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Adelaide’s Bike Polo

Underground

Adelaide Bike Polo has been around for coming up on 3 years and seems to be well established among (self-addressed) bike geeks. 

It has a national network of teams with quite ridiculous names such as The Jizz Monkeys (Sydney), Phuq Styx (Brisbane), Godzilla Symphony (Perth), Majestic Pink Shafts (Brisbane) and the Lonely Mallet Club Team (Adelaide).

The people seem to have claimed a horseback riding sport of the upper echelons for their own, an independant flagship of mechanical steeds burning rubber on the hard-courts of Adelaide’s parks and underground carparks. This reminds me of attending The Marriage of Figaro at the Royal Opera House in London, in the middle between fatcats in their private swanky restaurant area and a dude with a shaved head wearing a Motorhead t-shirt, myself dressed like an indie slacker. Totally heart warming to see something often reserved for the wealthy becoming available to all.

Bike Polo has tailored guerilla-style equipment and specific bikes designed for optimum polo maneuvering, although any bike will get you on court. The mallets are cunningly crafted from sawn-off aluminium ski poles or golf clubs with a length of gas pipe screwed onto the end, the balls are common or garden street hockey balls. Portable wood and plastic edging completes the scene and contains the game giving it a semi-pro look. It would make a great Olympic sport and indeed was played at the Olympics in 1908, having been invented 17 years before in Ireland in 1891 by cyclist Richard J. Mecredy.

It has existed ever since, underground, seeking to reclaim its Olympic status once more. The adaptability and technology of modern bikes means that it has evolved considerably but it remains a jolly sporting game... a yell of ‘Polo!’ and the players gallop towards the ball at the centre of the court with mallets raised... and on this Sunday afternoon in August I bear witness to a few chaotic collisions that cause some pain but longer lasting laughs. Clearly the crashes are part of the fun.

In Adelaide folks gather twice a week to get their mallet on. For more info on the current Adelaide bike polo scene check out www.bikepolo.com.au/adelaide or leagueofbikepolo.com for international fixtures.

The League of Bike Polo has a network which covers the whole world. You could play in Cuba, Russia, Japan, USA, UK, Europe, Peru, Canada…Around the world in 80 Bike Polo matches anyone?

Dominic J Clark

Booby Tuesday and the Phantom Bouche

 

In an elegant restaurant car Booby sat staring dreamily out of the window, the French countryside racing by field after field, cow after cow, the dark green velvet curtains dutifully framing the ever changing landscape, alternately bathed in the shadows of rolling hills and the amber glow of a late summer sunset. She pressed her rich ruby lips up to the glass of chilled Chablis she held in her right hand and took a few gentle sips. A cool feeling moved down into her tummy and settled the warm orb of roasted lamb, pumpkin and seasoned potatoes. Contentment washed over Miss Tuesday and she became sleepy with the motion of the train carriage, the fine meal and heady wine. The white wasn’t a recommended companion to the lamb but slipped down keenly all the same. In her haze Booby began to drift and her eyelids became heavy. Little runaway thoughts bubbled up from the realm of dreams and soon she was lost and away with it all.

Suddenly she awoke from her daydream with a jolt. At the adjacent table somebody had knocked over a pepper shaker. Five sneezes in a row and Booby was fully awake but somehow something seemed amiss. A lingering flavour and chafed sensation about the mouth seemed to have come out of nowhere. She touched the area with her fingertips and sure enough a slight rash had developed. There was a taste of red wine, perhaps a Cabernet. While she dozed she had most certainly been kissed. Some cocky callous cad had stolen a kiss in secret and fled our dreamy heroine without a word. What manner of beast committed this crime? A crime of passion to be sure but from a courage-less wretch! She looked around the carriage and saw only casual innocent faces, chewing on champignons, raising glasses and absorbed in newspapers, not a guilty face among them. To her right an elderly spinster sat prodding at individual peas with a fork, intermittently attempting to carve pieces of lamb with a knife that looked like a broadsword in her frail hands.

Miss Tuesday felt violated and mystified. It didn’t seem worth grilling anybody, impossible to interrogate the whole train Poirot style. She decided to keep an eye out for a guilty face. Just then the door slid open and in walked Kevin the ticket inspector. His eyes met hers for a moment and his cheeks flushed deep red. But he had been so gentlemanly earlier after walking in on her in such a wild state. He slinked by and quickly disappeared into the next carriage. Booby rose feeling empowered now, full of energy and crimson cheeked. She felt over dressed and determined. A radiant instinct rushed through her body, her blood was up and she would pursue Kevin and find a way to unlock the mystery. She did not believe in karma or heavenly justice, the fact was there was mystery, a whole wide world bursting with it and she would investigate it now with innocence and lust and without imposing a pre-determined framework onto it. Booby Tuesday would let the earth and universe breathe, while teasing it ceaselessly.

Pear Partridge

Gentleman Wolf by the sonic fire hearth: Sparkspitter live at the metropolitan, Adelaide 30 6 2011

Venue confusion, an unseasonably warm mid-winter night late in the week, cosy in the front bar which is pretty full for a Thursday night... clearly there are a few Thor worshipers lurking in our midst supping stout or dark ale. A warm twangy loop kicks up, sourced from a lapsteel guitar which is set down to move to a drumset and keep rhythm along with the slightly irregular cycle which added a little chaos, slipping in and out of time. Insistent bass and guitar strumming fills out the mid-tempo chug-glide. They explore a fair range of moods while sticking to a regular format, ultimately falling somewhere between a trippy subconscious repetition thang and a cathartic feet-on-the-ground indie rock sound. Its good to see elements of noise and improvisation and a lack of concern for pop hits. There is good sound in the front bar and a cosy bohemian feel with the band playing in front of the fireplace, setting a sonic fire under the mantlepiece.


When I heard the name Sparkspitter it gave me visions of some violent nerve shredding 80's electronic noise maniac outfit but in actuality they were laid back and steady burning like an oil lamp flame, playing a long set with no support which managed to sustain interest, and plenty of time for four or five dark ales to slip down. Good stuff, to be followed by a keen mission home through the dark of the parklands, in the absence of a late night mugging fear that flowed for some time from a slashing and solid beating back in East London on a cold New Years Eve. Under prescribed codeine painkillers and screening episode after episode of the Jeremy Brett Sherlock Holmes series my revenge was played out in my minds eye, dapper on that same street with a Swordstick delighting in some kind of witching hour payback. In the words of Sherlock Holmes, 'always carry a firearm east of Aldgate, Watson'... by Jimeny, I'm rambling again...

Gentleman Wolf on the Power of Enlish. Cold Lazarus, New album by Enlish, out now...

 

Cold Lazarus is a daring challenge of a debut LP from Big Dave Enlish. Fully uncompromising and never backing down but it is also able to access deeper visceral dimensions of pain, truth and confession without scrimping on attitude. Even so Enlish's brand of dark humour rips out consistently. The earliest material I heard was a short sharp bite of comedy gold. Now he has developed into a serious contender of an artist but has not lost his wit. Right at the start in 'Karaoke' he pulls out 'heavy flowin' with as much serotonin left as Leonard Cohen.' and later in the record, 'It ain't line dancing when I say I throw the ho down.'

He presents us here with a crisply produced yet vocally raw mix of balls-out debauched big OG tunes with various associates guesting and an alternate vein of free-flowing introvert numbers which are maybe more relentless with their true grit and surprisingly honest reflections on tragedy, addiction and self-harm. In tracks like 'I Feel Good' and 'Only Human' he unpretentiously taps into raw issues of the human condition and manages to sidestep indulgent self pity. These creative confessions, a-rush with bleakness and self-analysis might have been tough for an audience to reconcile with the macho party tunes next door but they bind well and add back story to those devil-may-fuck debauchery anthems. Back story like the loss of his mum at an early age, the kind of tragedy in youth that leads to depression that fuels a nihilistic screw-the-consequences death wish that in turn leads to much good art and music. Full bore creativity that breaks down barriers. Dave's creativity seems to particularly flourish here in the realm of black comedy, or simply comedy with lines such as, 'Glued to the top spot like a toupee.' Touché Enlish. 

And its good to see a rapper from Cornwall on the rise with the Cornish Pasty now having achieved 'Protected Geographical Indication' in Europe. That's Champagne status as far as I'm concerned. A pasty has to be made in Cornwall to be referred to as Cornish. And Big Dave seems to appreciate the distinction between hype and actual realness, rolling with the machine while knowing it's got the crust on the top and peas inside.

Dominic J Clark

Nature Loves Courage

Courage Rating: CCCCC (5/5 C's)

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Nature Loves Courage recommended tracks:

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'I Feel Good' 'Karaoke' 'Arrogance is Bliss' 'Head in the Clouds'

Lone Gentleman Wolf About Town: Gary Numan (The Pleasure Principle Live)/ Severed Heads live at HQ May 16th

On a cold, dark night I am in the queue behind middle-aged Numanoids and greeted at the box office by mechanical girls. Ultraviolet tubes peel an inhuman purple glow out of the cosy blackness of the club and the bar is quiet but the venue is filling up with elder folks and small groups of younger cats. Severed Heads start nice and early and warm things up, two tubby chaps whose heyday was back in the 80's, sounding very much like an acid fried New Order. Their show is led by weird bad colour visuals that improve as the set goes on. Scary manmade subconscious industrial images, a cardboard cut out ecstacy tabby cat and cut up surrealist phrases like 'It is an oblique firefly overlocker' fuel this disturbed lucid dreaming acid house party. Really good stuff towards the end, a twisted party, 'Who's gonna tell my friend that she will die and go to hell...hear my
call from the floor at the heart of the party.'

My solo presence is suitable isolation for absorption into the aspergic fragile robotic world of Gary Numan. I have time and space to reflect on this. I became obsessed with The Pleasure Principle in the 90's when it was re-issued including a very fluid live version of 'Me, I Disconnect from you', from the 'Complex' single. I happily disconnected with everything and got into the feel, rhythmic creativity and blank bowie-esque vocals. It is the same age as me and has probably survived better. A rare kind of rock album with no guitars, just synthesizers, electronic pads and drums.

Gary ventures onstage, all in black with a shy smile and is visibly moved when the audience cheers. His mild aspergers syndrome potentially masking subtler emotional readouts from other humans. The post discovery knowledge of this does seem to appropriately feed back into his traditionally mechanical detached appearance and style. It sounds very 80's (as it would anticipating and influencing alot of 80's music and having been released in '79) but is heavy and non-sentimental. Airlane sounds strong and tight. Metal is cold and clear and crisp and heavy. The sound where I am standing, right in the middle of the room is just right. 'ME' is great, and reclaimed from Basement Jaxx in its original off kilter mysterious meditation. The live set is very close to the album but sounds so fresh and obviously much bigger and dirtier live. Gary is focussed yet cheeky, rocking a classic one finger synth style to great effect in 'Conversation'. His voice sounds better than ever too when he comes in over the cyclic mechanised arrangements.
 The P.P. set ends with Complex, Films then Cars which is heavy and perfect. 

They come back and Gary is synthless and free roaming with the mic going straight into 'Down in the Park'. The Foo Fighters can suck his metallic balls after this, not that their version was bad but you can't beat this beast at his own game. He veers into later career Nine Inch Nails influenced stuff, some of which is really creative and powerful and haunting but he had more dignity during the Pleasure Principle set. There is more posturing now which seems unnecessary. The NIN-esque version of 'Are Friends Electric?' is pretty good but a straight up version would have been stronger and more satisfying. Don't know how the ascending melodic part turned into a football chant either? Still the P.P. was perfect so who cares. Usually I would get the bus to a gig so I can drink but tonight I decided to take the car. A night drive in Francine through the neon quiet of the city and home. Its a monday night.

Wounded Gentleman Wolf About Town: Jet Boys and God God Dammit Dammit live at Tuxedo Cat May 26th 2011

27 May 2011 

 

I wake up at 9 am without a hangover and finally warm after freezing mostly to death in the night, wearing a hoody under 3 quilts to the strains of Van Halen's Jump and Elton John chasing after the nihilistic rock n roll spirit with a piano... and catching the son of a bitch.

Arriving home last night I cranked on the stereo and the sound was fucked. There was a ton of bass but nothing in the mid and treble range. So it had to be turned up, obviously, to aid investigation. Later in darkened silence a roaring ring in my ears explained the lack of higher frequencies. The Jet Boys and God God Dammit Dammit were loud as hell. Tuxedo Cat, a great venue, an aging almost Roman decrepit beauty with bare floors, high ceilings and all kinds of romantic pillars commanding the hallways. The outside bar is a perfectly decked out old caravan and there is a row of portaloos in the gravel car park out the back. It feels like a squat party in an occupied government building. 

Some kind of shambolic punk band (Pink Flamingos) are bashing out some tunes but you can't hear the vocals too well. The centre stage guitarist is looking ridiculous in a pair of Ramones boardies and slipknot-esque S & M Pinocchio mask and the singer guitarist stage right is playing a black flying V and wearing a leather get up like the blokes in the queer bar in Police Academy 1. Later he ventures into the crowd bellowing into a megaphone but the demented din of the band still drowns him out. God God were loud and white-noisey and rocking, sounding looser and better than at the Producers bar a couple of weeks ago. All 12 of them were right into it then but it sounded more like funk stitched onto reggae, stitched onto rock. Tonight it all swirls and grooves together like a twisted distorted punk party riot. The venue suits them very well. The mood is great and the crowd indulges in minimal but dedicated dancing and smiles. I then discover Johnnie Walker and Coke is being served at the bar for a not unpretty price, and I was already losing coordination. I missed Strawberry Fistcake on account of being outside smoking a cigarette for want of a cigar, my preparations for the evening were clearly incomplete.

We spend most of the Jet Boys set stage left next to the soundbeast on a comfy velvet pew watching the chaos unfold. After some problems getting the bass amp to be heard (which were swiftly and resourcefully corrected) they rip full bore into their set and some classic stage diving kicks off. The trio from Tokyo are blasting out 3 chord punk in the original style but in the melee of the moment it starts to stray into the hypnotic extreme noise rock world of Mainliner (great Japanese band), a maniacal side shoot of the Acid Mothers Temple Soul Collective, or have I got them on the brain after seeking solace in their noise this afternoon from the terror of financial tables. Good times. 

A fragmented memory of a male blow up doll with a mustache being flung around the stage and crowd comes back to me. Then the singer is in a red g-string, then naked and doing handstands, flopping minimally yet majestically about, and the bass player is up on the high scaffold where a God Dammit brassman was rocking out earlier on. They go offstage much to everyone's disappointment. But come back and play a garbled but great Sid Vicious style version of My Way which finally pulls my lazy ass off the pew and into the fray.