John Waters ‘This Filthy World‘ live at Adelaide’s her Majesty’s Theatre Thursday 27th October 2011

Despite his infamy I wouldn’t have guessed JW would make it out to this little town that, last weekend attempted to prove itself to be a far outpost of the world when very few made it out for the weekend of John Waters movies that played at the Mercury Cinema. The opening night even featured free ‘Pink Drinks’- Some manner of trashy cocktails laced with unseen or tasted but ever present vodka. They even rolled out a couple of drag queens and a glorious purple carpet to kick off the proceedings. However its lack of serious publicity may be to blame for the thin attendance. Still, Pink Flamingos was glorious on the big screen. Still savagely shocking to newcomers who couldn't believe what was unfolding and as hilarious as ever to veterans of filth. Films like Hairspray, A Dirty Shame and Cry Baby (featuring Johnny Depp) are world famous but to little avail at this movie marathon.

Happily though, after easing a bout of spring humidity with imperial pints of beer we find that the cult following has come creeping out of the woodwork. Adelaide really turned out for the Pope of Trash. All manner of secret fans, overt ones, rockabilly folks and the gay community (including a pretty good Divine look a like) came out of the wormwood and delivered rapturous laughter and enthusiastic applause as he took to the stage and yarned non-stop for an hour and a half, without a single in-breath. John Waters must have six lungs for he is an almighty and relentlessly funny gas-bagger. And indeed it was mainly new stories and anecdotes and tales of John interacting with the modern celebrity scene and a few new sex acts and horrors.  Including his obsession with Justin Bieber to whom he gave an eyebrow pencil…and the world subsequently witnessed a douchebag with Water’s trademark pencil thin mustache. John went on to add, on the subject of Justin, ‘If Michael Jackson were still alive…’

John’s presence was pure gold and he exceeded my expectations which had built up like an inextinguishable hellfire. In true form he introduced us (me?) to a new sex act- Blossoms- Swollen results quite deliberately obtained through significant rear fisting. And his amusing sandbagging of ‘sploshers’, the obsession of dousing ones private parts with food items, sent light heartedly packing with one liners like ‘ you can’t date rape a cookie’ and ‘you can’t hate fuck a cake.’

John’s idea for a bar was something to be treasured. Featuring 'unhappy hour' where penniless and barred patrons are given free drinks and brawl with each other. Another splintered mental note comes back simply as …’serving vinegar from a witches asshole.’ But despite his very individual and creative Baltimore universe of trash and filth, a warm hearted spirit and unshakeably decent values shine through. John isn’t telling you how to live, he is shocking and entertaining you, like one of his B movie idols William Castle. This same glow bursts out of Hairspray, whose heroine is overweight 'Hefty Hideaway' girl Ricki Lake dancing her way to local stardom in a 60’s teeny bopper show. And side by side with her pals protests her favourite show because it won’t show a single black face unless it is ‘negro day’, the last Thursday of every month. And Pecker with its loving family and faith in Baltimore’s homely insanity Vs. New York’s world of high art and fashion. Waters and his crew grew out of hippy protests and rebellious politics, plus the people at protests ‘looked good and had loose morals’. 

He is clearly a polite and thoroughly decent chap who knows how to enjoy himself. During the post show meet and greet some people were too hasty and rude and harassed him quite a bit. At one point I noted a look on his face as some patrons headed off that seemed to say, well fuck you too, he seemed to have been disrespected. I couldn’t think of anything clever to say, so simply gave him a copy of the Nature Loves Courage zine (hoping he would get a kick out of the bad romance of ‘Booby Tuesday (see below)), placed an unforced arm on his back and wished him all the best, to which he responded with a deliberate and gracious thankyou. And besides daring a close friend to eat shit on screen and being treated like it in person are quite different.

But seriously as Charles Bukowski once said, ’those who preach love don’t have love'. John doesn’t need to harp on about good deeds and righteous behavior like a televangelist and doesn’t point fingers and demonise others. Perhaps it is the repressed neuters of the world who in their jealousy create proper evil, jealous of Satan’s freedom? Who hate the liberty of others and seek to keep it in check? But this is just speculation. My finger remains pointed at the sky, awaiting the new dawn. Ladies, gentlemen, transexuals and drag queens... Satan is love.

Dominic J Clark

John Waters: The Role Models in my Life (book reading and Q&A) Watershed Cinema, Bristol, UK.

Something's noticeably different about the Watershed tonight. The usual attendees (smart-casual Guardian-subscribing liberals) have been replaced by a giggling horde of polka-dotted fag hags, art-schoolers and curious old queens. In short, the queue snaking its way toward Watershed Screen 1 resembles the cast from a John Waters film – and its awash with genuine excitement and anticipation. JW has a rabid cult following in Bristol, it seems.

My companion and I can't profess to having known much, or been particular fans of, Mr Waters output before this. But even to the uninitiated, the man is a delight to watch. Enthusiastic, frequently hilarious, and in possession of copious oddball anecdotes – the like of which you only pick up over a lifetime spent documenting the underbelly of American culture.

Touring in support of his new book 'Role Models', he begins with a reading from said book which is mercifully short. Not because the reading is dull per se, but he's such a charming interviewee, a longer reading would have cut into what already felt like too little time in his company. And what spectacular company it is. His suave appearance and bizarre voice are matched by his star-like presence yet humble attitude. His anecdotes are both hysterical and absurd, his answers eloquent, and despite his stature, it always feels like he’s addressing friends at a party. We begin to wish we had smuggled our cocktails in from the Bar.

He tells of his early days in 1960s Baltimore, getting to grips with his homosexuality, and his encounters with the bizarrely repressed patrons of the city’s ‘telephone clubs’ (“I may be gay but I’m not that!”). And he talks warmly of his relationship with childhood friend and early muse/whipping boy, Divine (Right).

But its not all jocularity. He talks soberly of the difficulties facing independent film directors these days (too few truly independent companies left, too little money to go around), and he dedicates a large proportion of the Q&A to answering questions on his relationship with former Manson family member Leslie Van Houten. Van Houten is obviously a close friend, and he manages to negotiate a careful line between explaining his support for her parole, whilst never condoning the Manson family’s crimes. It shows a delicate and eloquent side to him that is often hidden beneath the trashy public image.

Then, without missing a beat, he tells the story of a Baltimore man he once met who was 'so gay he couldn't stand up'. And therein lies the essence of his character – a mixture of warmth, humanity, absurdist humour and trashy sensibilities.

The talk finishes all too soon, and we’d happily spend the entire evening in his presence. Alas, my companion and I leave as the chaotic book-signing begins – the crowd are baying for more and we decide to get out and continue the cocktails elsewhere – something we’re sure Mr Waters would not disapprove of. Its hard to imagine anyone else who could have turned this usually quiet cinema into a skid-row pride rally. There’s definitely something in the Waters.

Justin Clark

Gentleman Wolf in sheep’s clothing in the dreamy drunken void.......Doe, Blast Rhombus and Interzone Express live at the Crown and Anchor.

Warm gentle noise, a subtly hypnotic natural unforced mind meld channelling through waves and static, spells of synthesizer coursing in and around minimal guitar licks...such is the dream of Like Leaves members’ project, Interzone Express. I am in a Vin Rouge haze all topped up with cheap lager and going with the flow, wrapped in sheepskin, against the cold. 

Blast Rhombus follow with flowing noise of dual guitars meandering along with mechanical yet warm sounding percussive acid loops, led by a chiming jewel-like mystic hexagon effect stage right. An engaging man-made hypnosis.

Doe. A big group sound; guitars, laptop and maybe a Kaoss pad nestled in there somewhere. Warm loud form defying noise, a static android dream, a wall of sound to headline the Cranka. Several attempts were made to slam out a rhythm in the centre of their noise maze but the overwhelming arrhythmic force would not yield to the beat. In my head I can hear a cold slamming Velvet Underground / early Butthole Surfers stand up drum beat booming into the psyched sonic front but ‘twas not to be. But no matter, the hovering ambivalent haze droning through my dreamy headstock suited me just fine. All through the place a great songless plain dominated, an unhating, maybe loving, maybe indifferent vibe stretching out into the night. The band seemed quite insular, playing as if it didn’t matter if the audience was there or not, locked inside communicating through guitars and processors and in the meantime my head is spinning with memories and grape and grain and talk of Thai Surf Guitar, Pre-Khmer Rouge Cambodian Pop and North Korean Funk. Investigations are due Sir William.

Dominic J Clark