Yes, I still breathe. For anyone who is following me, I am profoundly sorry.
Moving on: I spent the most part of my hiatus assignmenting, watching films, going to my first proper party in years, turning seventeen and making it out of the ominous seven non-consecutive hours of hellishness that is the QCS Tests. Alive, too!
I also did that blissfully indulgent thing that some theatre people do, where you love a play so much that you go and see it again.The play was shake&stir theatre company's stage adaptation of one of my aforementioned favourite books, 1984, performed at QPAC's Cremorne Theatre, where the slightly rawer, independent shows come out to play. Having already seen the company's adaptation prowess in Animal Farm last year and devoured the original novel, I was quick to book two tickets to see this latest production.
Truth be told, deciding to see it a second time wasn't as whimsical a situation as I'd have liked: I bought tickets to see it of my own accord, and then a week or so later my Drama class were handing in payment and permission forms to see it as a group. But still, having been in a state of severe withdrawal (sniffing the show program dementedly and tragically clicking through the production stills on shake&stir's Facebook page), I was incredibly keen to relive Orwell's fear-mongering tale of conformity and rebellion.
As I had been at Animal Farm, I was seated in the front row at the first viewing. The show's opening sequence--an unsettling soundscape of air raid sirens, detonating bombs and screaming children to heighten the mood necessary for the Orwellian concept that was the Two Minutes Hate--was an introduction whose energy was of a magnitude I had never before experienced at a live theatrical show. Since Animal Farm, I had actually worked with most of the actors in an after-school youth theatre workshop for a term, befriended them on Facebook, and generally formed an affinity of sorts with them. Seeing my kinda-sorta cronies clad in navy-blue overalls and 1930s haircuts and sitting poised for hurling abuse, I almost smiled, even though I was anticipating the dense wall of livid noise that would follow. The first thing I noticed when one of the cast members let forth a gruff yell of "BASTARD!", was that there was no trace of a British accent to be heard. Props to shake&stir (see what I did there?) for giving such an English tale an effortless Australian sensibility! The momentary portrayal of the proletariat community (i.e. the scum of this dystopian world) was deliciously ocker, just one of the many artistic decisions that proved to be wonderful little gems that only added to the overall experience that was this show.
Brisbane theatre veteran and occasional film cameo Bryan Probets portrayed Winston Smith, the humble, awkward rebel whose perspective served as the window to the story. His performance was more or less flawless, his control of voice tailored seamlessly to every emotion he performed. shake & stir Artistic Director Nelle Lee's portrayal of Winston's female counterpart, Julia, was wonderful: spirited, passionate and a little bit naughty. The apparent chemistry between the pair was gorgeous, it was clear that the oppression they were living beneath was immense, hence the intensity of their tactile pursuits during the handful of carefully orchestrated trysts they managed to snag, despite their continuously controlled lives. The fact that their like-mindedness and shared hatred of the Party trumped the age gap between them was also a facet to their relationship that the actors portrayed beautifully. The smattering of sexual intimacy in the show was executed tastefully, yet still refused to shy away from a certain degree of realism.
The scenes that saw Winston's brutal conversion therapy in the Ministry of Love proved to be the kind of live theatre that truly chills you. I shook in my seat, not entirely due to the ridiculous level of air conditioning in the room. The tension of mystery in terms of Probets' role was at its pinnacle. As his quietly sadistic oppressor O'Brien (played by Hugh Parker) asked him question after manipulative question, the answers given by Probets' character were always delivered with a dense air of apprehension, which made for a deliciously frightening experience. Naturally, this was pumped up ten-fold when Parker wrenched Probets from the gurney and forced him in front of an imaginary mirror... that was apparently situated at the very edge of the stage, smack-bang in front of me. If they were any closer, they would have kicked me. The sequence also evoked emotions at the sympathetic end of the emotional spectrum, where my strangely maternal heartstrings were tugged hard by the crescendo of Probets' solitary sobbing.
Possibly one of the most interesting and unique facets to the show is the utilisation of a digital backdrop as the primary set piece. The footage displayed upon it took on the aesthetic of evidence from a surveillance camera, which inevitably, was the very thing that set Winston and Julia's grim fate into motion.
In conclusion, well, I don't think I need to narrow it down. I think it's perfectly clear that it was a flippin' spectacular show, made all the more theatrically successful by its concise cast of five. The heightened tension and unsettlingly prophetic themes that dominated the show combined forces to bring to the stage a contemporary yet timeless performance that I walked away from wearing a rather stupid grin, evoked by the most blissful realisation: I would be experiencing this tumultuous bout of excitement all over again in a week!
...Also, Nelle recognised me during curtain call on my first viewing. WINNING.
...Me again: this post, minus the update on my social and educational pursuits, could have been my final piece of Drama assessment EVER, but my Fascist teacher is forcing me into presenting a ludicrously long monologue. So SCREW YOU, [INSERT NAME OF TEACHER], I DID THE FUCKING RESPONDING TASK ANYWAY, STICK THAT IN YOUR PIPE AND SMOKE IT!
Wednesday 26 September 2012
Sunday 17 June 2012
In my lengthy absence...
I have seen and heard many things, most of which have strengthened my faith in the future of creative artistry and reminded me just how lucky I am.
I have experienced the controversial/semi-disturbing delights of a little film called A Clockwork Orange and loved the fuck out of it, seen the gorgeous Florence + the Machine play live at Brisbane's Riverstage with my younger cousin who was then experiencing her first ever live concert, gone on a spontaneous road trip to Dalby with family friends to wade through mud and see Matt Corby at a rather wet and muddy One Night Stand hosted by triple j, finally seen Never Let Me Go and took it out of the DVD player a tad disappointed, watched Schindler's List and nearly burst into a noisy bout of sobbing, and on Friday night went on an adventure to the Brisbane Powerhouse with aforementioned family friend and her step-sister to see a whimsical bunch of musicians who go by Pear & the Awkward Orchestra.
I'm humbled looking at all the fantastic adventures I've just scribbled. It seems I've been attending more live gigs and theatre of late, and I seldom think of those who might get no further than dreaming of having the opportunities I've somewhat been taking for granted. I love the fact that I'm getting more acquainted with my own city and our rich arts culture, and along the way gaining more independence, which I'll be needing in abundance come the imminent advent of Uni next year. I'm both proud and slightly embarrassed to say that Friday evening was the first time I'd ever caught a bus completely and utterly alone.
Also during my unannounced hiatus, I have completed the most part of my assessment for my second last semester of school for the remainder of my natural life. All I have left is lovely, lovely Film & Television work, which can hardly be classified as work. My senior year is dwindling fast.
I'm also in the midst of planning a novel. Part indie and part realism, it shall be called Ezra & Alice and with any luck, shall be rather wonderful. Sometimes when I attempt another novel, part of me thinks that perhaps the story I'm trying to write would translate better on stage or in cinematic form, but then I always think of how immediate a novel would be. You can read it electronically or in hardcopy, and even if it's not published, it's still a story that can be immediately consumed by other humans. A novel is independent, a stand-alone piece of art. A film or a play require extensive resources, people and money, none of which I have at my disposal.
That's another thing: I rarely finish novels. I went through a phase around the age of eleven or twelve where I could crank them out quite easily (by 'novels', I here mean 'nine-foolscap-page documents of pure bollocks with monstrous use of caps lock and exclamation marks'). I was having immense delusions of Jodi Picoult-like grandeur, but in actuality I was writing horrendously ill-researched sagas thatblatantly plaigiarised borrowed from RENT and Kiss Me Kate. I still have my No Business Like Show Business trilogy, about the trials and tribulations of a group of friends in a variety of different positions in the pecking order of a New York theatre company. My ignorance about worldly things like social class, one night stands (of the non-triple j variety!), the mechanics of a theatre company and even realistic dialogue are blatantly obvious in each instalment, I cringe to read them now. Then there's the cover artwork, drawn by yours truly, that sees the grim-looking, semi-poverty-stricken-despite-their-respectable-career characters standing in a formation not unlike that of 'Seasons of Love' in RENT. Shit, I was one clueless loner of a pre-teen.
All that aside, Ezra & Alice is about a teenage boy (the aforementioned Ezra) who loses the use of his legs after being struck with stage scaffolding in his school auditorium. Upon moving schools, he is antisocial and content to wallow in despair. He meets the forward, enigmatic Alice, who pulls him out of his funk and rekindles his lust for life. She also ignites a lust of the literal kind, forcing Ezra to think a little harder about his disability than he has had to in a while.
Watch this space for more on this little project. I'm determined to finish this bitch. The upcoming winter holidays should be instrumental for making significant progress. Also for trips to the city and tea parties.
I have experienced the controversial/semi-disturbing delights of a little film called A Clockwork Orange and loved the fuck out of it, seen the gorgeous Florence + the Machine play live at Brisbane's Riverstage with my younger cousin who was then experiencing her first ever live concert, gone on a spontaneous road trip to Dalby with family friends to wade through mud and see Matt Corby at a rather wet and muddy One Night Stand hosted by triple j, finally seen Never Let Me Go and took it out of the DVD player a tad disappointed, watched Schindler's List and nearly burst into a noisy bout of sobbing, and on Friday night went on an adventure to the Brisbane Powerhouse with aforementioned family friend and her step-sister to see a whimsical bunch of musicians who go by Pear & the Awkward Orchestra.
I'm humbled looking at all the fantastic adventures I've just scribbled. It seems I've been attending more live gigs and theatre of late, and I seldom think of those who might get no further than dreaming of having the opportunities I've somewhat been taking for granted. I love the fact that I'm getting more acquainted with my own city and our rich arts culture, and along the way gaining more independence, which I'll be needing in abundance come the imminent advent of Uni next year. I'm both proud and slightly embarrassed to say that Friday evening was the first time I'd ever caught a bus completely and utterly alone.
Also during my unannounced hiatus, I have completed the most part of my assessment for my second last semester of school for the remainder of my natural life. All I have left is lovely, lovely Film & Television work, which can hardly be classified as work. My senior year is dwindling fast.
I'm also in the midst of planning a novel. Part indie and part realism, it shall be called Ezra & Alice and with any luck, shall be rather wonderful. Sometimes when I attempt another novel, part of me thinks that perhaps the story I'm trying to write would translate better on stage or in cinematic form, but then I always think of how immediate a novel would be. You can read it electronically or in hardcopy, and even if it's not published, it's still a story that can be immediately consumed by other humans. A novel is independent, a stand-alone piece of art. A film or a play require extensive resources, people and money, none of which I have at my disposal.
That's another thing: I rarely finish novels. I went through a phase around the age of eleven or twelve where I could crank them out quite easily (by 'novels', I here mean 'nine-foolscap-page documents of pure bollocks with monstrous use of caps lock and exclamation marks'). I was having immense delusions of Jodi Picoult-like grandeur, but in actuality I was writing horrendously ill-researched sagas that
All that aside, Ezra & Alice is about a teenage boy (the aforementioned Ezra) who loses the use of his legs after being struck with stage scaffolding in his school auditorium. Upon moving schools, he is antisocial and content to wallow in despair. He meets the forward, enigmatic Alice, who pulls him out of his funk and rekindles his lust for life. She also ignites a lust of the literal kind, forcing Ezra to think a little harder about his disability than he has had to in a while.
Watch this space for more on this little project. I'm determined to finish this bitch. The upcoming winter holidays should be instrumental for making significant progress. Also for trips to the city and tea parties.
Sunday 29 April 2012
Midsummer: A Play With Songs
Tonight, I went on a daddy-daughter date.
We usually embark on one of these whenever an upcoming live gig tickles our fancy--the enthusiasm is often mutual, thanks the hereditary nature of my taste in music.
But tonight saw a change of plans. You see, as well as live music, I have an equally ardent love affair with live theatre, performances of which I will normally attend with my mother in tow. Only recently have I ventured away from stock-standard musicals and dipped my toe into some more boundary-breaking material. The most outstanding of which so far have been The Escapists' one-man production boy girl wall (2011) Shake & Stir Theatre Company's physical theatre reinterpretation of Orwellian fairy-story Animal Farm (2011). My goodly father, aware of said love of theatrical entertainment, came across a production called Midsummer (A Play With Songs) by the Traverse Theatre Company in the Saturday paper. He enquired my interest in attending such a show, I told him "Yes. Yes, I should very much like to see this Midsummer you speak of."
We promptly booked our tickets and toddled on down to the La Boite theatre.
The premise of this wonderful play is the existential crises of two wayward mid-thirties Scots, Helena and Bob. They have reached a point in their lives I have not yet experienced but have a rudimentary idea of: a point where one casts one's mind back to everything they've ever done in their life up until said point and lets forth the simple yet all-encompassing musing: "Is this it?" One apparently feels stuck, unable to go back and re-live the shit bits lest they feel the desire to do so, let alone move forward and on to bigger and better and more prolific things.
My reading of the play's intention was to say a great big "fuck you!" to this concept, and realise that it's not the be-all and end-all of one's existence, as Helena and Bob find themselves beginning to do. The format of the show sampled some of the elements that comprise French New Wave cinema, such as formal introductions to each principal role, supporting roles having zany little quirks, as well as exclusively theatrical devices like multiple characters portrayed by a single actor and subsequently layering costume pieces to differentiate between them.
But the most outstanding facet to this performance is its overarching description:
A PLAY WITH SONGS.
The average layperson will take these words and immediately conclude that they're about to see a musical. No, no they are not. Midsummer does have a music element, Bob being a would-be busker with a penchant for Jesus and Mary Chain, but it's nothing more ostentatious than three guitars, two ukeleles and a tambourine, all played and beautifully sung to by the cast of two (Cora Bissett and Matthew Pidgeon). That's not to say the songs weren't poignant, because they were every bit so, alternately heightening senses of contentment, forlornness or nauseousness.
An anecdote with which to conclude: somewhere amidst all the strumming and swearing and storytelling, one member of the audience promptly rose from his seat, strode wordlessly in front of the actors and left the theatre. I watched, somewhat astonished, as the cast erupted into convulsive fits of laughter. Although Bissett facetiously suggested we all hide before he returned, and they wasted no time bringing themselves back into the zone to continue the performance, I initially thought it very unprofessional of them to have lost focus like that. I'd witnessed technical malfunctions and brief memory lapses during past theatre visits, but never had I seen seasoned actors lose it in front of a paying audience. In hindsight, taking into account the intimate space and affinity already established with the audience, it really didn't matter. If anything, it added to the relaxed atmosphere of the night. It was a fortuitous sledgehammer to the fourth wall, reiterating that actors on stage are not astronomical, lofty beings, but they are incredibly talented, tremendous people who convey relevant, moving stories for us in a thoroughly entertaining format, and that is exactly what I received from the cast and crew of Midsummer tonight.
We usually embark on one of these whenever an upcoming live gig tickles our fancy--the enthusiasm is often mutual, thanks the hereditary nature of my taste in music.
But tonight saw a change of plans. You see, as well as live music, I have an equally ardent love affair with live theatre, performances of which I will normally attend with my mother in tow. Only recently have I ventured away from stock-standard musicals and dipped my toe into some more boundary-breaking material. The most outstanding of which so far have been The Escapists' one-man production boy girl wall (2011) Shake & Stir Theatre Company's physical theatre reinterpretation of Orwellian fairy-story Animal Farm (2011). My goodly father, aware of said love of theatrical entertainment, came across a production called Midsummer (A Play With Songs) by the Traverse Theatre Company in the Saturday paper. He enquired my interest in attending such a show, I told him "Yes. Yes, I should very much like to see this Midsummer you speak of."
We promptly booked our tickets and toddled on down to the La Boite theatre.
The premise of this wonderful play is the existential crises of two wayward mid-thirties Scots, Helena and Bob. They have reached a point in their lives I have not yet experienced but have a rudimentary idea of: a point where one casts one's mind back to everything they've ever done in their life up until said point and lets forth the simple yet all-encompassing musing: "Is this it?" One apparently feels stuck, unable to go back and re-live the shit bits lest they feel the desire to do so, let alone move forward and on to bigger and better and more prolific things.
My reading of the play's intention was to say a great big "fuck you!" to this concept, and realise that it's not the be-all and end-all of one's existence, as Helena and Bob find themselves beginning to do. The format of the show sampled some of the elements that comprise French New Wave cinema, such as formal introductions to each principal role, supporting roles having zany little quirks, as well as exclusively theatrical devices like multiple characters portrayed by a single actor and subsequently layering costume pieces to differentiate between them.
But the most outstanding facet to this performance is its overarching description:
A PLAY WITH SONGS.
The average layperson will take these words and immediately conclude that they're about to see a musical. No, no they are not. Midsummer does have a music element, Bob being a would-be busker with a penchant for Jesus and Mary Chain, but it's nothing more ostentatious than three guitars, two ukeleles and a tambourine, all played and beautifully sung to by the cast of two (Cora Bissett and Matthew Pidgeon). That's not to say the songs weren't poignant, because they were every bit so, alternately heightening senses of contentment, forlornness or nauseousness.
An anecdote with which to conclude: somewhere amidst all the strumming and swearing and storytelling, one member of the audience promptly rose from his seat, strode wordlessly in front of the actors and left the theatre. I watched, somewhat astonished, as the cast erupted into convulsive fits of laughter. Although Bissett facetiously suggested we all hide before he returned, and they wasted no time bringing themselves back into the zone to continue the performance, I initially thought it very unprofessional of them to have lost focus like that. I'd witnessed technical malfunctions and brief memory lapses during past theatre visits, but never had I seen seasoned actors lose it in front of a paying audience. In hindsight, taking into account the intimate space and affinity already established with the audience, it really didn't matter. If anything, it added to the relaxed atmosphere of the night. It was a fortuitous sledgehammer to the fourth wall, reiterating that actors on stage are not astronomical, lofty beings, but they are incredibly talented, tremendous people who convey relevant, moving stories for us in a thoroughly entertaining format, and that is exactly what I received from the cast and crew of Midsummer tonight.
Saturday 28 January 2012
The Things I Like.
Approximately 70.2% of my thoughts and leisure activities revolve around the art and words I consume.
The primary reason for this? I'm a socially inept, immensely awkward square. I possess friends, wonderful friends at that, but I don't go out very often. And I spend time with my gloriously irreverent immediate family too, but my alone time is filled with the wonderful words, phenomenal music, incredible acting talent and kick-arse ideas of other people. Said time is typically spent hidden away in mylair bedroom, situated in the catacombs of the house. The particularly rad shit in the creativity-loving world (and the people who bring it to fruition) are listed here:
A FEW OF MY FAVOURITE MUSICIANS:
A FEW OF MY FAVOURITE FILMS:
There. If you've stayed with me up to this point, you're a legend. You really didn't have to, you know. I just wanted to share some of the arty-farty things that have moved me over the years, and I'd be stoked to find out what arty-farty things have moved you, also.
xxo
The primary reason for this? I'm a socially inept, immensely awkward square. I possess friends, wonderful friends at that, but I don't go out very often. And I spend time with my gloriously irreverent immediate family too, but my alone time is filled with the wonderful words, phenomenal music, incredible acting talent and kick-arse ideas of other people. Said time is typically spent hidden away in my
A FEW OF MY FAVOURITE MUSICIANS:
- Placebo. Like Nirvana, Muse and that smattering of Marilyn Manson, this band is a tad out of place amongst all the whimsical indie artists that grace my iTunes library. But I will tell you without a second thought that they're my favourite band of all time. I can relate to a handful of their songs, but the vast majority of them are simply beautiful pieces of contemporary storytelling. Musically they are gritty, emotive and gorgeous, and I've never seen a more worldly, eloquent frontman than Brian Molko in all my life. Good God, if I could sit down and converse with the well-read bastard...
- Florence + the Machine. She's such a fearless, prolific, angel-voiced woman, I am unashamed to say I have a bit of a lady-crush on Flo. Most recent album Ceremonials is a lot more 'epic' sounding than the eclectic feel of her debut, but wonderful nonetheless!
- Sarah Blasko. Whimsical. Aussie. Auto-tune free. That is all the description this fine Sydney lass needs!
- Gotye. A newly-appointed favourite, but no less tear-jerkingly talented. This man is the epitome of the very word 'musician', he plays instruments I have never even heard of, and does so with impeccable finesse. Did I mention that he has a voice that evokes a profound desire to weep? I have yet to actually purchase the prior delights in his back catalogue, I'm just a little low on iTunes moolah at present :,(
A FEW OF MY FAVOURITE FILMS:
- Juno (2007). Juno MacGuff is probably my favourite film character of all time. She's so cynical, and the immensity of the shit she does not give is astronomical. Plus Diablo Cody is an incredible screenwriter, the words she puts into the characters' mouths are so unendingly witty and at the same time feel very natural.
- The Elephant Man (1980). John Hurt. Based on a true story. Black-and-white film, despite the existence of Technicolour. These be the ingredients for a kick-arse classic film! I don't know what possessed me to rent it, why it struck my curiosity, but I know I more or less went into withdrawls after returning it to good ol' Civic Video. I sobbed multiple times over the course of the film, it stirred rather strong feelings in me regarding the blatant, cruel chauvinism shown by the upper-class clientle of 19th century England.
- Amelie (2001, France). A lot of people immediately picture the whimsical tale of the selfless, lovable Amelie Poulain when they think of 'world cinema'. I encourage these people to delve into the films of other cultures too, but still to drink in the playful, colour-rich 122 minutes of joy that is Amelie.
- Rent (Opened 1996). Good God, where to start? First and foremost, it's freakin' groundbreaking! No piece of theatre exists quite like this one. It's as contemporary as all hell, drawing upon rock, soul and plenty of other unlikely genres, has no daggy factor to speak of, and everyone likes to find out that their new-found favourite piece of theatre/film/music is a modern interpretation of a classic text (it's based on Puccini's opera La Boheme, which I openly know nothing about).
- Phantom of the Opera (Opened 1986). So this one might have a bit of daggy factor, but not much. This show calls for rich, faultless vocals, and the current West End cast certainly brings it. I love the era in which the scene is set, I love the narrative. Mysterious half-masked musical genius opera ghost? Yes please.
- Nineteen Eighty-Four by George Orwell (1949). Note that it was written prior to the titular year. Not a recount of the year, people, a freakin' PREDICTION! Albeit a largely innacurate one, Orwell has created a quietly terrifying world of surveillance, repression, fear and obedience. He screwed around with the dictionary, formulated a number of monstrously oppressive laws and regulations, and was actually the creator of the Big Brother that most of us know only from a certain Channel 10 reality TV series. To be a suck-up to the novel and indulge in the made-up language created by Orwell (Newspeak, in which aforementioned screwing with dictionary takes place), this book is doubleplusgood.
- Change of Heart by Jodi Picoult (2008). Oh, Jodi, how I love you. You are without hesitation my favourite author, yes you are. The flame-haired wordsmith has a penchant for legal stories and the touchy topics in our world. Change of Heart looks at religion, loss, family, revenge and one hell of a difficult choice. Almost a modern reinterpretation of The Green Mile, which is also amazing in its own right.
- The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time by Mark Haddon (2003). This one is less of a book and more of a grown-up, quirky adventure. It's told entirely through the eyes of awkward 15-year-old Christopher who has Apserger's Synrdome, and his distinctive, complicated style of narration makes the book impossible to simply read and then forget about. It's literary art.
There. If you've stayed with me up to this point, you're a legend. You really didn't have to, you know. I just wanted to share some of the arty-farty things that have moved me over the years, and I'd be stoked to find out what arty-farty things have moved you, also.
xxo
Wednesday 18 January 2012
The Underratedness of Australian Content
So I was trawling the aisles of a sprawling music shop, searching for my friend with a healthy stack of CDs in my hand, when I strolled past the 'World Music' section. It's not my usual haunt- I'm more often than not hovering around the 'Alternative' section, squealing intermittently in an unhinged manner- but I decided to check out what was on offer. The albums were categorised by country, there were Jamaican, Italian, Irish titles... And then, to the left-hand side, I saw something that still haunts me to this day.
A category.
In the World. Music. Section.
Labelled 'Australia'.
As in, the country in which we live. I find this rather ridiculous. Why is it that Australian content is segregated, and why to the 'World Music' section, of all places? I know I'm being a bit petty here, but I struggle to fathom why our music has its own section. It's not as if the UK has its own sections for British music. Music coming out of Australia should just be 'music'. It's ours, it's not international and it should always be among the rest of the titles according to genre.
Perhaps I'm exaggerating the situation. I mean, Aussie albums can be found pretty much throughout the other genres. I'm sure there's some Kylie filed under 'Pop', there's more Aussie material in the 'Alternative/Indie' section than any other, and the 'Heavy Metal' section probably has small doses of Parkway Drive and Dead Letter Circus. But the 'Australia' category under 'World Music' housed material by the likes of Indigenous artist Gurrumul, John Williamson, and- God forbid- Angus & Julia Stone, that little brother-and-sister duo that hit #1 on the Triple J Hottest 100 2010 with 'Big Jet Plane', a song that was even played regularly on commercial radio.
Okay, so admittedly, it's possible that this dreaded 'Australia' category was a little sparse because the remaining Aussie content was hidden in the rest of the genre sections, but when I say that Aussie music should be among the rest of the titles according to genre, I mean all of it.
It's as simple as this: this is Australia, so why shouldn't Australia's music be regarded as ours? Well, it's because we're more inclined to pick something from America because of its material and artists having had ridiculous amounts of pervading reinforcement over the decades. We're too influenced by American material for my liking, and it's a sad fact that the most part of America's music-listeners probably wouldn't touch music or any kind of mainstream entertainment from somewhere different with a ten-foot pole, yet music listeners over here clamour for American content. America is somewhere different.
I'm not bagging all the American content in existence, because Americans are capable of producing some damn fine art (think Sofia Coppola's films, Jodi Picoult's novels, and the music of Nirvana, Gossip, The White Stripes and Vampire Weekend), but I loathe what their unfortunately large number of heinously atrocious artists have done to the music we consume over here in Oz. And the films- at our cinemas, more people flock to get tickets to the latest special-effects-dependent Hollywood epic than even think to go and see an Australian film that could be potentially thought-provoking, tear-jerking, uplifting or all of the above. Our films are often quite profound, and I sense that people are almost repelled by the thought of seeing something with a bit of meaning, and subsequently go for the predictable films with the pretty pictures, exhausted plot-lines and the primarily rubbish actors. Surely these people are slowly turning into illiterate piles of mush.
And I do recognise that Australia is also capable of spitting out talent-lacking ninnies who call themselves 'artists'. At present there's a gap-toothed teenager with a rat's tail and the faintest skerrick of what could be a singing voice. His one single so far is blared on commercial radio at the approximate rate of every third song, which equates to more than too many times over the course of one day. I'm not going to name this mystery flop, but I'll just say I'm appalled to think that he might be the only notion people from my generation have of Australian music.
On a lighter note, this is one of the many reasons I adore the theatre. There seems to be no blatant preference for a certain demographic of performers or performance styles. Most theatre-goers attend an eclectic mix of performances, probably due to the thrill induced by seeing a story unfold in the flesh before one's eyes, regardless of the story being told or the manner in which the performers go about expressing it.
So basically the long and short of it is that I think we should become a teensy bit more acquainted with the wonderful material that comes out of this country. If it doesn't resonate, then that's fine. I just think that a lot of us would do well to venture further than Hugh Jackman films when contemplating Aussie content.
I don't care how sweet his abs are.
*I genuinely have nothing against Hugh. Or his abs. I'm merely addressing that he's one of the more widely renowned Aussie screen actors, and that others do exist (*cough*MELISSAGEORGE*cough*).
A category.
In the World. Music. Section.
Labelled 'Australia'.
As in, the country in which we live. I find this rather ridiculous. Why is it that Australian content is segregated, and why to the 'World Music' section, of all places? I know I'm being a bit petty here, but I struggle to fathom why our music has its own section. It's not as if the UK has its own sections for British music. Music coming out of Australia should just be 'music'. It's ours, it's not international and it should always be among the rest of the titles according to genre.
Perhaps I'm exaggerating the situation. I mean, Aussie albums can be found pretty much throughout the other genres. I'm sure there's some Kylie filed under 'Pop', there's more Aussie material in the 'Alternative/Indie' section than any other, and the 'Heavy Metal' section probably has small doses of Parkway Drive and Dead Letter Circus. But the 'Australia' category under 'World Music' housed material by the likes of Indigenous artist Gurrumul, John Williamson, and- God forbid- Angus & Julia Stone, that little brother-and-sister duo that hit #1 on the Triple J Hottest 100 2010 with 'Big Jet Plane', a song that was even played regularly on commercial radio.
Okay, so admittedly, it's possible that this dreaded 'Australia' category was a little sparse because the remaining Aussie content was hidden in the rest of the genre sections, but when I say that Aussie music should be among the rest of the titles according to genre, I mean all of it.
It's as simple as this: this is Australia, so why shouldn't Australia's music be regarded as ours? Well, it's because we're more inclined to pick something from America because of its material and artists having had ridiculous amounts of pervading reinforcement over the decades. We're too influenced by American material for my liking, and it's a sad fact that the most part of America's music-listeners probably wouldn't touch music or any kind of mainstream entertainment from somewhere different with a ten-foot pole, yet music listeners over here clamour for American content. America is somewhere different.
I'm not bagging all the American content in existence, because Americans are capable of producing some damn fine art (think Sofia Coppola's films, Jodi Picoult's novels, and the music of Nirvana, Gossip, The White Stripes and Vampire Weekend), but I loathe what their unfortunately large number of heinously atrocious artists have done to the music we consume over here in Oz. And the films- at our cinemas, more people flock to get tickets to the latest special-effects-dependent Hollywood epic than even think to go and see an Australian film that could be potentially thought-provoking, tear-jerking, uplifting or all of the above. Our films are often quite profound, and I sense that people are almost repelled by the thought of seeing something with a bit of meaning, and subsequently go for the predictable films with the pretty pictures, exhausted plot-lines and the primarily rubbish actors. Surely these people are slowly turning into illiterate piles of mush.
And I do recognise that Australia is also capable of spitting out talent-lacking ninnies who call themselves 'artists'. At present there's a gap-toothed teenager with a rat's tail and the faintest skerrick of what could be a singing voice. His one single so far is blared on commercial radio at the approximate rate of every third song, which equates to more than too many times over the course of one day. I'm not going to name this mystery flop, but I'll just say I'm appalled to think that he might be the only notion people from my generation have of Australian music.
On a lighter note, this is one of the many reasons I adore the theatre. There seems to be no blatant preference for a certain demographic of performers or performance styles. Most theatre-goers attend an eclectic mix of performances, probably due to the thrill induced by seeing a story unfold in the flesh before one's eyes, regardless of the story being told or the manner in which the performers go about expressing it.
So basically the long and short of it is that I think we should become a teensy bit more acquainted with the wonderful material that comes out of this country. If it doesn't resonate, then that's fine. I just think that a lot of us would do well to venture further than Hugh Jackman films when contemplating Aussie content.
I don't care how sweet his abs are.
*I genuinely have nothing against Hugh. Or his abs. I'm merely addressing that he's one of the more widely renowned Aussie screen actors, and that others do exist (*cough*MELISSAGEORGE*cough*).
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