A while ago we had an anniversary and it coincided with Dan Sultan and Scott Wilson playing at Joe’s Waterhole.  I didn’t want to go because I knew only one song, and I did not like it, Sam I Am.  But it was our anniversary, and seeing as most other things around this place seem to go my way, I thought it maybe it was time for Nath to have an opinion.  Don’t freak out, it was a one-off, no habits were formed.

So I got that boy some tickets and we were away.

We dressed ourselves young again, and turned the music up loud in the car, tricking the years away.  We even stood up at the bar for a bit, despite there being perfectly good seats available.  I still didn’t want to see the band, but I loved the feeling of the years fizzing away, dissolving into my stubby like an Aspro Clear.  Without the bitterness.

And then the boys got playing.  I was transfixed.  Dan Sultan has a raspy, morning-after voice, and the stories in the songs can take you on a trip to   away.  Scott plays his guitar like it’s his mistress, so you can’t help but wish he’d written the songs for you.  The whole show was cheeky and funny and sensual and transporting.  The boys were just that, boys, having a fine time, and acting like they couldn’t quite believe their luck that they were there and we were there and we knew the words to Sorrowbound and Dingo and Come Home Tonight.  I’ve lived that night many times since, catching a whiff of the exuberance of it all every time I hear the songs.  So I got us tickets to see Dan again. This time without Scott.  This time on a Wednseday night.  This time in the middle of Winter.  This time when we have had a big week, with more to come.  This time when I’ve just given blood.  This time when the babysitter cancelled, and another couldn’t do it.  This time when it all seemed too much effort.

Somewhere there, between then and now, we caught old.  We weighed up the pros and cons and decided it was too much trouble.  To find another sitter, to go out on a work night, to drive all the way down south and out of the Shire, to learn the new songs, to get off the couch.

So we gave the tickets to some young people, and sat on the couch with a blankie and reflected on times gone by- bands seen, comedy shows laughed at, drinks spilled.

I don’t know if this old that we’ve caught is just a virus, something that will pass with appropriate rest and a nice lie down, or if it will settle in our marrow and constrict us until we become fused and immobile.

I hope it will pass.  And that if we tweak and stretch ourselves in just the right way, we can shake it off.  Because I suspect this is exactly how it begins.  The new things seem like too much effort, so you make a decision to stay right here.  To miss the gig, not do the update, wear last-year’s fashion, turn down the music, refuse the newest social medium, complain about how the town used to look.  And the old that you’ve caught, eventually infests and kills you.

So please excuse me, I’m off for my Milo and a lie down.  But I may just listen to THIS first.  See if I can shake it off.

Do you go out on a school night? 

How much do you love Sorrowbound?

And how much am I now spewing that I didn’t just GO?  Answer: A LOT.

…From The Ashers

I had the wind knocked out of my sails a little this afternoon, no big deal, just things might trot along a little bit differently than the way I had imagined.  Some longer term goals might need to shuffle around a bit.  Providentially I had been to the shops this very morning, exchanging a Mother’s Day pressie, that although very lovely and floral and well, motherly, wasn’t really my style.  Instead I swapped it for this book.

So I spent the rest of the day mucking around in my imaginary world, and rescheduling a few goals.

And now it is time for me to arrange myself on the couch to watch the House Rules reveal.

I am telling you all this by way of explaining why the Evil Geniuses are in charge of what you are receiving here as blog content.

I asked them for ideas and the following is what they came up with.  According to Unit One it’s viral, and at 159 million views, it appears he speaks the truth.  How do they know that?  Why haven’t we heard about it before this?  How do they know all the words, and even have a little pantomime arranged, and we adults have NEVER EVEN HEARD OF IT?  Is there some secret child world where they go to and play Minecraft and Rainbow Loom all day?  So here it is, but before you click, beware: EARWORM.  Okay, click here now.

You’re welcome.

If it’s gonna drive you mad singling “Waddle Waddle” all day, there is an antivenin, and it is the sweetness of this one by the girls.  I’ve watched it approximately one million times and I still don’t know the tapping.  I want to be those girls.  Either one.

Have a fun day.  Happy singing.  (I might put the tapping on the top of my Five Year Goal list…)

Got any grapes?

…From The Ashers xx

Easter is almost here, and that brings with it thoughts of all things musical and beachy.  The Blues Fest is on, Bell’s is on, and in my part of the world, the cyclone has passed and the forecast is for FOUR DAYS OF BLOODY SENSATIONAL.  And post-cyclone waves.

So I thought I’d be a good Mummy and get the kids some tickets to see the 2Cellos in Brisbane (from the Easter Bunny- a great excuse not to buy anything more than an Elegant Rabbit, which is a must-do tradition more than anyone really liking them).   Unfortunately, I’ve come up with two problems: firstly, the doors open at 7.30pm, and our rats go to bed by 7pm.   As I was questioning myself as to whether it’s appropriate to give a seven and nine year old an espresso as a one off, once only event (until the next time I want them to stay up all night), I found the second problem: there is only standing room tickets left.  DOH.  There is no way, kiddy-speed or no, that these two can stand for an entire show.

Gutted.

I was going to be the best Easter BunnyMummy in the world, and now I’m going to be a bit shit, with a pair of winter pyjamas and some scattered Red Tulips.  Spewing.

All was not lost though.  As I was on the OzTix website, I might have seen Dan Sultan is playing in Maroochydore in July, and I might have spent the entire egg allocation on tickets for myself and my love.  Sorry kids, no live music for you.  You’ve got years ahead of you, and we might die soon.

How could I resist?

Now I”m off to start emailing Dan (as I like to call him, being close friends* with a dude who used to play with him, and all) to make sure he plays Sorrowbound.  And when I say emailing, I mean emailings.  There will be many.  I do like a project.

What are you doing for Easter?

Anyone else going to Dan?

*Facebook Friends. That’s close right?  (Hi Scott, and PS if you ever tour Qld we will be there too.. Fact.)

…From The Ashers xx

Unit Two has just started violin lessons.  Yes I know: NERD ALERT.

So you can imagine our wonder and relief when My Friend John posted THIS on the Book of Faces yesterday.  Okay, so they aren’t violins, but they’re close enough.  Our ragbags were freaking out… Unit One was stamping and air drumming.  Unit Two was air-violining.  (Yes, unfortunately in our house, this is now a thing.)

Why doncha fire up your Apple TV, turn up the surround sound and watch these two crazy crowies rock out.  If you have time, and are feeling all romantic, watch With Or Without You.

I wonder if those dudes got laid afterwards…?

Here endeth the blog. (Sorry it’s a short one, but I have to go and watch the bi-atches on MKR)

Are you watching MKR? (I swear, this is my last night)

It’s been a busy few days around these parts: catch-ups with friends (amazing), busy days at work (fun) and lots of last things to get done before the school year finishes in EIGHT MORE DAYS.  So apologies RRs* for going AWOL….

Two weeks ago, we had Unit One in tears when I suggested he do a practice-run of the song he was due to play at his end of year drum recital (Is it a recital when it is kids smashing the crap out of a set of skins?).  We have not heard one single skerrick of practice all year, and believe me, with the size of our house and the type of songs he learns, I’d know if he was playing.  Let’s just say it is not Vivaldi.  So far, I’m told he doesn’t need to practice because he “learns it all in my lessons”.  The lessons go for half an hour.  Per week.  Sounds suspiciously like that old “I did all my maths homework on the way home on the bus” chestnut.  Anyway, I said “give me a run through” and he cried.  Because, shock of shocks, he couldn’t remember it.

It’s funny, he’s been the type of kid who hasn’t really had to work very hard for anything so far.  He’s naturally good at most things, has a great memory, and could read fluently at four years old.  This means there have been no hard-won battles to learn sight words or times tables, no trial and error, no striving for success.  So of course he wanted me to call the drum teacher and get him out of the concert. Or change songs to something he already knew.

Ummm, NO.

In the interests of making a point (and being right in the process- my two fave things) we made him practice that song three times every night for the next nine nights, and guess what?  He learnt it.  He bashed those drums as hard as he could and he did a great job. Not perfect but great.

You see, the reason why he didn’t want to practice it was because he couldn’t do it perfectly the first time.  He was concerned, because even though it looks like an easy song, he says it’s quite difficult. I suspect when you’re a kid who has had things come easily, you don’t have resilience or determination in your repertoire.  Maybe persistence isn’t something you’re born with, but something you have to practice, just like your drumming.  So we entered tenacity training.  And it worked (Of course it did, did I mention I’m always right?).  He did the song, and by the look on his face, and the chatter in the car afterwards, the victory tasted sweeter for being something he’d worked on and worked out.  Thunderous applause.

Crank up the volume, sit back and get Thunderstruck

PS Please click the link- he’s collecting views and I promised I’d blog up the numbers for him….

* Regular Readers

She often felt like she was from another time, or should have been, such was the sensation of subluxation from her schoolmates. They loved Madonna and Bon Jovi: their wrists encircled in rubber bracelets, their fists aloft and clenching to ‘Living on a Prayer / Like a Prayer’.  She only wanted to listen to bands that were dead or should have been.  They only wanted to listen to songs bursting with life and promise.

And then she found Dylan.

He was squashed flat between Duran Duran and Electric Light Orchestra in the woodgrain-finish Pioneer stereo cabinet. A thin film of dust gave cover-art Bob a hazy look, yet something about his arrogant profile made her take that record out of its sleeve and place the needle in the groove.

The next five hours were lost to her.

She listened to that nasal whine and that keening harmonica over and over until she felt the thin membranes of her ears might burst with the pain and the burden of the poetry, of a society past.  Passed and past, yet somehow matching everything she sensed was right and wrong with the society of now.  And once she knew these things she could not unknown them.  Subluxation became dislocation.  And so it goes.

It was 1985, and in that when, context could not be gleaned with the whizz of a mouse, so she had gather background and perspective from people of actual flesh.  Their memories were unreliable and insufficient for the immersion she required.  She wanted to be subterranean, not sprinkled.  She wanted to feel it all.

She longed to stand, shoulders strong, singing ‘I Shall Be Released’ or ‘Masters of War’ and force her voice to be heard.

She longed to lie, bodies supple, serenaded by ‘If Not For You; or ‘Just Like A Woman’, and allow her heart to be heard.

The years rolled by, and Ah-Ha were replaced Wa Wa Nee, and still nobody was listening, nobody noticed. She screeched ‘A Hard Rain’s Gonna Fall’ at the top of her lungs as they danced on the ceiling, followed by the Locomotion.

Every dribble of drivel propelled her further into earnest righteousness, until she thought she could never love the world again. Bob joined in on ‘We are the World’ and she wished the Cold War would end, and end it all.

Then one day she met a melancholy boy. They united, in Dylan, and in all ways. They slept on the cold city concrete to get the best seats possible. Someone bought a guitar, and someone else a blues harp, and the eerie sounds bounced off their urban campground as they pretended they were disenfranchised, bundled as they were, in duck-down sleeping bags from Paddy Palin and Ray’s Tent City.  They were in love with ideology and each other, in that order.

By the time the tour started, there were cracks in their philosophy, and by the night of the show, they were chasms. They were as interested in each other, as Dylan was in his audience.  He looked at his boots and his guitar as if they fascinated him. They looked at each other as if they didn’t.

And when she said to the man on her right, “Aren’t you Mark Seymour” he despised her for not knowing it was his brother Nick.  “Still trying to be indi”, he said.  She looked at him blankly.  He wanted to slap the blankness away.

Dylan finished his droning, and stumbled off.

He handed her a book and strode off.

It was a book of Dylan lyrics and she knew the song he meant for her. It Ain’t Me Babe

Got a favourite break-up song?