The Red Paintings at the Waterloo Hotel, 19th November 2005

After a slightly-cramped drive, we arrived at the Waterloo, a giant shed/log-cabin hybrid grafted onto the rear of a wannabe-trendy bar. Needless to say, it’s not well-insulated or ventilated, but fuck-it, that just provides a constant thirst for cold scotch and free nicotine via second-hand smoke.

Three support bands took the stage, each more forgettable than the last, giving this reporter plenty of time to stand outside and smoke – none of my second-hand smoke for any of you bastards – and enjoy the fusion of sound created by the boring support band in the Waterloo, and the shitty rock band in the bar.

As The Red Paintings took the stage, the place held a small amount of scenesters and a large amount of TRP-trufans, the likes of which haunt their forums as well as their live shows. From the way that Trash speaks or refers to these fans, you get the feeling that he’s sometimes-frustrated by their antics and yet completely understanding of the sort of fervour that an original and genuinely interesting local band can instil on a populace.

The band rocked hard, as one would expect, with Trash McSweeney throwing himself around with the self-destructive abandon one can expect from a top front-man. At times you may even find yourself concerned with his mental stability, but admittedly that’s half the charm and only makes things more interesting.

Amanda and Ellie – Bass player and Drummer respectively – carry the band, laying down the rhythm and beat for the rest to follow. At this they do an exemplary job, with Amanda generally hiding off to the side of the stage, and with Ellie on her own personal ‘Shock and Awe’ campaign. To say she was the best ‘chick drummer’ I’ve ever seen – which she is – would only serve to cheapen her talent, as she’s easily one of the best Australian drummers I’ve seen, period.

Wayne Jennings and Ellen Stancombe contribute Cello and Violin, setting TRP apart from all the other rock bands currently turning tricks. They’re talented, professional and play with a subtle poise that begs you to watch them.

Also worth a mention is Lu, the band’s current artist-in-residence and a talented painter. Her painting for the evening was nothing short of incredible, and “We will not stop for time” reminds me of an old family slogan, but that’s a story for a later date.

The standout track for me, and probably many others there that night was The Revolution Is Never Coming, the song that would seem to capture the band’s musical intensity best, and serve as a fair representation of their attitude or message, if only such a thing were as simple as a single song.

When Trash sings and screams “The revolution’s never coming,” it’s easy to palm it off as just another socio-politically concerned lyricist spouting catchy slogans, but as the song slowly close and Wayne assures us, in a calm voice, that indeed “the revolution’s never coming” you almost believe him, and for a moment you’re touched by an unnameable sadness and sense of defeat.

But silly things like unnameable sadness’s wouldn’t concern you if you were a dim, over-sized lummox who enjoyed yelling out “MAD WORLD!” at every moment of silence throughout the set, despite the fact that even your minute brain would be able to recall the fact that Mad World is the song the band always close with. So what are you saying? You hate the band and you want them to hurry up and finish? Next time, just shut the fuck up.

The band, somewhat begrudgingly it seemed, closed with Mad World, their only cover and also their weakest song. Don’t get me wrong, they do it well, but there’s just not much to the song, especially when you compare it to the best of their originals.

All in all a great night, the only thing I’d say to the band about improving their shows, would be to give the visuals more importance. When I saw them play at Candy’s Apartment in Sydney, the music and the visuals both conspired to create an atmosphere so much more emotionally charged than any of the shows I’ve seen since. I want to feel that intensity again, but maybe The Red Paintings are like a drug, you’re always chasing that first high. I hope not, ‘cause more people need to reach the sort of epiphany I reached that night, and if any band has the power to do that, it's The Red Paintings.

Photos taken by Spooky Mittens and used with permission.

Ritual Contrition/Seditious Intention

While "Big Uncle" Howard tries to use the highly publicized recent arrests of Muslim radicals to amp up public support for his recently passed anti-terrorism laws, his political role-models in the United States are under scrutiny for a factor 100 increase in the use of National Security Letters (NSLs) - a sort of "super warrant" that allows government agencies to collect information without judicial oversight.

The real kicker? The existence of these NSLs is supposed to be secret, and anyone that recieves one is placed under a perpetual gag order... so it remains unclear how people can complain about something that can't be officially acknowledged.
Based on what we know about Howard's proposed "Patriot Act" style strengthening of existing terror laws (allowing police to detain suspects for seven days without charge, the use of electronic tracking devices, a legal broadening of the term 'sedition') would it really surprise anyone to find out that Australian Federal Police have been granted similar powers?
Remember, this is a government that describes its own laws as "Draconian...but necessary."

Holy shit, at least they're honest...right?
Right?

Anyone?

Ritual Contrition /
Seditious Intention:

Why Good Comedy May Not Be Safe From Terror (Laws)

In an effort to understand a little more about the broadening of terror laws I managed to track down a legal definition of what 'seditious intention' was...

"A “seditious intention” was defined as “the intention” to “bring the sovereign into hatred or contempt; to excite disaffection against the government or constitution of the Commonwealth [of Australia] or against either house of the parliament of the Commonwealth; to excite her majesty’s subjects to attempt to procure the alteration, otherwise than by lawful means, of any matter in the Commonwealth established by law of the Commonwealth; or to promote feelings of ill-will and hostility between different classes of her majesty’s subjects so as to endanger the peace, order or good government of the Commonwealth”.

(Info via brazenly pinko Greenleft.org)

This definition has been in use since 1914, but has been altered by the Anti-Terrorism Laws to also apply to "any person" who "urges another person to engage in conduct to assist, by any means whatever, an organisation or country ... engaged in armed hostilities against the Australian Defence Force".

Some say that this change could potentially be used against anti-war protestors (under the rationale that support for ADF troop withdrawl is also support for violent insurgency groups that want the same end via extreme means) and if you don't believe them, then you've obviously never heard of recently deported anti-war activist Scott Parkin.

Further investigation led me to the cyber-doorstep of independant media commentators Crikey. As someone who would like to eventually make his crust in the media industry, this statement from a clued-in Crikey correspondant sent shivery shivers down my already pretty shivery spine:

" Arguably Section 30A: ‘seditious intention' means the death knell to any and all satirical comedy on TV and elsewhere; no CNNNN, no Roy and HG on the election and no John Safran. What a boring old world we live in. Can't help thinking that it is the PM's ‘cunning plan' to bring back Mrs Slocombe and the Are You Being Served team to our screens. Champagne comedy PM style!"

Which is all speculation, of course, but with the way things are going, who is actually going to stop Howard and his goons from doing such a horrible thing?

The Labour party?

Now THERE is a joke.

***

If all this doom and gloom is making you jones for a smoke then I may have some good news...or maybe not.

***

Watch out Team Chaser: Your brand of Funny may not survive the great Comedy Culling of '06.

***

The Pigeon Connection

Spooky Mittens Reporting for Wastrel Magazine:

DAY 1

I woke this morning to the sound of little tiny claws colliding with the glass of my window. I didn't know that this is what the sound was at the time; I was still half asleep and in my mind it could have been anything from a meteor crashing into my bedroom to the after math of a dream. When the sound definitely became part of the waking world I was forced to look outside because sleep was long lost. And there it was, a killer pigeon (possibly infected with the avian influenza, - diagnosis unconfirmed).

Exaggeration is one of my stronger points, I will admit, but I promise given the chance this bird would have grown opposable thumbs and stabbed me in the spleen with a machete.

Sitting perched on the fence adjacent to my window it stared down at me as I peeked out beneath the blinds. Its eyes were blood red.

The crazy eye.

Its miniscule pupils darted about frantically. The little ball in its throat, the one I presume is usually used for cooing, pulsed. On the top of its head was a feathery spike that jutted back and forth.

Just as I thought I must have been imagining the sound and was ready to go back to the land of the dreaming, the evil grey ball fanned its tail feathers and flew full speed into my window. It flew, with very obvious experience in this practice, feet first like a predator after food. Then the sound of the claws and the glass. It fell somewhere between nails on a chalkboard and the grinding of teeth.

After the pigeon made contact it bounced backwards onto the ground and flew to its perch on the fence to repeat the act.

It was all too much for me. 6 am and being slowly hunted by a killer pigeon. With the constant clanging there was no way I could just ignore this assassin. All that was left for me to do was contemplate what I had done recently to cause me to become the subject of this cruel fate. Who sent this winged warrior?
Sitting, or rather half laying and half sitting, waiting for the racket to cease it never occurred to me that the bird just might not stop. But, after thirty minutes, then an hour, then two, real fear struck. The glass had to be getting thinner. It was going to get inside. I tried not to think about how it would feel to have my skin devoured by an ivory beak.

Then, as suddenly as it began, it ended. After the usual ten second interval between hits had long passed, I pulled the blinds just far enough to see out. The fence was bare. Had I imagined this strange encounter of the bird kind?


DAY 2

After 24 full hours of activity I had completely wiped from my memory the unpleasant awakening of yesterday. With time the incident became more amusing and less scary. It actually even became amusing that it was ever scary, especially to others who I told the story too. They laughed at my expense even when I tried to recreate in words the way the tiny eyes stared straight into my soul. Those tiny infection red eyes.

I should hardly have been surprised when this morning I awoke to the same sound. The little fucker was back.

Rage quickly started pumping through my veins and relinquished any possible fear before it even existed. I was going to kill it. I was going to cut off its tiny leathery feet and laugh when its bloody stumps whacked agonisingly into the glass. I was, but I was also tired and it would have taken a lot of energy to both catch and seriously wound the creature.

So instead, I sent my dog, a playful large German Shepard, to do the dirty work. Her goofy paws pounced against the fence while I watched eagerly from inside. The pigeon, easily fooled by the canine’s tough exterior, batted its wings and disappeared into the waning dawn. It wasn't dead, but at least it was gone.

As I went about my day I couldn't help noticing birds in a whole new light. They were watching my every move, everywhere I went. Following me. Communicating with each other. Something wasn't right.

In the car, they perched on street lights. At work, they plodded around on the concrete outside. On the way home, they glided over head.
Then it dawned on me...
This wasn't a mysterious coincidence. It all made perfect sense. I can't believe it didn't occur to me earlier.

Killer pigeons were obviously a secret component of the new Government anti-terror laws. Laugh if you will, but what better way is there to eliminate terror suspects?

Consider this: Habib Un-Australian is a prominent member of the Muslim community. The Government suspects him of terrorist activity (e.g. distributing newsletters in another language with suspicious pictures of cats that indicate that he may be planning a suicide bombing at a prominent cattery in N.S.W.) However, all the anti-terror police are otherwise occupied arresting even MORE dangerous terror suspects (yes, there are more sinister characters than Habib. Scary, I know) So, John Howard authorises the release of the trained pigeons to take care of the problem. Then, WAPOW! they brutally attack Habib leaving him for dead. Situation averted, the death is called a tragic accident and there’s no pesky interference from lefties or the media.

Everybody knows that pigeons can be trained to carry messages, so of course they can be trained to kill. Where else do you think all those tax dollars go? And those extra cents per liter you pay for petrol?

I knew I shouldn't have called Little Johnny a dendrophiliac - It means he likes to have sex with trees, Bush = tree, get it... haha. Wait, it isn't funny. I take it all back! Just make them stop!

Day 5

Must not sleep. Must secure all doors and windows. Shhhh. What was that? Yes please, I will have a cup of tea. Wait! Who are you talking to? There's no-one here. Get back under the table. Maybe If I wear a saucepan on my head it will protect my brains. Yes, what a good idea. I will have a cup of tea, no make it coffee. Shhhhhh. So tired. All around the fence now. So many birds. Sent by ASIO, or should I say CRAZIO. Hahahahahahahahaha. Shhhhh. They'll hear.

It's ok. I can feel myself creeping slowly into the safety of insanity. It will be much nicer there.