How Swede it is...

Fickle, fickle me. Apologies to the inhabitants of the supermagicdiscoveryworld. No excuses - just lame mumblings about being, y'know, out of touch and feeling a bit sheepish. That and a cup of joe collided with my laptop one morn while on my way out the door to Italian classes. Rest assured however, it's just about five weeks til I depart for my own supermagic discovery of Italy, London, various bits of France, Germany and Korea so there'll be plenty of discovering to be done.

So, the latest addition to the supermagicdiscoveries is this: there's nothing like a Swede to make you feel good. And I'm not talking tubers here. Athough tubas might be closer to the mark. Jens Lekman. Lovely Jens. Even the Swedish boy frantically describing all the cultural references about Sweden in the songs and then randomly groping his girlfriend couldn't put me off. It's interesting when you go to these gigs and see the kind of fans you never knew existed. Like the impecably dressed almost forty somethings that looked like the kind of indie-grownups I want to age into being. Like the rotund man with one leg six inches shorter than the other. The beardy, hoodie wearing bloke who drank beer and munched on potato chips secreted in the pouch of aforementioned hoodie. And of course all the usual indie hipsters who bounced up and down placidly and cheered (in Swedish) for Jens to come on for his encore.
If Morrissey is a product of Manchester's gloom then Jens' take on life in the quiet suburbs of Sweden is an altogether lighter sweeter affair - despite the fact he's still doing the same take on the whole "get me outta here" teenage longing. Moz is all "every day is like Sunday," tea and toast, sexual longing. Jens is all about Friday night bingo, local hicks and google maps. You know you're listening to someone special when they tell you that they "wrote this song when I was 18" and then play a little homage to Moz like "Black Cab" which doesn't even sound like a bad Smiths parody but an actual song. (And even better, Jens actually seems like a nice child prodigy - not some straggly looking Bright Eyes-esque hipster. One thing I reckon you could bet your bingo winnings on is that Jens is not cherry picking groupies to fuck after the show like ole BrightEyes. And, hey, even if he is, he's the kind've guy who's going to go round bragging about it afterwards - those Swedes have decorum).

That thing about the black cabs though is a pickle... In England, at least, it's the mini cabs you've got to stay clear of - black cabs are a luxury for the rich, the hurried, the single female traveller and, in my experience at least, the drunken who need to be sure they can make it home in one piece.

Jens makes me happy. He makes me happier when I see him in person and feel the need to bop around like I did when I was 17. He also makes me want to run away from this town and find somewhere else to live. Maybe Sweden?

Are we tough enough?

Oh boy! I've been bad, huh? Blogging should be all about sharing the love right? So don't give me no guilt trip because I've been a teensy bit distracted of late. I'm back on board. I swear... If you don't watch out I'll starting posting film reviews up here and it will all turn dark.

In actual fact, all this time while I haven't been blogging I've been making supermagicdiscoveries left, right and centre. Some great music has been heard, some graphic novels have been read, some strange candy has been consumed.

But none of that today, my dears. Nosiree! Today it's the delightfully wrong rumour that New Kids on the Block are getting back together. In the words of Michael Cera's character in Juno: "Wizard!"

Can you believe your ears (will you believe your eyes when you finally see them, there, on that stage, looking the way aging boy bands will inevitably look - i.e. strung out, pumped up, scared shitless)? I hope they're going to wear the same gear. I'm totally digging this late 80s look with all the hair mousse and the vests and the t-shirts with the social messages... Like, seriously, why don't boys have hair like this anymore? If nothing else I hope the reunion tour reinspires a generation of boys to use mousse...

SO the album might tell us "this one's for the children" but I suspect the new tour ought to inolve an album entitled, This One's for my Kid's College Fund, or This One's For My Gambling Debts, or maybe just something simple like, This One's For My Ego.

Jon, Jordan, Joey, Donny and the other dude (ok, ok, Danny). (And now that I've written that I realise that we could well have known them as "3 Js and an awesome set of double Ds" - which has a great ring to it.) If they do come back what the hell are they going to do? Sing "Hangin' Tough" in stadiums around the globe? At shopping malls? Will they pull groupies? The answer to all is "probably" - and yet, here's whats still wrong after all these years - with the exception of pre-pubescent Joey, those boys are WAY TOO OLD. Has anyone seen Donnie Warhlberg lately? NEW KIDS on the block? The name is going to have to change - Old Men on the Block, anyone? Not quite the same ring, huh? Maybe gives out the wrong idea?

When I was a kid Donnie was my favourite. Now I'm worried. What does this say about me that I liked this man? (And keep in mind, he looked like this *at the time*) He's some kinda proto Kid Rock, right? Like, eww.

I bet he calls himself "Don" now and given his predeliction for ugly headwear and stubble I wouldn't be suprised if he likes his friends to refer to him as "The Don" or maybe even (shudder) "The Donster". I bet he bench-presses in his garage and is into quasi-buddist martial arts. I just *know* he has hair plugs. I grieve! I grieve for the lame-ass me who thought he was dreamy... I think I need to go to this (rumoured) concert just to purge myself of the sickness that is teeny-bopper fandom. If they *do* tour I hope to be able to at least pitch a "cultural commentary" article to some loathesome publication in order to claim the cost of my ticket back on tax...

And, I wonder what the chances are of Bros reuniting?

BritMop

It's going to get a bit tired isn't it? If I just keep posting stuff about Salon? Yeah. It's testament to the fact that: 1) my time is limited 2) I find something, I stick to it.
Anyway - today's offering is about my favourite dirty secret: Britpop.
Was having a conversation about this just the other day - Well, in fact to kind of elide the embaressing "I was a teenage Britpopper" disclosure I was trying to talk around the issue and obliquely make comments about being an "Anglophile," mirthfullly describing the lost youth of affected behavior and the painstakingly coiffed black mod bob.
So, Simon Reynolds asks - what ever happened to Britpop? And, forgive me here young naifs, but is that a question really worth asking? The one I tend to ask myself more often is: what was I thinking? For that matter, what was everyone else thinking? How did the whole movement last so long? Can we blame Tony Blair for this? (He who invited Noel and Liam Gallagher to Downing St.) What Reynolds' article makes clear is that - social/cultural issues aside - much of the music was crap. Or at least, far from enduring. This is something I've come to realise myself as I've aged. Things that seemed so full of "something" actually turned out to be pretty empty. Or else, the derivative elements became so overwhelming that instead of sounding like a real song it starts to sound like a thin parody. Indeed, some of the parody music that is around today is ten times stronger than some of the hopeless thin Britpop stuff. Many is the time I've been confronted with my CD collection and been tempted, seriously tempted, to excise some of this embarressing excess to the second hand store - I never do of course...
Britpop was, in almost all respects, one big exercise in embarressment. Reynolds points out how *white* it was. How staunchly safe and unexperimental. All that time I thought myself on the cutting edge for idolising some waifish creature who did a passable impression of what Ziggy Stardust might have been had he touched down in the mid 90s in London behind the local Tescos...
It's terrible to think that for some the very definition of Britpop is Oasis. And I'd hate (and would've hated) to have been tarred with that particular brush. But even then, it's not much of a defense is it? To place yourself squarely on the side of a slightly better class of parody music lout is not really to raise oneself out of the pit. Now days I might be more inclined to align myself to some of the more "enduring" artists - Moz in particular - but it still throws my character into a questionable light...
The Reynolds article is about a CD box set incidentally. Four discs. At first I scoffed at the thought of buying it, but perhaps I could prune that CD collection of mine and just reduce it to the four discs. Hmm, nah.

My Robotic Romance

So, this has brought me out of my blog slump.
[http://machinist.salon.com/feature/2007/11/29/robot_love/index.html]

It shouldn't come as a surprise to anyone who knows me even a little bit that I love robots. Like rilly, rilly, love robots. Hence: the Robbie the robot figurine on my window sill, the inexplicable sympathy for the Daleks, the early morning wishing for a coffee/cleaning robot in the manner of the Jetsons' Rosie, the childhood dream to be turned into a kid-robot in the style of the red dressed, white aproned "Small Wonder" (am I the only one who remembers that show?). And of course the "choice" Conchords song set in "the distant future: the year 2000." Good news for the dorky single girl then to learn that robot boyfriends may well be the way of the future. Very good news indeed...

To give you the lowdown:
One hardcore nerd called David Levy has just written a book about "Love and Sex with Robots: The Evolution of Human-Robot Relationships." What a title huh? I love that use of "evolution" - genius! The main gist of the argument seems to be "love is a powerful force, wouldn't offering humans opportunities for unfettered, uncomplicated love make the world a better place." For a guy who's working on computer technologies for his PhD this is a pretty simplistic reduction of the issues. Luckily, Salon's Machinist asks some better questions, like:

"is getting a robot built to order like ordering up a hooker to your hotel room?"
- perhaps, though the "refund if not satisfied" policy is certainly easier to administer with the robot.

"is a perfect love really love at all, even if it feels like it? Isn't love, like all life, by definition complicated; if you're loving a robot, are you really loving -- are you really living? -- or is the whole thing a simulation, like a very real video game?"
- Well, maybe, but if you extrapolate this idea far enough you could argue that life itself is just a very real video game (RIP Baudrillard, you crazy mother-ucker). If love, or any human experience for that matter, needs to be “real” (ie. Involving other humans) where does that leave the countless things we do that don’t involve other humans? Time on Facebook – not real; time watching the Sopranos/the Conchords/the Boosh – not real. Time reading enormous fabulist book about history of modernity – NOT REAL. The large part of my life is spent in the not real. And the part that is real is usual populated with the most frustrating individuals known to man, woman or bot.
Another thing, what if you fell in love with someone but didn’t spend anytime with their real body? What if you loved them via one remove of reality? What if your love was mediated in some way – like say for instance the way I love Brendan Fraser, locked in time just like he was in Encino Man. How is my loving Brendan Fraser circa 1993 any different from my loving a robot-o-boy?
And on that point about the video game simulation–if you're "just practicing" with the robot-beau then are you also “just practicing” when you treat someone in a less that wonderfully-human-being-ish way (i.e. a one night stand, a booty call, etc.).

Now having backed myself into this particular postmodern corner I’m thinking about the flip side. One thing not mentioned here is the question of embodiment. More than some half-baked idea about “real love” (i.e. fights, bad sex, imperfections, annoying habits) versus simulated perfect robot love (i.e. order up your ideal mate and wait for delivery) is the real sticking point: hard bodies; or soft bodies; or whatever. Bodies count. Salon’s Machinist asks: “Doesn't mortality deepen love -- isn't the preciousness of your love, its susceptibility to diseases and deprivation, part of what makes the feeling so wonderful? Could you love a thing that didn't die?”
The answer to that last question is certainly yes. Plenty of things. But that’s not my point here. More than plain old mortality, the thing that puts the kick in love has got to be the body. Bodies are, after all, the one site of distinction between “friendship” love and “ba-da-bing” love. When bodies get involved things get complicated. Human bodies are like litmus paper, they put emotions to the test; they’re surefire indicators of attraction, repulsion, pleasure, pain. If a robot boyfriend turns up on my doorstep, sure, I know he’s been programmed to love just the stuff I love, but then, who hasn’t? Most of the time, if you’re fishing in the right pond, culture has done all that programming for you, right? So the bigger question is, how would you deal with the notion that your Robo-hunk had no innate hardwiring connecting his emotional CPU with his chiselled Robo-hunk exterior? So, yeah, I still working on that... But there is one thing I’m excited about – we’d both love Kraftwerk, that’s for sure.

Wouldn't It Be Nice?

It’s dangerous this time spent admiring new sneakers, newly returned to the world of hustle and bustle and wireless internet connections that practically dance in comparison to that snoring bandwidth they put up with in the country. Aaah, country mice your world is lovely and green but so slow and the coffee so varied in quality! So while there are things that really ought to be done, better to take solace in the broadband and the stereo and the left-over booze happily discovered upon inspecting the cupboards. Which brings me to my subject for today – Pet Sounds. Spent last week uming and aahing about lashing out on a ticket to Brian Wilson perform Pet Sounds at the Opera House. Decided instead it might just be better to sit like all the other plebs in the Domain and listen to the free concert. I don’t have a date, after all, so the notion of all those old boomers settling in all comfy like to see the show and relive their youth is not quite so funny if you don’t have someone there to giggle with.
And yet, now listening to the album here at home on the stereo I’m thinking maybe I made the wrong decision. When people talk about concept albums I mostly roll my eyes – the concept of the concept album should only be treated with the most sincerest form of irony. Pet Sounds though, man, it just captures all these wonderful things – mostly teenage longing – in the most poetic and gorgeous and sweetly cute ways and yet it’s not at all saccharine. I’ve not really had many of those cheesy “this song is talking to ME” type moments, and certainly not with the Beach Boys, but recently I found myself listening to certain parts of the BB oeuvre in a different light. “Wouldn’t it be nice?” for instance – a song that’s really about teen passion and the forbidden – hideously ruined thanks to the Cadbury-Schweppes corp. Wouldn’t it be nice? Hell, yes. It certainly would – I’d love to for you to spend the night. “Don’t talk, put your head on my shoulder” Fine with me, Bri. I like the way you know just the right thing to say. And you’re saying just exactly what I’m thinking. Let me quote for a moment: “Being here with you feels so right/We could live forever tonight/Lets not think about tomorrow/And don't talk put your head on my shoulder”
There’s an awful lot on this album about the threat of tomorrow and how things are going to be very different when the sun comes up which appeals to the hopeless doomed romantic in me. And I might add, the cynical realist. Things *sure* will be different. Make no mistake – doesn’t matter if it’s the oppressive rule of parents or the hangover or the impending doom of real life.
And of course, I have to own up to a particular sympathy for “Caroline No” since the lovely lady in question has cut her hair and appears to have lost that lovin’ feeling:
“Could I ever find in you again/Things that made me love you so much then/Could we ever bring 'em back once they have gone/Oh, Caroline no”
Ouch, my heart is breaking all over again. Caroline, no. But, oops, too late! Caroline could we? But no! But yes! And yet, still, achingly, no. Life is just one bittersweet accident after another.
No question, Pet Sounds is the album for hopeless romantics, heartbroken beaus, and lustful honeybunnies. I think I should’ve done the washing up and typed those job applications... I’m now a breathless wreck of teenage passion.
If you see me in the Domain in January next year I suggest you either steer clear or be prepared for some pretty frantic back row necking.

Oh Cruelty, thy name is Australia Post!

It's typical right? The day that I'm due to leave Sydney Australia Post pops one of those infuriating parcel collection notices in my letter box - thus, my new shoes and I will be apart ALL WEEKEND.

In better news, not only have I been delighting in the splendour of Larry David's Curb Your Enthusiasm but I think I may finally have just the kind of person who would appreciate me for who I am. Petty, selfish, small-minded. I get this feeling like Larry understands. In fact, I rather fancy the idea that he could be my foster Dad. I like to think about some cheesy 80s TV show involving Larry and me, kinda like Punky Brewster. Except that we'd say "fuck" and "cunt" a lot and we'd sit around bitching and moaning about tuna-fish sandwiches and whether or not its ok to leave the hairdresser without leaving a tip. I see me as an older Maebe Funke and him as a nasty, grumpy, less-waspy Mr Drummond. I see us pitching it to HBO...

I don't see them buying it.

Me on the other hand, I can't stop buying things. Three days in the country - will I survive without eBay, Facebook and Salon? One thing is for sure: I'm taking Pynchon to get me through.

Take it to the Coop!

More great news for me, more bad news for my credit card.
Discovered that the delux Gold Edition of Twin Peaks (both series, in full, wrapped - oh yes, here it comes - "in plastic") are available for ownership on Nov 8. A great day. A fabulous day. A day upon which I can reinvest in my absolute and all abiding adoration of Inspector Dale Cooper.

A good guy if ever there was one (and despite what I've been reading lately) one of the few examples of a detective who isn't out to kill you, rape you, or eat your babies. Well, that is...

So I suppose what this means is that when I'm over 'Coop' for another four or so years I'll move on to a Brendan Fraser movie marathon?
Will there ever be a box set for such a box head?