Hi. How are you? Yeah, listen I know we don’t really speak enough considering you live literally within a Molotov cocktail’s throw of my house but the fact is that you give me both the heebies AND the jeebies. In spades. I know, I know we’re neighbours and all that but really this is the digital age and the fact is that I have a more significant communication networks with Icelandic septuagenarians (who, coincidentally have faster internet than us) than I do with you. You’d think that this would be a lament on the woes and ailments of a modern society, but considering the fact that I am constantly afraid that you will eat my eyeballs with a spoon, I actually like it this way.
This woman has faster internet than either of us, and I would much rather talk to her than you.
I’ll admit I’m slightly more paranoid in general ever since that junkie broke into my house a few months ago. Let me expand on that point before I continue, I wouldn’t want people mistakenly thinking that I’m a Brooklyn ghetto street press writer. The fact is I live in Ashgrove and the junkie in question was a woman somewhere between the age of ‘dear lord if I haven’t had children by now it’s far too fucking late’ and ‘Finally! Concession price on prescription drugs.’ She also broke into my house at 7am on a Monday morning. 7am. WHO THE HELL DOES THAT? I was awakened from a delightful dream wherein Fiona Apple was serenading me whilst baking me a cake by the sound of shattering glass. I stumbled upstairs in my pyjamas and morning face to find an oldish lady rummaging through the upstairs bedroom. I was so confused that I as I pushed her out the door I even used the word ‘please.’
Artists impression of the old junkie that broke into my house.
These events may go some distance to explaining the feeling of dread that descends on me whenever your predatory eyes settle on me and watch my every movement as I walk to my car. Much like the thought of Miley Cyrus licking my grave, it just feels wrong on so many levels. Also the other day when I crossed the road and then crossed it again so I could get to my car without going near you it was primarily because those cigarettes you were shirtlessly smoking smelled like compressed Russian baby faeces blended with a hint of Kings Cross hooker spew. Too much? Well if that’s painful to read, try SMELLING the stuff. I mean, I’d recommend you quit, but a small and evil part of me takes some satisfaction in knowing that they will accelerate your eventual death.
Also, your girlfriend is hot. She could do better. She knows it, you know it, I know it. Just saying. Next time we see each other, instead of you staring at me like you are dreaming up ways to sautee my liver, can we not just avoid eye contact and each pretend that the other doesn’t exist like normal humans?
This is a review of a gig I didn’t go to. Sure you could read someone else’s write up about Tiki Taane, which will no doubt employ adjectives such as ‘head-nodding’ ‘groovalicious’ and ‘funkifried’ (depending on the publication). But I guarantee it wouldn’t be half as entertaining as wasting valuable moments of your life reading this. Ever since New Zealand introduced its controversial policy of adding ground up Burning Spear records to its primary water sources it has birthed a prolific number of reggae and dub groups. Currently, dub music comprises 93.7% of New Zealand’s GDP. One of the most important earners in this category is Tiki Taane, former frontman of the most dubby (and New Zealandy) of all the New Zealand dub bands, Salmonella Dub.
I was looking forward to experiencing Mr. Taane performing at the newly opened Hi-fi. This being my first assignment as a pseudo-muso-journo, I was also thrilled at the prospect of announcing in a faintly pretentious, slightly too loud voice: “Hi there, I’m on the door tonight. I’m reviewing for 4ZzZ.” My anticipated response to this statement was: “Like, OMG, you’re reviewing for 4ZzZ? Right this way sir! Can I get you anything? Champagne? Backstage access? A fur coat?” Sadly, this was not the case. Quite the opposite in fact. I was told that not only was my name not on the door, but that they had no record of any contact with 4ZzZ. Furthermore, the doorman stated that several other people had ‘claimed’ to be on the media list for the zeds. I was not fond of the tone he employed for the word ‘claimed.’ Seriously Joe Doorguy, (not his real name), if I was going to fake being a media journalist, would I not go straight for the usual luminaries like Rolling Stone, NME, Financial Review or Oprah magazine?
We were then hastily escorted off the premises by a burly, black, bald bouncer named Erasmus, (not his real name.) Erasmus gets points for imposing physique, but loses marks for lack of excessive violence and cuss words. He didn’t even inappropriately manhandle my plus one Angelique (not her real name, not actually a real name of any kind). Erasmus may want to read over his bouncer handbook for the proper protocol. Or perhaps listen to the audiobook. The outdoor ambience at the Hi-fi was a pleasant mix of posters and pavement. It had the faintest aroma of ‘I think a homeless guy slept out here last night’ tinged with the scent of cigarettes and sweaty dubsters. The external acoustics left much to be desired and basically sounded like this:
I’d rank this among one of the better gigs I’ve not been to. Not as good as the Prodigy gig I missed a few months ago, but sure as hell a few buckets of superior to that electro-rock band that my friend Darragh (his real name, unfortunately) tried to get me to see last week.
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