Monthly Archives: February 2010

L’indolente and Masterpieces from Paris.

07 Sunday Feb 2010

Posted by in Cricics, Critics, Everyone's a Critic

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L'indolente

We visited the National Gallery against all advice not to attempt it during week-end. We arrived about 11.30 and the queue overhead the roadway did not look promising. We clambered up some stairs amongst the rubble of a large extension, plywood panelling on both sides with scaffolding. Upstairs and outside under a tent-like galley we joined a queue. There was some queue confusion when it became clear you first had to get tickets. We joined a new one, bought our tickets and returned to the original file. Towards the entrance the line of keen art appreciators was compressed into a zig-zag line-up, giving hope and revival of spirits to all and sundry.

It was moving along   nicely and we were finely ticketed inside and moved into room NR 1.  It was well worth it and the crowd was filing pensively past each and every painting.

George Seurat’s three little paintings of his frontal nude girlfriend in room NR 2 were outstanding . I took note that she appeared underage but it must have past the classification board at that time.

In room NR 3 was a large painting by Gustave Geffroy of a man in front of a large bookcase. I did not realise that penguins were already available then. Please also notice the Dutch tulips with the plasma telly just above them.

Cezanne certainly loved his onions with beautifully coloured plates of fruit as well. A beautiful monochrome coloured painting by Edouard Vuillard was outstanding.

Gustave Geffroy

A crackerjack painting of a fat cracking portrayal of a mouthwatering and beautiful sprawled on bed nude was Pierre Bonnards ” woman dozing on a bed” with the very suitable French title L’indolente, was in my opinion the most outstanding of the lot.

This is a must see exhibitions. Come on piglets. Go and see it, even on a Saturday.

Underage child care in the 60’s

05 Friday Feb 2010

Posted by in The Mens

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The last bastion in the late sixties for males to break down was the right to baby-sit. Women were in the throng of burning bras and going girdle less, stockings with seams were passé and Germaine Greer had announced ‘Bras are a ludicrous invention’. So, while women burned bras because they were seen as accoutrements of torture, men burned their draft cards avoiding real torture and felt liberated until they tried to baby-sit in Inner West of Sydney.

As it was, I turned up one evening and with the household all dressed to go and dine somewhere or see Zorba the Greek, I noticed a distinct cooling towards me. They made a discreet phone call and decided it would be safe for a man to be allowed to baby sit, just this time.  ? Of course, many of the parents that knew each other through social events knew each other as couples or, in the case of play groups, were mainly always women. For a man to be on its own, solo, and at baby-sitting in the evening was not that far advanced in acceptance yet. There was a meeting and the majority approved ‘male baby-sitting’. I don’t know what the objections or criteria were for being suspicious of males doing baby-sitting. Curiously enough, the mother that was surprised and taken aback somewhat when I presented myself to baby-sit, thought nothing of taking her clothes off for a life drawing session. Were males going to do evil things or was the reluctance because of lack of skills? It was not that much of a challenge though and much depended on what sort of facilities the parents had provided. Real coffee instead of the instant variety was preferred. Sometimes, there was a good book or a television program. Sometimes, especially if it was after midnight (double points) you would just go to sleep on a couch if available. Never in their marital bed of course!

Most times, babies would either sleep or cry. If they cried you generally gave them the option of a milk bottle or a dummy. With some families there were directions on procedures, and I remember one cot having a type of fly screen lid fitted on top. It was hinged and had a locking device which was difficult to open; it had a trick to it. I ended phoning the secretary. Did they think their baby was going to get stolen? I only had one time that my baby soothing skills were inadequate. Mind you, the babies (twins) were known as ‘the horrible twins’. Apparently, they would scream and could not be bend in order to change their nappies. It was my turn to baby-sit for these twins and as soon as I walked near them they broke out in a howl and in tandem. The nappy stench made clear I had to change them, but even another step towards their cot resulted in a renewal of their blaring sirens. It would only abate when stepping back. I kept stepping back and phoned the secretary again, she came around and changed the nappies. By 1972 most males had broken the barrier and were fully accepted for babysitting.

From Here to Nairobi Chapter 2 – NO SHORTS, NO SHIRT, NO SERVICE (females excepted)

04 Thursday Feb 2010

Posted by in Neville Cole, The Public Bar, Travels

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Mid-day at the Oasis .....

Photographs and Story by Neville Cole

Yellow orange hues of dusk fill the sky outside as I wake from a much needed nap. A hot, Kenyan breeze is blowing steadily. The window slats are rusted permanently open and a flimsy, green curtain is fluttering parallel to the floor. I go the bathroom to splash water on my face.  It consists of a sink, one tap, a toilet, and a shower nozzle. I could conceivably sit on the toilet, brush my teeth in the sink, and take a shower all at the same time. This could considerably speed up my morning routine. Somehow though, I don’t see myself ever being in that much of a rush. Not at the Oasis Club anyway.

No pool queues at the Oasis

While I dozed, a crowd gathered by the pool, which was actually a natural hot water spring, consisting of two self-circulating ponds connected by a waterfall: the oasis from which the club draws its name. Feeling stable again I wander out for a look. I find John splashing around naked with a bunch of fat old guys.

“Neville,” he yells. “Get your togs off and hop in!  And look like you’re having fun, we’re trying to get the girls to join us.”  On the far side of the Oasis, under a darkened porch, I can just make out a few young women sitting and smoking. I rip off my shirt and shorts and leap into the pool with a childish whoop.

John is floating blissfully around on his back. Two of the fat, naked guys are doing the same thing. They all have their pricks exposed to the night air. “This is Jean and Michel,” John says with a nod of his head. “We’re going to have some party at the old Oasis tonight!  Especially if we can get those mademoiselles to lighten up and enjoy themselves.”

“Wolfgang, tell us you were at the Florida 2000,” Michel said with a devilish grin. “Did you have the Nairobi handshake?”

“Nairobi handshake?” I asked.  “What’s that?”

“I’m not sure you’d remember even if you did get one, Nev.”  John says with exaggerated good humour.  “It’s a special greeting the girls give you underneath your shorts.”

“I think I’d remember that.  Besides, I was wearing jeans.”

“Too bad for you,” grinned Jean.  “We get the jungle fever, both of us.”

“How nice.” I smile and dive under the water. When I come up for air I find two stupendously tall models looking down at me. John wastes no time in sending a graceful splash in their general direction.  “Come on in ladies, the water’s fine!” he laughs.

“I don’t know,” the tallest of the glamorzons shoots back.  “By the looks of your things that water is pretty cold.  Besides, the bar is open.”

I watch very close to dumbstruck as Giselle and Natalia, for those are surely their names, parade up an imaginary catwalk to the bar. Is it possible that John’s horrible flying has dropped us into a parallel universe? Perhaps I am actually still asleep and dreaming. God, I hope not. I can’t make sense of this. I am naked in hot spring on the edge of the world surrounded by supermodels. How did I get this lucky? Then I remember the supermodels are heading to the bar and I am still in the hot spring with a bunch of fat, old guys.

“You like our girls, my friend?” Jean laughs. “I will put in the good word at dinner if you like.”

“Yes,” Michel adds. “You missed out on the Nairobi handshake last night. Maybe you will get the Oasis blowjob tonight.”

Jean and Michel, it turns out, work for Canal 4. They are in the middle of a five year shoot on five different continents. They have come to the area to shoot an episode that includes Dr. Leakey’s discoveries on human origins, the fashion photography of Peter Beard and more than a little extreme sports action. Neither Jean or Michel speak particularly good English so I have some difficulty following the entire story concept; but I don’t really care; the Oasis Club pool on a warm African night tends to make everything unimportant. Well, almost everything…the fact that there are several beautiful models waiting to join me at dinner is pretty interesting; but still, thanks to the healing waters of the spring, I am feeling quite human again and ready to face the night head on.

Wolfgang and supermodel

If there is anything better than a dip in a natural spring after a long, hot day travelling across Kenya; it has to be hopping out of the water and heading up to a bar full of supermodels for an ice cold Tusker.  I’ve always said I can travel anywhere the beer is good and fortunately for me, beer is good just about everywhere. I would add that I can also travel anywhere the supermodels are good but that seems to go without saying.

Putting the supermodels aside for the time being we all decide to start some serious drinking, except John who spends a good five minutes toweling himself off at the edge of the bar. I am pretty sure he believes this is of interest to the girls but it is perfectly clear to everyone else it is not. We beg him to “f’christsake put some clothes on!”  Wolfgang even threatens to take him off the dinner list. He points to a sign above the bar that clearly states: NO SHORTS, NO SHIRT, NO SERVICE (females excepted). John finally relents and gets dressed but not before he manages to slip in what appears to be the well-worn first line to a famous local vaudeville routine.

“So, what’s on the menu tonight, Wolfgang?”

“Well, it just so happens they caught a couple of Nile Perch fresh out of the lake today.”

“You don’t say. Well, that’s a stroke of luck for us!”

“That’s right. You can have anything you want for dinner at the Oasis as long as it’s Nile Perch.”

Jean and Michel move off to join the girls and the rest of their group, leaving John and I alone at the bar with Wolfgang.

“So where is Justin?” John asks while prying the cap off a fresh Tusker.

“He’s still in the village. They had a little trouble with the El Molo today.”

“Trouble?  What kind of trouble would the El Molo cause?”

“These guys blew down half their village. It was amazing. They flew in that enormous fuckin’ Russian helicopter to drop some gear down by the lake. Well, you know the El Molo huts, a couple of sticks leaning against each other. The helicopter came down and blew them all to buggery. Justin’s been there all day with another guy from the crew trying to sort things out.”

We drink steadily and generally socialise until the final members of our party arrive.  The first I take to be the aforementioned Justin Bell from Arusha. He carries himself with the confidence of a man who has lived the kind of adventures most of us just dream about. He is obviously cut from the same cloth as John, born and raised in Africa, though it is immediately clear he is far less gregarious than John and has a serious and studious nature. The other dinner guest is quite an intriguing sight: a tall, lean and very tanned, long-haired, bearded stranger wearing some kind of kaftan. I am just drunk enough to believe that we will be eating dinner with Jesus Christ himself.

NEXT UP: ART FOR SARTRE’S SAKE

Not Extremely Festive This Year – My Fault ?

03 Wednesday Feb 2010

Posted by in Cricics, Critics, Everyone's a Critic

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Sorry, this is a bit of a ramble – so if you can be bothered, get a cuppa and a comfortable chair.

Sometimes I try to write a review with a positive slant – even give the show the benefit of my doubt.  But today I’m failing miserably.  Apologies up front.  No, never apologise.  Grahame Bird style.  No, not that either.  And I know that we have a new festival director and I want to avoid raising Voice’s ire about ugly personal abuse because that’s not what I intend.

Sometimes a bad entertainment experience comes from within.  Bad attitude going to a show is often rewarded accordingly.  On reflection I think an unhappy review is as much a reflection on the reviewer as it is on the show.  OK, I’ll admit some culpability here.

This was our fourth Sydney Festival in a row; 1 Magical; 2 Amazing; 3 Curate’s egg; 4 Mostly disappointing.

For me the 2010 Sydney Festival was in trouble when the program was released last November.  The First Mate and I pored over the paperwork with the usual expectant excitement – and after an hour or so we exchanged  “Oh Dear” looks.  Very little seemed interesting.  But like troupers we re-applied ourselves to the task and agreed on:

  • Smoke and Mirrors in the Spiegeltent – Adult Circus/Cabaret/Vaudeville
  • Toumani Diabate – West African kora player extraordinaire and friends and relations
  • Circus Oz at Tumbalong Park
  • Giselle at the Carriageworks – Redfern – walking distance from home
  • Dirty Three and Laughing Clowns at the Enmore Theatre – also walking distance from home
  • Optimism – after Candide at Sydney Opera House Drama Theatre
  • The Fence –  a late booking to Urban Theatre Projects (about whom I’ve previously written at the Pig’s – challenging theatre al fresco) – this time in a constructed outdoor theatre in the old King’s School grounds in Parramatta.

The deal is that if you book five or more gigs you get a 20% discount.  But not all gigs can be booked this way and you must do a separate booking for some of the others – this is how I forgot to book the Brazilian Dance gig.  Also I was a bit festivalled out at this stage.

We gave the German Production of Hamlet a miss after a really disappointing, dull and very boring (coarse but accurate) experience with Sydney Theatre Company’s War of the Roses last year.  It was as I said at the time (another Unleashed sat-on piece) –  blood death and boredom times four.  Unrelenting 4 X 2 hour sessions over two days on a bare set stage.  Not saved by Cate Blanchett.  We were looking for relief as Australia followed the rest of the world into recession – and we got grim, grim, grim.  Pity, the reviews this year said the German Hamlet was a Festival Highlight.

So the summary reviews ?

Smoke and Mirrors - Comic Genious and Two Ducks - Photo by Jamie Williams

Smoke and Mirrors – was arguably the best thing at the festival this year.  It was scary, funny, riveting dirty cabaret at its best.  The small cast – especially the MC Joel Grey character was talented beyond description – bad, bad and hilarious.  And did we love singing along to his version of the lewd Eskimo Nell – Irene Iray ?  You bet !  The acrobats were simply unbelievably good – doing impossible acts of wry daring and strength.  The bearded lady with the voice that soared like an angel was wonderful.  I was in love.  And the First Mate swore we saw her again at Yum Cha in Erina – but that’s another story – about hallucinogenic prawn toast.  Todd McKenny (you know the gay dance dude who pegged out in Rushcutter’s Bay park) tapped up a miraculous storm.  The magician was sufficiently barely competent so I was spellbound waiting to see whether he was going to screw up.  I wasn’t disappointed with some poorly concealed sleights (spelling ?) of hand.  All up – Fabulous.

But the timing of Spiegeltent and the other gigs prevented us from going to the allegedly great Indian music and show troupe in Hyde Park – ah compromises, compromises.

Toumani Diabate - West African kora player extraordinaire and the Symmetric Band

Toumani Diabate and his band at the lovely State Theatre  were really very good too.  He DID seem to play the same piece three times with variations – Opening solo, then again with full band and once more for luck in the closing encore, but hey – it’s a great sound and the piece goes for about 12 minutes.  Sample some of his music off the web or see if he shows up in the Nathan Rees Memorial Dance Club at the Pig’s Arms in the near future..

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Barely Contained

Circus Oz was pretty much what Circus Oz is – one more time around.  Some hilarious stunts, challenging if not exactly death defying acrobatics, slick tumbling, a strong woman who was really extremely fit (Pins of Steel) and a midget (are we OK to say this these days or am I supposed to say “vertically challenged person” ?) – were clever, funny and quite entertaining.  If I’m damning them with feint praise, perhaps that’s fair enough.  The crew are multi-talented performers and they did a workman-like if not astonishingly novel job.

Giselle –  I was looking forward to Giselle.  Pity that we had had a huge day at work and a family disaster that same day – and we flopped in front of the TV – exhausted – completely forgetting that our tickets to Giselle were for that night.  oops !

Dirty Three - sure were

Dirty Three and Laughing Clowns at the Enmore Theatre.  An ’80s band reprise for Bands that I missed in the 80s but who carried some cult following cachet.  The Sydney Morning Herald daily review of the Festival poured scorn on this gig.   Fair enough.  It was without a doubt the worst gig I’ve been to for a very long time.  I remember Ed Kuepper – formerly of the Saints being regarded back then as a brilliant but irascible guitarist musician composer.  The music was a wall of hard driven, monotonous, repetitive rock punctuated with some fiercely passionate saxophone work.   The Herald critic bucketed the Enmore Theatre as a really shit venue – it was monsoon hot or worse, crowded and acoustically ordinary.  He /she said that if the Enmore was the best they could do for a venue for live music in Sydney, that is the reason why live music is dying.  Amen to that.  We headed to the bar after three mutually indistinguishable songs with unintelligible lyrics.  You had to be a die-hard fan.

Relieved to go back into the sauna for the second half, we were met by a hippie  Charles Manson in stove-pipe pants with an electric violin, attempting to do kungfoo kicks and play – seemingly like a dude on lsd.  “Hey man, this song is about the 2% of the time when you fall in love that’s not all fucked up”.  Well, that’s an elegant and perceptive take on love !  No, well, at this point I have to loosen myself up and say I cannot remember a performance more crapulous than this trio.  I’m absolutely certain that they were playing the 98% fucked up bits.

Optimism - well, maybe

The Herald panned “Optimism” saying that it was neither optimistic nor particularly funny.  I like Frank Woodley and I thought it was funny – kind of, but I was trying pretty hard to adopt a positive attitude – after all, it was my dough going down the gurgler at an alarming rate.  Alison Whyte did a convincing job, Francis Greenslade was as goonish as his name suggests and Barry Otto played Barry Otto (score: one all).

Urban Theatre Projects' "The Fence"

Now, to the Fence.  I have come to expect the unexpected from Urban Theatre Projects and I wasn’t let down expectation-wise.  The play explored (really more like “toyed-with”) the difficulties of a mixed race family in domestic tension.  An indigenous man.  A white woman.  Both from tough circumstances.  His family, a neighbour and for some unknown reason an obese Greek boarder,wandered around their living room and backyard, wandered on and off set.  Had a few blues, played a bit of Paul Kelly and Willie Nelson music and for me left me with the feeling of waiting for Godot, western suburbs style.  It’s not PC to bag out indigenous performance, so let’s just say that perhaps I was having another flat night by bringing along a worn out unresponsive attitude.

This year we spent roughly half of the usual budget on tickets to the festival.  It was hard to decide what was worth going to – and we went anyway out of loyalty to what had previously been much needed nourishment for the soul.  Maybe the flat program was a reflection of a lack of support from the famously broke NSW Government.  Maybe it was a reflection of a tired festival in general or the real face of the global financial meltdown.  The tickets were mostly – but not entirely more reasonably priced but the quality of events was also toned down.  I gather that some other big ticket events – $145 for some (according to the Herald) vastly under-rehearsed sea shanties on the Opera House forecourt) were true stinkers and I have to say that my days of speculating $300 the pair for tickets to see whether Marianne Faithfull can still cut the mustard with the Ballad of Lucy Jordan after ALL THESE years – are well and truly over.

Next year, I’m afraid, if the program smells like Stilton, I won’t be paying hard cash to be cheesed off.

Now, fingers crossed that the forthcoming Sydney Writers’ Festival will be another boomer.  And that the Sydney Film Festival will rise out of the ashes  of last year’s hole.  I’m hoping to feel just a tad more festive real soon now !

5.3 The Great Escape Part 2 – The Great Batsman

02 Tuesday Feb 2010

Posted by in Mark

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The image that was previously here was apparently based on an image claimed by Kenny Hyder of Chicago.

We offer our sincere apologies for this oversight

So, we are about to be zarking blown into kingdom come as the ICCB has us surrounded as we orbit Mars. “War cabinet” I cry into the ships intercom “Catherine, over to the control room, on the double” I demand of the central computer. “C’mon Belinda, honey, lets go, I ain’t dying and neither are you “.

Belinda and I cross the green. I note that Dave the guitar droid is playing “Sweet Surrender” by Tim Buckley from the pub balcony, not on your Nellie I think to myself. Boy, I’ve changed since I’ve been in space, become a rebel, a space Lord, blown up star ships and fallen in love, I might just write a book about this one day.

The Helvi-tastic meets us halfway to the control room. “Lord Climate” she says “Count me in, let’s fight”. Now after the fight with Lord Deaf Vision and his guards on the Death Ball that statement scares the zark out of me. “Okay, c’mon Helvi, war cabinet in the control room, we don’t have long” I reply in a half committed tone. “We kill and die heroes Sandy, lets go” states Helvi. Now I’m really scared.

Catherine enters the control room in her ship mode as a cat. Gee if only I had a shotgun handy, anyway, Catherine has calmed down now I reprogrammed her. Turned out to be not too hard. Da Catherine Code I called it and went something like this,

Procedure Global  Keep_Calm

Define variable sedate, numeric

Set sedate: = 0

If Full_Blown_Arc_Up >= 3 then

Full_Blown_Arc_Up:= sedate

Else

Set sedate:= 0

Endif

If High_Level_PMT >= 3 then

High_Level_PMT:= sedate

Else

Set sedate:= 0

Endif

Exit

End procedure

“Okay” I start “Anyone got any ideas. I’m not gonna get killed and neither is anyone else” With that the crew roar “Aye”. Wow this is like the Australian cricket team. “We fight” howls Helvi, another roar goes up. “We die heroes and martyrs” she continues. The room suddenly goes silent.

“Well we could surrender. I’ve heard that they send you to a prison moon called Penal Erectus to live out the rest of your days” chips in Henry, the navcom.  “Penal Erectus, sounds promising” quips Belinda “But anyway we are not giving up”.

“I know, why don’t I ring Gordon. He’ll tell us what to do?” I blurt nervously. “No Sandy” Belinda pleads “Lets get ourselves out of this mess we’ve got ourselves into”. I look over at Belinda, she has that unmistaken look of determination on her beautiful face and it instantly fills me full of pride and courage. “Anyone for a drink?” I question. “No” says Henry, “You’ll upset Jayell.”

“Now, now everyone” a rather calm and sedate Catherine states reassuringly “Lets not get too carried away” Gee I think I’ll have to set the parameters higher in that piece of code, she’s become too laid back. “You could always push that button over there and run for it” Catherine purrs rather laconically. “What button is that?” I query. “That one over there, on the second computer bank” Catherine informs.

I walk over to the computer terminal. It has a button on the left that says “If you want to make the ship invisible push this button”. Oh for zark sake, this is just farcical. I push the button, “Henry, run for it” and with that cry the ship accelerates vertically at high speed. We all hit the ground. Incredibly the ICCB opened fire just at that moment however we were gone and as they had us surrounded every missile fired hit another ICCB ship and were all destroyed. Amazing but true, well sort of.

The Old Apple iPad

01 Monday Feb 2010

Posted by in The Mens

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There’s been quite a lot of road miles written about the new wonder product from Apple with the dodgy name.  I watched chunks of the Steve Jobs evangelist gathering and product release.  As I said somewhere on Unleashed that I smell a rat – and there’s a lot of self-serving hoopla assumptions by Apple that I would rather use their slick device to do the kind of mundane things that I can – but rarely – do on a Laptop or a Netbook.

I have been long in IT and related work.  I have seen the next best things disappear without a trace many times before.  Apple did it with the Lisa (which pushed a good idea – mouse-driven graphic user interface) over the top at huge cost and for an audience that apparently was supposed to be happy with something less useful than it’s predecessors.  There was also a thing called “the Newton”.  Disappeared, vanished, poof !

Anyway  the more they hype it, the less I’m inclined to rush out.  But if one of the Pig’s patrons were to say “It’s fantastic !”.  That would be another thing and I’d have to check it out.

For now, here’s a tasteless clip for the patrons with thick skins – wherein ratbags ridiculed the iPad – in 2006 – four years before it went onto the market.

Caution – serious mockery

Crikey – it must be good !