Beck - The Information

It’s the biggest question of every alternative music junkie’s lips this week: “Will Beck ever return to the epic heights of Odelay?” After all, it’s fair to say that last year’s Guero wasn’t exactly a huge leap forward - in Sir Hansen’s terms, anyway. Rather, it seemed as though the flag-bearer of the ‘postmodern pop’ movement had started appropriating himself. But with the release of The Information, everybody favourite white-trash-geetar-strumming-homeboy has returned to the zenith he left behind in the early 90s. The rhymes are on fire and the grooves are whack, but most importantly, the more serious acoustic numbers (a la Seachange) are still prevalent. It seems like 10 years down the line, this musical chameleon has finally started to feel comfortable in his own skin; willing to show emotion, yet happy to rock out when the need arises.

Once you’ve gotten through the DIY sticker pack and accompanying DVD (a move which got Beck banned from the UK charts under fair trade laws), there are a huge set of fantastic tunes. Cellphone’s Dead in an unintentional homage to Herbie Hancock’s hit, Chameleon, mixes a funky bass line with eccentrically random vocal snippets. We Dance Alone, with its warm synthesizers is the perfect accompaniment to a luckless night out. Then of course, there’s Nausea, which simply rocks. This album is a welcome return for the connoisseur of ‘cut and paste’.

5 Stars

The Inches

Hot young things out of Melbourne, The Inches are living proof that the Aussie music industry does work in weird and wonderful ways. Signed before they had even played a single show, these boys are now part of the 'Red Label' roster, an underground subdivision of the behemoth that is SonyBMG. With an average age of about twenty-one, the group posses a proficiency which far outstrips their years, as they rip through their modern take on 70s glam in the vein of T-Rex, Bowie, and perennial favourites, Deep Purple.

But it would be wrong to label The Inches as yet another 'scene' band who wear their influences like a second skin. For they also meld punk-funk, disco and most importantly (for this author) extended psychedelic jams into their numbers, which makes for a highly unique sound. There's alot of buzz surrounding these guys, and it's pretty easy to see why. As drummer Manny Bourakis explains 'Melbourne is a city with a good rock community, but lots and lots of sh-t bands.' Good to see that this outfit managed to inch their way to the top of the heap. Who needs the metric system anyway?

The Grates

I challenge you, nay, I dare you to find somebody who doesn't like these guys. The Grates are leaders of the hyperactive, red-cordial-induced revolution, in which the only rules are to smile constantly and have fun. It's really refreshing to find a group with a high level of professionalism that don't take themselves too seriously. And it helps when the music is so damn addictive. Patience Hodgson (i.e Hottest Girl in Australian Rock) and drummer Alana Skyring make up the core of this 3 piece, while their sunny pop debut Gravity Won't Get You High is getting serious airplay on Aussie radio. For a small group, they make a hell of a lot of noise, just ask anybody who attended their Enmore Theatre gig in Sydney last week.

Patience has a soaring voice which transcends the simplicity of some of the tracks, as she reprimands ex-lovers and schoolyard bullies. Like UK's Lily Allen, The Grates produce candy-coated bombs, tunes which are sunny in their disposition but upon closer inspection, deal with complex issues and themes. But if you can't be bothered worrying about all that, just dance around like a maniac, in true Grates fasion. With cuts like 19-20-20 positively exploding on stereo, it looks like Patience and co. will have a long-lasting fanbase of teenage schoolkids and those young at heart. Viva la Cottee's Cordial Kids!

I Heart Hiroshima

Right from the name, you can tell that these kids are going to be scruffy "scribble-our-name-on-your-schoolbooks" indie-pop darlings. Like every good lo-fi outfit, I Heart Hiroshima met at a house party last year, did some jamming, decided to ignore bass guitar (who plays bass these days anyway? That's so 1990s..) and record a cute little EP. The result is A 3 Letter Word for Candy, a debut which, rather impressively, manages to encapsulate the spirit and fervour of some of the best indie acts of the recent years. Equal parts Pavement, Sonic Youth and Tapes'n'Tapes, the trio all share vocal duties, making for some interesting Subways-esque texture changes as boys and girls constantly swap from lead to backing. Needless to say, the girl's a lot better, with a sexed-up yet eerily detached voice that would probably give Interpol's Paul Banks nightmares. The production is, naturally, mediocre (as was probably intended), but the songs are tight - and the twin-pronged guitar attack actually works, rather than simply sounding contrived. When a grassroots label pumps some serious money into their studio time, these guys will be huge.

Too Cool For School?

and now a special message from the little 14 y/o guru Z-Master.... The aforemented "too cool for school" kiddies will undoubtedly lack the intellectual capacity to comprehend what I shall be writing about, but frankly, I couldn't give a shit! Why? Because such playground actually believe that I should worship the ground they walk on. They automatically place themselves on the top of the hierarchy, squashing everyone below in the process . They’re not funnier, wittier, better looking or smarter than you or me: they just live off Daddy's funding and rely on his 'friends in high places'. These dumbasses find it cool to flunk school, while the rest of us are brought down with them. Now don't get me wrong, I'm all for the varying cliques at school just not their subsequent popularity ranking. No child is better then another, none of us has money or a job that rules over anyone else’s. We’re all equal stupid crazy adolescents who take everything much too seriously. What I personally hate most is the hierarchy, the god damn echelon system which pigeonholes everybody from the 'cool kids' down to the nerds. How do people become what they are? Is it simply how their parents brought them up? Or who they choose to hang out with? I know we’re all different but it doesn’t mean we have to be picked out and discriminated against. It’s like a fucked up form of natural selection. If someone went and ranked what the nerds had to what the 'too cool' had, they would automatically establish that the system wascorrupt. Money doesn’t necessarily mean a good life. The nerds get good marks, giving them a future and have a firm relationship with friends and family. Their relationship is not based around who has what, and is not forgotten as a new craze is phased in. The cool kids have it all until they see their fu%$# mark on the computer screen telling them they’ve failed their HSC. That’s when it hits them, but it’s too late, their education is gone and they can’t remember a thing. Forty years later at the high school reunion you see these ‘cool kids’ looking like hoboes. They’re middle aged wrecks with no jobs and no friends. They just show up for the free food and drink! Then you move over to the nerds who are wearing Louis Vuiton suites and look fabulous. You then see their kids and understand that you don’t need to be cool in high school to get somewhere.... ...But it’s a cycle. There is no escaping it.

Dancing, Drinking Dropkicks

It’s time to get some genuine insight.

The thing that most angers me in this whole, entire, somewhat corrupt world (I’d better stop before I start sounding like an emo. You know what, they also vex me! But moving on…) is DANCING. Not the parties that facilitate dancing. Those, I can stand. Not even the salmonella-ridden excuse for food or the all-too-revealing Kodak moments which are inevitable consequences of such lurid events. Pretty much, too many dumb drunken dropkicks dancing deliriously makes David (that’s me, enjoying the 3rd person digression?) dangerous. In my irritation I have decided to look for an answer as to why people dance. Why lanky-ass mofos insist on flailing their limbs around as only lanky people can, why short people jump up and down on the floor in a vain attempt to grow taller (or, as a demonstration of their frustration of not being able to) and why hot girls, drunk boys and, particularly, unattractive ugly people find it so easy to get into the mood to dance.

The number one barrier against such flagrantly hetero-homo hedonism is of course an adolescent’s blood alcohol level. If, like a good 17 year old P-Plate driver you have a BAC of 0.00, chances are you're not even at the party.

Instead, you're most likely the taxi driver for:
inebriated-folk,
those keen to become inebriated and
those inebriated beyond all hope.

I suppose, therefore, that it follows, according to the laws of teen-culture that "Dancing Tip #1" for drivers is to ditch the car, tank up on alcohol and get into it. Nevertheless, such is not always the case. Everybody loves a designated driver, their car seats are begging for vomit and no one is paying for a cab, right? So drivers, you'll have to sit this song out.

Nevertheless, those that aren't driving and have hitched a ride from a hesitantly obliging family member or apathetic (see above) P-Plater, don't have any excuse. Upon arriving at the party, if you are not drunk, you're on the back foot. According to teenage philosopher and culture vulture Simon Weinstock:

“Without alcohol, you can't dance.” (copyright, Whenever Weinstock Was Wasted, 2002- Present)

Ain't that the truth. Those looking to have a good time but unwilling to foot an expensive grog bill will evidently end up regretting such a decision for their futile attempts at robot-dancing, raving and the epic “big fish, little fish, cardboard box” dance will unquestionably fail. And as they return home dejected, they’ll probably have 7 less friends as a result of their first foray on the dance floor.

Chronically underage beer-binging boozers, you are in luck! It seems, as the general feeling is around clubs, parties and all other tween-social events, that you are accepted. In the 1930s it was skirts above the knee, top-hats and tails. These days it's no shirt, demonic high-heels and slurred speech that are all the rage. I am not here to pass judgement on drunkards, for the verdict has been passed and it reads 'innocent'. The question is what to do with this innocence. There are, obviously, the antisocial drunks, who, much like P-Platers and those non-intoxicated persons who try to dance, are effectively outcasts in any celebratory circumstance. If you…

a) Throw up copious amounts of vomit after 4 beers
b) Scream and hit anyone who endeavours to say hello to you
c) Fall asleep or eat too much

…when you are drunk, I am talking to you.

Dancing is not for you. Murder on the Dance Floor is not what we are hanging out for this evening, and you cannot synchronise your projectile vomiting with that inane Rainbow Stylin track, no matter how many times you practise. But feel free to try, more fun for the rest of us.

This leaves us with the dancers: those that have enough alcohol in them to throw prudence into the wind and get their groove on. The most pressing question, of course, is why such people dance anyway. Surely there must be better past times. I personally believe that once drunk, there are only four options, 3 of which were mentioned prior and the fourth of which is dancing. Standing still is boring, sitting is cliché and lying down demonstrates that you can't hold your liquor well, so dancing seems the logical option.

Another compatriot and keen social-analyst Matthew Freedman explained to me that drunk people, “…like with any other drug, follow what everyone else is doing.

Studying fellows at a birthday bash he told, “…if a drunk guy sees someone eating, he gets hungry.” So, henceforth it follows that if a 'drunk guy' sees someone dancing, he'd want to be the next John Travolta. Regardless of the fact that 'he' usually ends up looking like Napoleon Dynamite, dancing, like drinking, seems a peer-influenced activity. Leo Sayer, presumably during a bender of his own, illustrates this point succinctly:

“You make me feel like dancing…”

Don't believe me? Try standing bolt upright inamongst a pulsating party of punks. The reprimand will be swift and harsh.

Ergo, people dance for there is nothing better to do. Nevertheless, unless (‘less’, ‘less’ echo) you have the right to be dancing, i.e you possess a license to dance and (preferably) have been on 60 Minutes in a Russian Ballroom Dancing Extravaganza episode, stay away from the DJ. Alcohol may well boost your confidence, but a recent boom in the sales of personal cameras ensures that such confidence will be diminished early the next morning in the form of some punk's MySpace or another similar online atrocity. If you feel comfortable with your 'funky chicken' video up on YouTube and 300,000 views within the first week, go ahead, bust a move.

Personally (and care of the Scissor Sisters, who, unlike the majority of you, are fantastic rump-shakers) I stress my unequivocally intelligent (and hence, correct) view…

'I don't feel like dancing’

Midnight Juggernauts

"Dude, this crowd is so scene..."

A phrase often overheard at Midnight Juggernauts' gigs, where old highschool buddies Andy and Vincent proceed to blow indie kids' minds, especially in their hometown of Melbourne. Though they have only just released their EP Secrets Of The Universe, the boys have supported with some rock's premier acts. Wolfmother, DFA1979 and songstress/DJ Annie are all quick to praise the duo, currently labelled as the "hardest working touring act" in Australia. And the gigs just keep on coming, as the Juggernauts hit the road this weekend with Canadian wunderkind MSTRKRFT.

Their sound is truly inventive, mashing up pretty much every electro subgenre of the past few decades, leaning heavily towards the moody synth-club sound which echoes New Order and to a lesser extent, Daft Punk. First single Shadows showcases this sort of zombie-flick-vs-neon-disco concept which has catapaulted the Juggernauts to stardom. They've got an album in the pipeline, a headlining tour in the next month, followed by a slot at the prestigious Homebake Festival in December, the lauded, annual all-Aussie festival which takes place in the heart of Sydney. These guys don't even need the promo; friends like Cut Copy, The Presets and Chromeo speak for themselves.