Don’t see this fucking film (Shihad – Beautiful Machine)
Beautiful Machine is an hour and a half of trials and tribulations surrounding New Zealand’s most famous rock band. Less of a critical study of their career and more a biography from someone who is clearly a huge fan, Sam Peacock’s film is always honest and open, with the band being candid in their recollections of events. From their early days as a speed metal band, their crazy times in Berlin and evolution into more mature musicians and songwriters, the film charts their rise in the local music scene and attempt to break overseas markets. By using pop culture markers to give the events context, as well as the various fashion trends that have shaped the 23 years the band has been together, the film’s first half feels like an enjoyable trip down memory lane for those of a certain age. By the second act the film has started to focus more tightly on the complex relationships within the band and the strain of the ill-fated Pacifier era, the name change and the disappointing American tour.
While the film’s narrative includes all the members and some industry insiders, Jon Toogood features most heavily throughout the film. He is forthcoming and still retains an untrained demeanour despite years in the media spotlight. Where American bands appear heavily groomed for interviews, the starkness and lack of panache in the band members makes the movie seem more intimate and revealing. Far from the glitz and glamour, seeing into their very recognizable lives gave the movie an immediacy that a portrayal of a millionaire rock star could never have. The movie isn’t always as astute and its clumsiness reveals the material’s lack of legitimacy, often suffering from the absence of perspective that “rockumentaries” always have. A shot of the World Trade Center attacks being a particularly poor piece of judgment when listing the determining factors in the Pacifier fiasco.
For the most part Beautiful Machine has a lot of heart, but ultimately lacks the twists, turns and enough highs against the lows to make it essential viewing. The running length seems extravagant considering the lack of depth in the subject matter, the only real talking point being Shihad’s failure to break the American music scene. Strictly for fans only, Beautiful Machine works best as a retrospective of Shihad’s changing style and sound. What the story lacked was a big moment of sunshine to break through the clouds of the band’s recent existence, unfortunately it doesn’t come and the denouement feels like a resignation that success, however modest, has been consigned to history.
I like to cheat
In an attempt to motivate me, WordPress has given me a goal of 20 posts. Perhaps it is the remarkable rate I have been churning these posts out, perhaps it is more of a critical statement and a bit of praise to get me back on the horse… whatever the reason, I felt it appropriate to post a tribute to their support and dedication and, in their honor, I name this “19″.
Rejected works. #74 in a series of 6.
Emeli Sandé’s single “Next to Me” is such a driving, pulsating and invigorating listening experience that I was convinced to put all my prejudices about solo female balladeers aside and try her record. While there is nothing especially bad on Our Version of Events, there is nothing particularly different or interesting aside from “Next To Me”. She possesses such a powerful, soulful voice that, with quality material, it could’ve been a Nina Simone-esque wonder of a record. Instead the same ropey old tropes are wheeled out, the usual vocal acrobatics you’d expect, gentle piano, some midi strings and a whole lot of earnest lyrics. This record, more than any I have listened to recently has really shown me the true nature of how music is consumed now, no longer is a record required to flow as a singular piece of work, singles are all that is required. With the effect of iTunes, artists aren’t motivated to put out a coherent, contextual album as they know it won’t be listened to from start to finish. Our Version of Events has other songs that are worth listening to, but as a whole it doesn’t make any sense to purchase the entire record. The other side of the coin is Bruce Springsteen’s latest, Wrecking Ball, heralded as a return to form after the terrible Working on a Dream. In his attempt at making an angry and poignant record, one that needs to be listened to from start to finish, a statement about the world in 2012, he has neglected to write any good songs. When put in the context of some his previous work, Born in the USA, Born to Run, Nebraska, there is no reason to listen to it, and at no point does it feel essential, moving or valid. The best artists surpass or at least equal their previous work with each release and Springsteen achieved this for his first six or so records, all of which were comparable in standard. Everything since Born in the USA has fluctuated wildly in quality, from the excellent Ghost of Tom Joad, the good Magic, the inconsistent Devil’s & Dust and the unlistenable Working on a Dream. Wrecking Ball is one broad idea about social injustice, strung laboriously over 13 songs sung by a 62-year-old millionaire. Some tracks possess just enough inspiration to keep you listening to the end, others, such as the utterly tedious “Rocky Ground” and “Swallowed Up (in the belly of the whale)” conjure in my mind an image of even Springsteen looking at his watch as he mumbles and groans them out.
Better to burn out than to fade away
Goodbye little, brown mouse.
The little, brown mouse that was living in our house is no more. Stealer of much cheese and peanut butter, the mouse had carved out quite a life for himself within our walls and I remember fondly his frolicking and daring escapes from our feeble attempts to ensnare him. His increased confidence soared with our acceptance of him, relieved that he wasn’t a rat. He had become an integral aspect of our lives and I feel a mouse shaped hole inside.
Little, brown mouse was found early this afternoon, face down in front of the fireplace. His body was placed outside, covered with a daisy and some leaves, under what may well have been his favourite shrub.
Goodnight sweet prince
Difficult third album.
The latest work from Jerry the vagrant is possibly his most striking yet. Taken as a whole it is the image of a man being swallowed by a power pole; his head, torso and legs sucked into the abyss, and just his shoes as evidence of a miserable existence.
Down the rabbit hole?
From the kitchen window I watched Jerry construct this piece over the course of a few hours, leaving and returning, making adjustments, additions and subtractions. He seems to be a perfectionist, which is interesting for someone in such an imperfect situation, the product and proof of this imperfect world.
He doesn’t seem approachable and I waited until he was gone before taking my photos. Like so many artists and marginalized persons he has an abrasive quality to his personality, projected in his mannerisms and demeanour, I wouldn’t feel comfortable talking to him about his work and I assume that any attempt to discuss the finer points of his work (themes etc) would be interpreted as a confrontation.
His work always asks more questions than it answers and I wonder where he collects his materials from; taken individually I am sure it’s not particularly difficult to find some old shoes and wood, but did he nail them together himself? Were the shoes a pair that he no longer wears? Is the carpet from a former abode? It can’t be seen in the photo, but I know that there is a hand-saw behind the carpet, just below the shoes, standing on its end, and I wonder if this is symbolic of something, was he a carpenter in his old life? Am I over thinking it and turning him into some Jesus-like figure?
Some of the most interesting aspects of this work are found on the reverse side, various text and geometric shapes.
Through the looking glass?
I assume that the scrawled obscenities are his and the shapes, obviously drawn with the aid of a compass, or in the least a ruler, are from the wood’s previous, and probably rightful, owner. Phrases such as “No money, fuck WINZ” and “B4NEED all 2 know * FUCKY” are undoubtedly from the hand and mind of Jerry, but a circle with smaller circles inside and “Resources”, “My time left remaining” and “City storage” could be from someone else. The most eye-catching for me however is:
Amiga
Omega
Casio
This makes me curious about how old Jerry is. I remember having an Amiga and aspiring to own a Casio watch, perhaps Jerry is a similar age to me? He looks a lot older but sleeping rough and being crazy no doubt ages a person significantly.
I’m interested in his life, about where he wanders when he’s done making unnerving sculptures in suburbia. I’ve tried walking the streets and it’s fine for a time, but unless I have something to do or someplace to go, it really becomes quite boring after a spell. Perversely, it’s only if I had a large amount of money would I consider wandering the streets enjoyable, money to buy coffee and snacks, money to buy a computer to carry with me to record my thoughts, feelings and agitations. Just strolling around with nothing to do, nothing to smoke or drink is tedious. The motivation for spending hours stacking junk against a power pole must stem from sheer boredom rather than any desire to express emotions or make some form of social commentary on the world.
After spending time studying this latest work and having it situated within spitting distance of the kitchen window, I have started to take a less benevolent attitude towards the eyesore. Maybe it’s because the shoes were stolen and it no longer seems like a piece of art, rather some shit stuck to a power pole by a homeless, or maybe because as I write this over the course of the week since it first appeared, I become less enamored with the magpie like hoarding and nest-building and see it more as just a homeless man trying to fuck with the surroundings and encroach on the lives of the more fortunate. I’m sorry Jerry, your latest work has over-stepped the bounds of good taste.
This = That
“The agreement, Mr Fletcher, was that you would test our product. It has not been tested, just contaminated.”
“What do you mean?”
“You were required to test the limits of the organ we put in your chest.”
“Test the organ?” In different circumstances I would have sniggered and asked if it was a euphemism. This doesn’t seem like the right audience.
“Haven’t you figured it out? Are you that slow? The wound on your chest?”
“My heart?”
“My heart!” he shoots back.
I run my fingers up the length of the angry looking, hastily stitched together cut.
“What did you do with my heart?”
“We sold it. “
I don’t know what to say.
“Our aim was to induce stress” he continues “and observe if a synthetic heart would operate as optimally as an organic heart. We gave you the task, expecting you to be compelled into action through fear and adrenaline and instead you chose to get … high.” The last word said with such disdain that I feel chastened.
“I’m sorry, it was really hard. I’m not sure I was the right person for the job.”
“You don’t say” The sardonicism hits the floor with a thud and rolls towards me. I can’t think of another reply or any more excuses/apologies so I just sit quietly.
“What would you propose we do in this situation? At a guess I would assume you are unable to return the money?”
“It’s all gone… pretty much.” I say cavalierly.
“Of course it is. To that ‘barista’ “ I can hear the inverted commas
“He really is a barista.” I protest meekly.
He gives me a bemused look, “I think you misunderstand your predicament, Mr Fletcher. You should be convincing us not to remove our property and leave you piled in the corner.”
I look straight at him for the first time since being brought here.
“Why haven’t you just ripped it out and left me to die? You have no reason to keep me alive. I took your money and didn’t keep up my end of the deal.”
“Mr Fletcher…”
“What am I missing? I honestly don’t understand what is going on and why I’ve ….”
“Enough!” he cries. The lights in the office flick on and fill the room to the corners, revealing two more people. The two serious looking young men come together with Johnson and talk in hushed tones.
I thought I was on the verge of making a discovery and unmasking a secret… but I’m on the back foot again. Sitting quietly, waiting to be told what is going on.
“We’ve decided to give up on you”
“Huh? What do you mean?”
“Exactly that… You are right, we gave you the money and then came as per our agreement, but you let us down. We had to use our contingency plan, which was also supposed to be a stressful situation to test the organ. But you fucked that up too”
“Sooo… so what now?”
“My colleagues here were convinced by your earlier argument. We’ll rip our heart out and leave you here for the cleaner to find.”
“Oh… …ok”
He lets out an audible sigh.
I smell a rat.
Marion and I thought we had a rat, or a rat family, in our wall and we bought a trap. The trap sat on the floor overnight and through the next day. When I arrived home after work that evening the peanut butter had been eaten but there was no sign of a dead rat. I smeared more peanut butter on the trap, poised the bar ever more delicately and left it overnight. Again the trap was licked clean by the morning without a fatality.
We changed the bait to cheese the next day and I poised the bar on the very edge of the catch, ready to slip with the slightest movement. The first piece was there long enough to harden into a hard yellow sliver, which the rat was able slide from the hook without triggering the mechanism. I put another piece of cheese on a trap, really made sure it was attached firmly so it would trip as the rat tries to lever it out. I got back from work early that night and the trap was still baited, so I settled on the couch with the trap in my eye line. It wasn’t long before I spotted movement in my peripheral vision and the rat was in full view.
The “rat” is the sweetest little mouse I have ever laid my eyes on. He’s tiny and brown with a frantic demeanour and he came darting out from his hideaway running straight to the cheese. I was torn between wanting to get rid of the rodent in our house and not wanting to see Houdini get eviscerated by the giant rat-trap. I decided that the best course of action was to cover my eyes with my hands and peek through my fingers. He was crawling all over the trap so I closed my fingers and clenched my body, waiting for the snap of the spring. I wondered what sound the mouse would make. Would he have time to make a sound? Will it be instant so he doesn’t see it coming and it is over before he knows anything about it? I was tensed for about 15 seconds and still there was nothing from the trap. I was curious and looked through my hands again. I was just in time to see the wily little bastard wrestle the cheese off and run away.
It was like a cartoon. I think I will return the trap.
Always ask the right questions.
I wake, wet and cold and tied to a chair in what appears to be an office space but it’s too dark to be sure. A man in a suit throws glass of water in my face.
“Wake up, Mr. Fletcher”… “Wake up.”
I try to sit up straight but I feel heavy and unresponsive. My head is pounding and I am bleeding from a cut above my eye. A second man steps out of the darkness and pushes a needle into my arm, I feel a surge and I am suddenly alert.
“Nice of you to meet with us on such short notice.”
“Where am I? Who are you? What’s going on?” The classics.
“You have our property and we require it back. You broke your contract, Mr. Fletcher.”
“What contract?” I have a vague recollection of a contract. “I wasn’t ready”
“That was necessary and why we paid so handsomely.”
I could feel my mind clearing with every word he spoke and the memory of the contract was flooding back.
❖
I had lost my job at the bank call centre when they had made cutbacks and the month’s severance was gone by the end of the first fortnight. I was amazed at how low skilled I apparently am and all I could get was a night shift at a gas station three times a week and a paper run. After being held at gunpoint, knifepoint and gunpoint again by the end of my first month, I decided to give the gas station job up. I enjoyed the paper run but it was barely enough to buy cigarettes for the week let alone pay for rent, bills, food and pot. I tried McDonald’s but quit after the first day. I lasted a week making cold calls for a charity, that was worse than the gas station, and all the time I was sliding further behind in rent and bills.
I’d been sleeping on Raoul’s couch for a month and was beginning to feel I had overstayed my welcome. Raoul’s a nice guy but he has an oddness about him that doesn’t sit right with me and I was frightened of being decapitated in my sleep. I mostly bummed around, mooching his pot and smoking the discarded roaches in his ashtray, which is less disgusting than it sounds, though still on the curve. Pot dealers like to maintain an air of opulence about themselves and not smoking a joint to the cardboard is one way of showing how marijuana-wealthy they are. It’s a complicated ruse to maintain as it’s rarely true and they often are just selling pot to get what they smoke for free.
I saw the advertisement for the first time in the daily paper I was tearing the corner off to make a roach. I didn’t pay it much mind at the time but I found myself thinking about it a few days later so I checked the paper that day for it and found it nestled in the Situations Vacant:
Earn BIG money! !
Lump sum payment! !
Call (09) 465 8877 for details.
I called the number; I was given an appointment and told not to be late. The brusqueness of the person’s manner was off putting and I contemplated not going, I didn’t want to put myself through some thing difficult for a bit of money. Besides, I wasn’t completely fooled by their promise of BIG money. Some people consider $200 big money and anything less than $5000 would make me feel undervalued. I went along only because I was unemployed, essentially homeless and needed something to fill the day with.
The interview was barely a formality, essentially just a list of terms and conditions that were impenetrably vague and full of legal jargon. I just saw the amount of money I was being offered and signed on the dotted line, vaguely aware of a collection of words on a page. I’ve signed hundreds of forms without reading them first and I have not had any trouble, I just figured this was one of those; something required by law but will ultimately have little or no bearing on my life. The interviewer was a man of about 40, he introduced himself to me as Mr. Johnson, but the card he gave me said Johnstone. I didn’t really think anything of the names not matching. His voice had a strange lilt to it and he spoke with an accent I couldn’t place. Perhaps Eastern Europe, but it could have been Jamaican for all I know about accents. A million dollars was handed to me in cash and I trembled all the way to the bank.
Initially, I was moderately sensible with the money and paid some old debts. I had plans to buy a more modestly priced car, but the temptation to test drive the DB9 was too much and the sales man knew he had me on the hook. Suddenly my test drive had become a purchase and the house I had eyes on was now out of my reach. I had the choice of getting a mortgage, difficult without a job, or buying a cheaper house in a less appointed neighbourhood, without the luxuries I had expected and craved. In the end I did neither. I rented a place very similar to the one I have been evicted from, in the same building in fact.
The Aston Martin was fun to drive for the three days before I destroyed it. I spent hours driving around the city and surrounding suburbs, up through the winding roads in the ranges. It was here I misjudged a corner, plowed into the bush and the car ended up crumpled at the bottom of a Macrocarpa tree.
When I came to I was lying on the grass not far from the car, police and firemen where milling about. The car following behind me had called the emergency services and they had found several roaches in the ashtray. The insurance company refused to pay out after the blood test confirmed that I had cannabis in my system and I was left with a crumpled wreck and a criminal record.
It always surprised me how quickly my money disappears, even if I’m trying to be frugal I still end up, a few days before payday, desperately clawing under the couch cushions and in every crevice I can think of for loose change. I thought it would be different with a million dollars. I assumed that I would be able to spend on little things without any consideration of my bank balance. I was trying to buy McDonald’s when my card declined. “I have a million dollars!” I exclaimed. The teenager behind the counter grinned behind his stupid fucking fringe and I had to skulk out without any food. Looking at my bank balance online confirmed the worst. I was broke, hardly seemed fair. It had lasted less than three months and although my house was now brimming with consumer electronics, I felt like I had nothing to show for it and I had largely forgotten where the million dollars had come from.
I never actually knew what I was supposed to do for it.
A short history of the pancake.
Trying to become a paid writer for an advertising company is demoralizing. I am in the awkward position of not actually being a paid writer for the company but doing some writing as well as my usual job. It means that I don’t get feedback on what I write; it just gets disregarded and discarded, then replaced by someone else’s piece. That’s the hardest part, not knowing why it’s not good enough. There are reasons I don’t get feedback; people are busy and the writing department is short staffed, which is mostly the reason I am doing it anyway. That, and because I aspire to be a writer of great novels one day and I see this, perhaps wrongly, as a way to refine my writing and hone it to a sharp point that will disembowel the literary world. Or something.
I wrote today what I consider my finest work yet but alas, it has not been used as it’s content was not suitable. Not in any bad way, but because the day it is running is the company’s birthday and every ad for the day has to mention this. I didn’t even think about it as I poured my heart out onto the page.
I have reproduced the aforementioned masterwork here, possibly the only place it will ever have an audience. Of perhaps three if I am lucky. I have removed any specifics that make it identifiable as belonging to my company, but I wanted it to see the light of day, or at least the glow of a computer screen.
“The history of the pancake is long and eventful. The early desire for flatter and more aerodynamic food, so flat it could be slid under a door, or thrown a great distance, could be seen as the forerunner to the modern day Frisbee. The addition of berries during the reign of King Charles II made them more versatile and buoyant, ideal for escaping the French and fleeing across the Channel. Swiss farmers found a harder, more rigid pancake, using whole meal flour, made an excellent snow shoe and they were able to run after their herds with great speed and agility. “
Sadly, the true history of the pancake is utterly mundane and that’s why I had to lie.
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