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

...

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'