical, he's a drummer. So I decided to play drums. I just started on a snare, playing basic stuff and then I got onto the kit and he sort of taught me. I was mainly teaching myself. Then about three years ago I got some lessons, and that's when my playing started to progress. I guess I just love performing. That's my main thing that I love doing.

How does songwriting work in Operator Please?

We call it the "snowball effect". Amandah will come up with a riff, or whatever she has and she'll bring it to us. And then we add our own parts and we'll build it up, with our own different sections. We don't necessarily write for own instrument. I could write a keyboard part, or Taylor could write the bass part, or whatever. And then we just build all the parts and play over and over. When we're happy we try it at a show and see how it works. And if it goes well, it's sweet. Otherwise we go back and keep working on it until it's ready.

So it's very democratic and organic.

Yeah, totally.

The touring schedule has really solidified the band's playing – it's a really tight ship. How do you keep your chops up?

Now we're on tour we don't have that much time to rehearse. It's all shows, shows, shows. But for a few weeks we'd rehearse to a click every day for a few hours a day. We've only spent a month or two off tour this whole year. So going home is a holiday for us.

You've known eachother since school, that's a long time. Do you have many bust ups on the road?

Yeah, of course. It's like any family, like your brothers and sisters – we'll fight sometimes. "You bitch! Blah, blah blah." (Laughs.) Ok, in the UK we've got a tour bus. Like a big van. There's seats facing eachother and a table in the middle. So we got a Playstation in there, and we got Singstar. So, it's like "come on! I'll kick your arse!" We bought 90s, 80s, Pop Hits and Rock. So we'd be driving from one end of England to the other, singing Singstar and driving our tour manager nuts. Ha! Hahaha!

What's it like when you hear your track ('Get What You Want') on a commercial?

I feel fine about it! It's getting your music out there. You're only going to reach more people, if people hate you, or not. The industry is changing all the time. MySpace has helped us so much. We've been able to go to France and have people know our stuff there. Everyone seems to know 'Ping Pong'. It's been amazing.

The Mess Hall
Dancing with the Devil
By Elmo Keep



The Mess Hall have kindly chosen 'Keep Walking' as the lead single from their new record, Devil's Elbow. It's a glorious slice of ragged, dirty blues driven along by a nagging, circular riff beefed up on drums that sound like they were recorded in an aircraft hangar. The vocal refrain ("there are ways/ to keep WALKIN'!") has a great, Devoesque inflection that works just right. But even better, is that it has the ingredient that makes everything extra awesome just by its mere presence: MORE COWBELL.

'Keep Walking' also has a brilliant video. Synchronised break dancers, a spooky kid, a muscle guy skipping rope, a dog. It's all there and all taking place inside an incredibly opulent 1960s mansion in Rose Bay. It was shot by Jed Kurzel's brother, who had scouted the location for another project before deciding to shoot the Mess Hall clip there. "Apparently, there was some rumour that Frank Sinatra used to stay there when he came out here," frontman Jed explains, much to the great and immediate impression of Brag, as we then imagine every type of hell that must have been raised there. "But it was a deceased estate, and now some people have bought it who are going to gut it." Oh, dang!

The ghosts of wild men past aside, there is a lot of hell raised on the new Mess Hall record. Or rather perhaps, there had been, and what's on there is the aftermath. "The songs are in kind of limbo land. There were a lot of things going on at the time. I was living in Kings Cross for that time (writing the album), when we'd just got back from the States. A lot of stuff had happened, a lot of death in my family. So a lot had happened, and I was kind of preoccupied with that."

The Mess Hall spent a considerable chunk of time touring overseas last year. They were on bills in the UK and on the US leg supported Wolfmother, sometimes going back to the kind of smaller venues like those they tore up here in Australia in the early days, when they'd blow out somewhere like the Hopetoun with their ungodly noise produced by just the two of them – singer/guitarist Jed and his partner in drums, Cec Condon.

The band decided to stay on a few months in New York, living on the Lower East Side and getting immersed in the lifestyle there, exploring dive bars and soaking up the influences which found their way onto Devil's Elbow. "We had to put down everything we listened to, and not just that one genre (of the blues rock style which informs the Mess Hall sound). And also we were listening to folk songs that take place in another kind of landscape," Jed says of the listening habits he and Cec were drawn to, travelling and touring and working out where to take their next direction on Devil's Elbow.

And what exactly is the Devil's Elbow? A cursory Google search turns up a bunch of insane diamond ski runs in Colorado. "Oh right! Well, It's a place in the Adelaide Hills," says Jed. "There was a corner in the road called the Devil's Elbow and cars were always going off of it. It remember it from childhood, you knew when you were coming up to it. It always felt to me like you were just on the precipice of here or there."

Here nor there. That must sum up nicely the strangeness of coming home from a big tour? Cec says, "It is good coming home, but you're definitely home and in that limbo." So the time came to put all that restless energy in creating something, rather than just hitting bars every night and avoiding real life. But real life has a way of rudely intruding.

"That whole period was just odd, after that (coming home). My dad had passed away while I away, overseas," Jed reveals matter of factly. "And when I got back it was just that arse fell out of everything for a while. And living in this weird area, it was all (recording Devil's Elbow) coming out of that." The result is an extremely cathartic sounding record.

"It wasn't as considered as a lot of other records are. It was very organic and we didn't have a label at that time (having since been signed to Ivy League records)." Cec adds, "We were self financed, and managing ourselves at that point. Everything we were doing was off our own bat."

We ask if it is something wonderful to have a document, finished, at the end of such a difficult time? Like a datestamp marking the end of a shit storm in your life that you managed to survive. But then, that the challenge of touring songs wedded to such a difficult time in your life must be immense.

Jed is enthused about the idea: "That's the beauty of it. We were very proud of it at the end of it. There was a lot of love going into it. The songs feel lived with, to play."

Like they've always been there? "Yeah, in a way. I think that every album should be different, and a snapshot of that time. We've created another bridge to whatever we do the next time."

The Cops and Expatriate
Vineyards, Cannibalism and Co-headlining tours

The Cops and Expatriate are joining forces on the Strange Creatures tour, bringing their respective brands of new wave, post punk inspired rock to venues country wide. But there's much more interesting things to talk about when frontmen Ben King and Simon Carter get together to chew the fat on everything from Prince comeback singles to who would be the first to be devoured on a desert island. The Brag just tries to stay out of the way…

How did you settle on the headliner?

S: we've already decided who's headlining what. But we aren't saying. Which is just a really underhanded way of getting people to come to the show. B: That's right. Be there at 8 o'clock!

So no swordfights?

B: No, no swordfights. Not even flipping coins.

If you did have to have a fight, who would win of the two of you?

B: Well, there are more of the Cops.

IF you were stuck on a desert island with your band, which member would be eaten first?

B: Ha! Well, at the moment Damien has the largest girth. So he'd sustain us for the longest period of time. IS anyone a vego who'd be totally screwed on this island? B: no, not with us. Simon? S: Well, that's a good question.

Isn't it? It's really pertinent. All bands should think about it. It could be you, for all you realise!

S: Well, I am really just a giant chicken wing. I don't think there'd be much fighting over me. The drummer is always pretty meaty. Perhaps a bit tough though. B: Noone's particularly meaty in the Cops.

So, to change tack, what happens to you when you get what you want? When you get to a point with your band, which is something you've wanted since you can ever remember?

S: It's an indescribably awesome feeling to be able to make any sort of living out of pursuing your passion. I'm sure anyone would say that, an artist or not. All of a sudden you start making a living off all the hard work. It's an unbelievable feeling. Did it come easily once it started? Making it your living? S: No. I don't know about you, but it felt almost suicidal – when you come to realise "I want to do that as a profession," but what am I going to do if that doesn't happen? That hangs over your head for so many years. I've got no other qualifications. B: But you've done philosophy! C: It was interesting. But I didn't understand it! (all laugh)

How far along is material for your next records?

S: Well, Expatriate are going to be writing our third record.

At this point, Tiny Dancer comes over the stereo and the BRAG asks Simon to sing along,

S: Nah. This song needs to go in vault for me. You know when you've heard something just too many times, no matter how awesome it is? I think for about two years, it needs to go into the vault. B: I have no idea what the next record will be like. A bit more textured, layered. That's all I have as a feeling at this point. I've listened to a lot of Neil Finn and John Lennon – ultra singer songwriters.

Conversation turns to your correspondent's Zoo TV shirt.

B: We asked Eno to produce our first album. S: That's awesome! Awesome. B: His manager said he wasn't even considering doing anything. Which probably meant, "as if you can afford this!" (laughs)
So who is on your dream list of producers? B: Well Eno, definitely. Bowie. I'd quite like Bowie to drop in, produce a few tracks. S: Yeah man, he'd be so good as a producer. B: And he could probably do with the money, too. S: Well yeah. B: Someone like Timbaland would be cool.

Still listening to Tiny Dancer. You know, Elton John is playing a vineyard when he comes out here.

S: Aw, really? That's it, I think man. When you're on the downward kind of trajectory of your career and you're 60 years old, you'll be like, "ok! I'm doing a tour of vineyards!" Elvis Costello just did one.

Are you insinuating that Elvis Costello is on a downward slide? It's over?

S: Well no, But that last record he did fucking stinks. It's terrible! I love Elvis Costello, but when they start doing whatever crap, it's so awful. B: It's cause he married Diana Krall. S: Well yes. But you know, when I'm 60 years old, if I had a career like that, I'd be doing whatever the fuck I wanted to as well! I'd be doing a tour of museums or something.

Isn't it totally heartbreaking when artists we love get older, and they just completely lose it?

S: Did you hear Black Sweat, by Prince? Man, he lost it FOR YEARS. But then he comes back and pulls out this song which is the most amazing R'n'B shit which just slays everyone. Timbaland, Jay Z, whoever – just fucking forget it compared to this. So he dumps that and just keep son his happy Musicology crap way.

Well let's hope that never happens to you!

B & S: Thanks a lot!

Video of the full interview is available online at The Brag's YouTube channel

Ok kids, it's up at FasterLouder. A lot of my stuff will be republished there, so I'll just put up the links, shall I?

I fucking hate MySpace. I hate the Macy's spam, the insufferable smileys yelling at me inanely. I hate its ugly, ugly code. But for you, I'll come here.

love,
elmo.

FINK
Distance and Time
Inertia



Four and a Half Stars

Ever since Jose Gonzales, it's been okay to like acoustic music again. For those of us who always thought it was okay, FINK's newest longplayer, Distance and Time is the long awaited follow up to his lovely debut Biscuits for Breakfast. It's safe to say that comparisons to Mr Gonzales are fair and in some ways mandatory: both artists hail from the Zero 7/Ninja Tunes/dub-chill infused/acoustic stable.

Both produced the kind of mass, cross-over appeal single that advertisers only dream of (like Jose Gonzales' cover of Heartbeats, FINK's This Is The Thing has accompanied a commercial for a major company's television campaign. And as with Heartbeats, the song is so strong, it will long outlive the association.) You'll also hear the familiar squeaking of strings on frets and the same kind of nakedly honest, romantic lyricism. But to write off FINK as a pale imitation is a lazy comparison which does neither artist any favours.

Before forming his current trio, FINK logged time as a UK festival DJ, and the swing and groove of his previous life is evident in the coolly strange time signatures (This Is The Thing sitting snugly in 5/4), and gently pulsing polyrhythms which underscore the arrangements, which are each allowed room to breathe. These are the subtle points of difference which elevate FINK so far above the genre he works in.

Above that however, is his voice. It's regret tinged and sometimes roughly whispered and so filled with soul, subtly underplaying the pathos of lines like: The things that keep us apart/keep me alive/The things that keep me alive/keep me alone. Nearly all the greatest music comes from the inevitability of heartbreak. From the string laden opener Trouble's What We're In, FINK paints a picture of shattered domestic bliss and the writer's attempt to put it all back together in hindsight (case in point: 'If Only' - the phone rings/I'll be right on the money/I'll be right about everything/All in my mind.)

Compelling and hugely listenable, Distance and Time is a perfect soundtrack to the gathering of both.

U2 pictured in a particularly earnest pose.

Hold your fire, litigious record label reps! Last week I chewed U2 out for not putting out any bonus material on the Popmart DVD release. And, knowing that the band's fragile sense of self corresponds directly to the opinion of ultra hip Sydney street rags, let me make amends by saying that it was plainly my mistake. Reviewing the single DVD release and not this 2 disc bohemoth of bonus material that now sits before me in some truly astounding packaging (hello, pop-up The Edge) is noone's fault but my own. So forthwith, I will sort this right out.

Firstly there is a nice, glossy 20 page booklet extolling the values of the Popmart endeavour as written by MOJO scribe, Danny Eccleston. Yes, brilliant idea, blah, too ambitious, audience stupid, blah blah. Ok great. Propaganda works a treat!

OK. What I can surmise from a cursory look at the behind the scenes footage is, that U2's life is hard. I mean really. Here they are in downtown LA while a major interstate highway is closed down so they can shoot a video, tooling around in an old Chevy with Sophie Dahl in the back seat. Then they catch up with old friend William S. Burroughs who makes a guest appearance that will turn out to be his last ever committed to tape. Supermodel and literary heavyweights? Check.

The immensely retarded idea of building a glittering, 40 foot mirrorball lemon is thankfully done away with in an irreverent 4 minute commercial listing the contraption as a vehicle for sale. No takers there then.

In total across two discs you get: 35 tracks performed live, two video remixes, a visual montage of all the tour visuals provided by artists including Keith Harring, a bunch of screensavers and what not and four tour documentaries – including the incredibly ballsy and beautifully ambitious plan to stage the first ever rock concert in Saravejo after the war, which they did. Amazing.

Don't buy this if you don't like U2. How is that for advice?

U2 have spent their career since Pop trying to bury it. Mainly it seems, because not many people got what they were doing with it. Which sucks balls, because what they were doing was fantastically interesting. Essentially imploding, building sets that no Las Vegas developer on crack would ever consider commissioning, and making an album full of spectacular mistakes. It may not all quite gel as a whole, but it was a strange and risky experiment in mishmash, and so was worthy on its own terms.

Though, it never quite worked like they wanted it to, incorporating elements of dance culture (including producer Howie B) and taking the club on the road with them for two years. U2 have always been supreme fans of music above all else, and soak up whatever it is that they're into at that moment and put it on their record. Whether it was Joy Division on Boy or KMFDM on Achtung Baby. That their songs stand up as unmistakably their own through it all is what makes U2 a truly great band. Or, it did. This DVD is the commitment to film of U2's last great creative flourish.

U2 have, since releasing Pop in 1997, rehashed their 80s sound to their accountant's heart's content. Remastered in approximately 439 audio settings (5.1, PCM stereo, etc) Popmart Live from Mexico City is otherwise cheap by U2 standards, with no bonus material whatsoever. Minus 24 points there, U2. However, it does include 8 tracks from the splendidly lopsided Pop, reaches back to Boy and ticks off the gold standards of 'New Years Day', 'Where the Streets Have No Name' and 'One' along the way - which are each incendiary performances, enough to send Coldplay cowering to the nearest corner. Plus 25 points.

If you like U2, you already own this. If you don't, go get yourself copy of ZooTV Live From Sydney instead. They never quite hit their straps on this release as they did on previous, and even subsequent tours. But Bono is wearing those immensely retarded pants made of bubbles which were designed for the Popmart tour by Gautier. Add four points.

5/10

[Originally published in the Brag]

Bluejuice at Candy's Apartment
Problems Album Launch



I'm confused, bluejuice! Did you not already launch this record at Spectrum a while ago? Because we were all there and it was awesome. You wore the Vitriol Robes and shit was hot, hot, hot. Was it because things have gone somewhat mental-cakes for you since then, that you decided more people had to be admitted into the Church Of Bluejuice than the puny aforementioned venue would allow? Because if I was you, I'd do that too. Radness. Soak up that glory!

Word was early in the day that the show was sold out. This did not deter the line of hopefuls wheeling their way past the bouncers as best they could. And once you were in there, BAM! If that wasn't one sweaty overcrowded den of anticipation.

The sweet taste of success (And if it's really gonna cut you up/ give it a little bit of Vitriol) has bolstered the band's sense of purpose, which shone through in this live set. The never boring onstage antics of frontmen Jake and Stav have been toned down a little to allow the songs to stand on their own – and a damn fine collection they are.

The band meanwhile, are a hugely talented trio responsible for a sound defying their number. The rhythm section busts out ear catching grooves and some really interesting and well executed ideas, while the keys are a whole show on their own – responsible for the entire sound of the band at heart.

Mixing up brash and brattish hip hop elements, with electro-infused rock chops and sci-fi sonic divebombs, the sound (and sight) of bluejuice is truly like nothing else around. The vocals switch up between mile a minute belting raps and perfectly off kilter harmonizing, and the energy barely drops below fevered, even when the band switches gears for a heartfelt almost ballad.

Nights like these at intimate venues will shortly be a thing of the past for bluejuice. But those of us who saw them will be those annoying people who tell you they saw Nirvana at the Hordern that year at the BDO when in reality they were seven years old at the time. Whatever. Kudos to you, bluejuice. Kudos.

Enmore Theatre
Friday August 27

Perhaps chastened by his performance the night before, Ryan Adams played the kind of set the long-suffering fan deserves. Wantonly flaunting the state-wide smoking ban onstage, he talked to the audience, ("I love open mouth country" was how he kissed off Tim McGraw after a gorgeous take on 'When The Stars Go Blue'), rocked the mic sans guitar and generally reinstated his rockstar credentials - without resorting to any of the antics which earn him the reputation as an unreliable, but more often brilliant live performer.

But let's talk about the band: The Cardinals clearly love playing together, and exhibit that enviable mix of spontaneity and exquisite musicianship. To witness the four part harmonies on 'Cold Roses' is a truly spine-chilling experience, and you could hear the reverential silence descend over the Enmore. Lapsteel, piano and duelling guitars all laid over the brilliant solidity of drummer Brad Pemperton – who, is equally adept at driving grooves, a solid four on the flour and the delicacy of brushed playing, whispering like a ghost beneath tender tracks like 'Friends'.

Again the show didn't feature lights on the players for most of the evening, though a purple-tinged red bathed the band from time to time. Somewhere along the way to almost writing himself off completely, Ryan Adams has become a singer of rare par: tempering his range with screaming, sliding into falsetto and fitting huge amounts of words into on-the-fly deliveries which recalled early comparisons made between he and Bob Dylan.

The band played an almost completely different set from the night before, as a cache of over 100 songs to choose from will allow. Reaching back to Heartbreaker stopping off at Gold and 29 along the way, the night drew heavily again from Cold Roses - which is looking to be the masterwork of his oeuvre so far. The incomparable 'Let It Ride' from that record, with its self loathing (27 years of nothing but failures and promises that I couldn't keep) and self belief (But I wasn't ready to go/ I'm never ready to go/ Let it ride) in equal measure summed up the contradictions in Adams which make him such a powerful songwriter.

The only complaint would be that it was short by Mr Adams' standards, at and hour and a half. But to see he and the band having fun onstage for the duration of that time was reward in itself. This is the kind of music that reassures your faith in Rock N Roll.

[Originally published in the Brag]