watch out spiderman

Thanks to seancemascara over at fanmaderecordings.blogspot.com for the vid!

There's a bootleg of the show over there if you're that way inclined, too.

Playing on RRR

concentrating

al montfort's Men's Health pose

standing around

symmetry

golden audience!

multi tasking

breathing

choking

sunned bum

photos taken by Juhi Sharma (juie.sharma@gmail.com) - thanks heaps!

FREE Instore show @ Polyester Thurs 10th Dec!

For those unable to snap up a copy of our EP/7" 'Arks Up' at our launch on Friday, you'll be able to buy one this thursday 4th Dec. at Polyester (Flinders Lne. CBD) at 6pm. We'll be playing some songs for you as well so hope you can join us! It's free too.

performance enhancers

Thanks to everybody who came to our launch last night!

It means a lot and was a hoot to boot.

Thanks also to our loyal sponsor:

In the words of our good friends the UV race: 'Thinking about buying our EP? Think Again!'

www.thedwarf.com.au

Dick Diver - Arks Up (EP)

by Kathryn Mahina | Thursday, November 26

For a band called Dick Diver, I was really hoping for

something more dirty than this. The Melbourne four-piece

features Alistair McKay and Rupert Edwards on guitars,

Al Montford of UV Race and Straightjacket Nation on

bass, and Stephanie Hughes (ex-Children Collide) on drums.

Their debut EPArks Up is a quaint offering with six laid-back

tracks that fail to hit it out of the ball park.

Their sound has a real old-school Australiana kind of

feel to it, with some scratchy guitar noise and lengthy

solos that are straight from the 1970s. The opening track

Walk For Room is disastrously pop, the kind of tune that

gets stuck in your head all day and makes you want to

crack your own skull open with a hammer just to get it

the fuck out of there. Purgatory sounds exactly the same

as the first and then you’re hit with the instrumental

wank-fest Princes, which I imagine is supposed to

showcase the musical prowess of the band, instead it

just gave me a headache. The saving grace of Arks Up is

the dangerous bass line in The Keys, a killer tune that

makes me wonder if Dick Diver are capable

of more than what they’ve given us in their

forgettable debut.

Dear Diary 27/11/09

To my ten wonderful disciples, I thought it time to re-engage you, to instil this blog with some vigour again. This I will do by disembarking entirely from my current splurge of gratuitous images, which I painstakingly downloaded through the days and nights located in the fusty darkness of my mi-goreng palace. My producer and I have parted (thank god!), and all I can say is that it has given me a new lease of life. I feel something terrific is on the horizon, if not closer. There are times when it bobs in front of me, like some family of ducks going on an outing, only to discover all too late that it is duck season and the future is both too clear and too hideous to continue, and the reality of the marksman, writhing, dithyrambic in the onset of angina in a solemn huddle of reeds, his dun eyes ranging once, now twice between the cruel sky and the now tolerably inviting darkness of the barrel not intended for that purpose (or was it?), is as lost on the retreating ducks as a scrambling finger on an inverted trigger. Aghhh! The agony, the thrill of it! Yes, I feel I am close. I can feel it! Watch this space friends, I am going outside.

Six Degrees

.

.

.

On the Spank

Futureself (series ii)

Dick Durry

Just change references to Melbourne and you're there: Saturday!!!

Steps
FRANK O’HARA

How funny you are today New York
like Ginger Rogers in Swingtime
and St. Bridget’s steeple leaning a little to the left

here I have just jumped out of a bed full of V-days
(I got tired of D-days) and blue you there still
accepts me foolish and free
all I want is a room up there
and you in it
and even the traffic halt so thick is a way
for people to rub up against each other
and when their surgical appliances lock
they stay together
for the rest of the day (what a day)
I go by to check a slide and I say
that painting’s not so blue

where’s Lana Turner
she’s out eating
and Garbo’s backstage at the Met
everyone’s taking their coat off
so they can show a rib-cage to the rib-watchers
and the park’s full of dancers with their tights and shoes
in little bags
who are often mistaken for worker-outers at the West Side Y
why not
the Pittsburgh Pirates shout because they won
and in a sense we’re all winning
we’re alive

the apartment was vacated by a gay couple
who moved to the country for fun
they moved a day too soon
even the stabbings are helping the population explosion
though in the wrong country
and all those liars have left the UN
the Seagram Building’s no longer rivalled in interest
not that we need liquor (we just like it)

and the little box is out on the sidewalk
next to the delicatessen
so the old man can sit on it and drink beer
and get knocked off it by his wife later in the day
while the sun is still shining

oh god it’s wonderful
to get out of bed
and drink too much coffee
and smoke too many cigarettes
and love you so much

Spring Carnival

+
+


=

Thought for the day

The future is befanged with possibilities
like the shark's tooth pendant on a Gold Coast celebrity

EP Launch Dec 4th @ The East!

Faithful friends! Come down to our ep launch. It should look something like this!

Storm Pooper

Hey Hey It's Not Saturday

What a weird thing to revive. I mean Hey Hey It's Saturday, not Plucka and Darrel's seminal two piece blues rock outfit (pictured above).



I wonder if they'll bring back Ossie Ostrich as well. Remember when they fired him? Cunts.

I'll be watching Celebrity Master Chef instead:

Future-self

Dick Diver proudly presents installment #1 of their acclaimed 'Future-self' 'series.
Which one are you?
Vote for your favourite 'poolside punter' NOW!!!

Newsflash! DD polite pop pussies

A?B?
or, C?

"Preceding [Stephen Malkmus & The Jicks] first were Melbourne’s four-piece Dick Diver, whose polite indie pop and two singer/guitarists recalled The Go-Betweens, albeit spiked with the occasional leaping guitar solo or gust of noise. The band utilized slide guitar on a song about an aging punter lounging poolside, and previewed an upcoming 7-inch on Chapter Music."
- Doug Wallen

Browneye Medal

Decidedly upset with the lack of shock-frock red carpet footage on the tv last night,
a few searches for 'footy', 'dresses', and 'carpet' turned up this...

Al Montdoherty

News of the World (22/9/09 p.3) -
Pete Doherty dead! Melbourne's sexiest bass player snapped by NME posing with hat and ciggie

rhythm babes

A Meeting Of Minds (Dipper & Brian McFadden)

How much of Dipper lives in his moustache?

And how much of Brian lives in Delta's Nintendo DS commercial?

You know what I'm talking about.

So come to Chapterfest this Saturday night at the Tote! Gonna be awesome.

Crooners

An exercise in juxtaposition ala Ezra Pound's 'In a Station of the Metro'

'September trees in Melbourne'

The limbs upon the trees outside my room;
Teenager stoked at sprouting of first pubes

Authorial note - Observe the gender neutrality of
narrative voice, 'teenager' (l.2) and 'trees' (l.1)

BlogMan II

After some days my chagrin subsided enough for me to leave the house. I’d had it in my mind for some time to check out a new café that had opened up a few streets away from home. I leapt into the bright morn full of hope.

I should have stayed in bed. Is there anything more heartbreaking than your breakfast expectations not being met? Than your coffee arriving like a busted radiator, an oily film on it, a bathroomy funk – not yours – filling the nose. ‘What are nose hairs for!’ you scream inwardly. And even the Xanax doesn’t help. The eggs arrive – good, not great, but anything is better than that coffee which tastes like arse; anything to get that out of your mouth. So you rake a few pubes – you know you won’t be proud about this later but you do it anyway (it’s such a vulnerable time of day) –, and hide them between two silver coins and drop them smiling in the ‘tips’ jar on your way out.

Outside the front I pick up a copy of the local street rag from a crate. I tuck it under my armpit through street upon street of Howard Arkley’s, before opening to “Live Reviews” as it drops on my living room table. I look hard. Thankfully her name does not appear. I don’t think I could have taken it. I picture her face burning on the inside of my skull and I’m suddenly filled with a swirling lust and hatred, much akin to the feeling of watching pornography. But now – there’s no doubt about it – my hatred is directed outwardly. How I envy the praying mantis and their superior customs. I resist slinking off to the bathroom and keep reading.

I scan the week’s debris – a host of bands I’ve never heard of…I stumble across Dick Diver:

“I had heard good things about this band, but not having seen them before, I was sceptical. The venue had a decent sized crowd, I suppose, for a weeknight at least and the hipster’s were out in full force. The venue was imbued with rich, pastel tones of light, thanks to a long overdue refurbishment from the management. Bout time guys! I remember seeing X play here just before they released Aspirations and the lights even then were terrible. Not that this mattered because the band would have outshone them anyway. Some bands imitate, others innovate, and then there’s X.

I arrived early to catch the aura for the occasion. Too many kids these days just rock up for one buzz band and then leave without staying for the rest of the show. Tonight one of the other bands had a member from Drowning in the Sandpit in them, so all the cool kids came down early to try catch a glimpse. She was looking conspicuously oh-so cool in a leather jacket and a new ‘I don’t give a fuck’ haircut.

"So, Dick Driver? Well, once you look past the name, anyone with a pair of ears could tell they were a poor man’s Television circa Adventure but without Tom Verlaine AND on valium. Two of the songs could have been passable had the two front-men – clearly trying to channel the Go-Betweens, come on guys make up your mind already! – been able to sing. Perhaps this was because they could best be described as ‘front-boys’. One of them hadn’t been told how to adjust his guitar strap, which appeared to be choking him, and the cross-eyed other one appeared to have honed his ‘singing face’ during times of childhood constipation. The bass player smiled way too much when he played. I mean, come on dude, you’ve got a show to play! Get the job done and then have a few beers. We all like to enjoy ourselves, but it’s hard to do when you’ve spent $6 of your hard earned on seeing four bands, and one of them clearly isn’t concentrating.

The only saving grace was their possession of a girl drummer who not only proved that the girls can do it just as good as the boys – she even carried her own kit out to her car (manual btw) – but who’s fondness for wacky T-shirts at least gave the audience something refreshing to look at. It will be a sad thing when she inevitably finds herself in the future onstage in something resembling swimwear rather than clothing. Oh well. So, Dick Driver: Remember you need at least 120 hours of practice before you get off your L’s.”

They could have at least had a photo. Their drummer did wear good T-shirts though, I thought closing the review. I put the kettle on.

Haiku for the singer from Nickelback

So that's what
Grug
is doing these days.

Norf-side morning Haiku

The trams outside fuck-
ing doing my head in. Christ
could not forgive them

BlogMan

A story till our manager gets his shit back together.

BlogMan

My insides were seething as I finished it. How could someone miss the point by so much? Clearly he couldn’t play an instrument. He regretted that he’d given up on piano in grade four, but no one else did. And now the rest of us had to shoulder his chip. In bold beneath: RabbidJack – Darlinghurst. He was so typically Sydney – so bitchy, so stylish. Why couldn’t he just rack up a few lines, have a top night out and leave them alone?

And it was the way he had gone about it. The way he had given himself a license to say whatever he wanted, such stuff about a band that everyone loved so much! That with a flippant ‘obviously influenced by the guitar work of Thurston Moore’ or the mention of some hip new things from the West Coast – from Sacramento or Hoboken…like people actually gave a fuck about his blog! I mean, what kind of a fucking name was RabbidJack anyway?

I’d met him dozens of times. I knew his type, always carrying a pen and paper-pad round with him so very discreetly, never lifting his gaze lest anyone look at him for a change. Every show had at least one. I fancied him in retirement, the way his natural gait had come to resemble someone experiencing the infant stages of groin rash, or a bout of dysentery; his ooh-aahing-over-hot-coals walk, his Mr. Plod arms making small backwards circles with each shin-splintering step towards his weekly community radio slot. And his wife – dull and fat. She had no distinguishing features, was like a spy who had been trained to bury any shred of personality deep within till it gets lost. They would cancel each other out at dinner parties. Oh sure, their teacher/ journalist friends would humour them. But they’d all laugh afterwards at the impression they always left behind – like a gumboot print in wet mud that vanishes as quickly as it appears.

I scrolled down the page and felt better with the thought. But what was this…‘My Tracks’!? Ooh, so he did play! This would really cheer me up, I thought. I clicked on the sideways triangle, squirming with anticipation. I could see him now sitting at his 4-track, his head filled with smug wonder at how, like the Strokes in the early 00’s, he’d managed to somehow reinvigorate the entire world music scene. It was the simple equation of right place, right time, was all. Only this time it would be his astonishingly fresh take on Neu’s overlooked second album. Krautrock! Pfaa!

I kept scrolling, reading the comments as I waited for the bar that was dragging so painfully across the screen –

Wow! luv da trax xx

Heyyyy! wen r we gonna do beers?

Thx for the add. ox

Some lame rumour about Lady Gaga that was not even funny let alone clever. I looked at his top ten. 487 friends. Pfff! I skimmed across, recognising a few faces I had seen around, a couple of bands. One of them, a certain ‘buzz band’, I’d seen play a few times. They had more ‘buzz’ than a wasp in an empty solo can. How? I don’t know. But, it was true. Unsurprisingly they had a lot less fizz though. If only they could be slammed down as fast as my beloved friends, I thought. Ha! I began to enjoy my metaphor, thinking about the can’s bright and shiny outside, its hollowness within, how they would drown cruelly in the thin film of liquid at its bottom, when my speakers kicked in. There were no words, only – guitar, synth, bass, and drums. I listened again. I listened to the same three songs for the next few hours. I thought I could discern a familiar drum fill from a now broken-up 80’s Brisbane post-post-punk outfit, but I wasn’t sure. Was I confusing it with something else?

***

When Tim came round that evening I showed him the review from the show –

- What a fuckin’ tosser man!

- Oh, I know! I can’t believe he’d actually write that.

- It’s so Sydney man.

- SO Sydney! So conceited! You know I bet you he doesn’t even have a bookshelf!

I played him the songs. Given the space of time I could now see that they weren’t actually that good at all. Tim thought the same, and we were agreeing that they were actually pretty shit when he grabbed the mouse from me. In my previous state I had missed it: ‘My Pix’, in the top right corner. The happy squirming came back. I seized the mouse, clicked, and waited eagerly.

There were three of them bunched tightly on a couch – two lameo hipster boys and a frail girl wedged between them. Beneath, left to right was written: Ojay, Jacqui and Brak. I clicked on the next photo. The screen slowly unveiled – Jacqui Warren…
It took less than a second to register. It was torturous! The cut of her fringe, that crooked tooth, those bright dark lips – or was it the lipstick? –, her tattoo… A fucking tattoo for chrissakes!

It was all too much. I didn’t register Tim leaving. I didn’t even shut down properly; just hit the wall-switch, then tried to make out the liner notes to Cat Power as the page swam and the record spun.

police=swastika

utter contempt for the authorities