two breakfasts
Up at quarter past 5 this morning to catch the live at Manning final breakfast show of Adam Spencer and Wil Anderson, less out of a particular love for their show than out of nostalgia for Spence rocking the lunchtime Theatresports styles on the same stage back in the "days".Dud: Gerling only getting to play one song when the Cops and Frenzal got two apiece.
Classic: Craig McLachlan miming fumbling through an octogenarian's labia with both hands in an attempt to finger her. Then, apparently egged on past sense by the tittering of the crowd, climbing bodily inside and pressing his hands and face against the walls Marcel Marceau-style...and upon extricating himself, pulling a flap over to offer it to Andrew Denton.
I assume this came across on air as three minutes of muffled laughter and the occasional thunk of celebrity jaw hitting floor.
from the Rocking Vic-uh
Simon Witter writes, pleasantly inspired in the wake of the Peelfest:I owe my love of The Fall entirely to Peel's rotation play of Totally Wired in my schooldays. In 1983, while freelancing as London correspondent for an obscure and unpronounceable Austrian music monthly, I got to interview Mark E Smith and his new bride and bandmember Brix in a seedy hotel in Bayswater. We hit it off beyond the confines of the interview, and I ended up getting backstage passes to all The Fall's London gigs, where MES would chop out hospitable lines of speed for me - thankfully never in the gramme-a-go doses he favoured. Then, in early 1984, I started to freelance for the NME and I finally got my first major feature, the new Fall interview. At this point, MES rang Neil Spencer and said he wouldn't see me, as he would only be interviewed by "name" writers. I didn't listen to a Fall record for at least ten years after that but I still have fond memories of standing at the bar of the Electric Ballroom with Smith, watching one of The Smiths' earliest London shows (supporting The Fall), and MES announcing loudly over his drink, with heartwarming solidarity for these newcomer namesakes and fellow Mancunians: "Look at that ridiculous bunch of cunts in their rockabilly shirts!".Subscribe yourself at the Vicarage.
it was B-Side "E For Ethiopia" that found favour with the DJ community
The Secret History Of Band-Aid at Freaky Trigger (scroll down a bit)hairy poofter
From an otherwise unrelated essay at Tom Spurgeon's newish site:The woman next to me on the plane has furry arms and a dirty sweater spread across shiny white legs. She's reading a book: Harry Potter and the Need for Constant Reassurance. A word: In most of the fantasies I'd read as a pre-teen, staining the pages with orange juice and cookie dough, protagonists moved from a state of grace into a place of constant danger. Experiencing both setbacks and discouragement, at the moment of truth the hero would draw on memories of where he came from and in doing so find the strength to succeed. In the Harry Potter books, the lead character comes from crappy circumstances and experiences a seemingly unending string of impressive victories as cool adults, close friends and casual peers frequently let him know how great he is. His occasional failures stand in bold don't-hate-me relief on an otherwise perfect face, kid-lit's version of Marlon Brando's broken nose. I'm jealous I didn't think of dealing emotional crack this potent, and slightly worried that so many kids and adults respond to the bath of affirmation like a Christmas kitten sitting on an air vent.
Hopetoun Incentive 15/11/2004
Stopped home for about two hours to eat, shower and change; stumble into Hoey, and attempted chit-chat from doorbitch Downey soon indicates to me that I am in no state to attempt to make coherent conversation. Acquire beer and watch end of Fyreflies, who despite exhaustion I enjoy much more than at Melbourne's Pony in June. Though here they lack the comedy value of four obvious ex-Nitocris fans with arms around each other's leather shoulders, banging their balding heads with a fervour that outstrips the music onstage.Derwent River Star bassist Eli has been gamely urging me to come and see them play for about six months, pressing a flyer on me upon our first introduction and going so far as to write this date up my arm last time we met. So it's with no little shame that I finally make it to a show tonight (but at least it's an important one!), and with some small relief that I actually enjoy it. Elements of the nu-twee Australasian sound are prominent - notably in the lead girl's breathy vocals and deployment of melodica & toy glockenspiel - but the song structures and general tone are more dominated by an urgently melodic post-rock approach. Perhaps a little precious: the one guy on a chair in the middle who goes from cello to banjo to ukelele to lap steel to acoustic guitar etc comes off like they're making a point of how he changes to a new instrument for every song omg. And they're definitely too reliant on a Mogwai/GYBE-style trick of starting a piece gentle and lilting but after a few minutes building up into A RUMBLING STORM OF RAWK - nearly every song does this - but they play it well, and they're a developing band. One imagines they'll yoke this communication to a broader range of dynamics as they go along.
The bump-out set-up gap is filled with more efforts to communicate, that have Dilemma laughing at me for forgetting that I know members of a band I saw last night, and me yawping dully at Jittersoph, trying to pull up... words... from brain... Phonograph still haven't got their kit set up? That's it, I'm skipping the final act of the Hopetoun Hott Female Bass-Player Competition 2004 and heading for sleep and Six Feet Under instead.
Newtown Festival
Left the house 24 hours ago to go and see bands play and dogs frolic in the park. Now I'm sitting at work with a skinned knee, a melted wrist and a hard-hat with GAY RACIST written on the front. I probably should have had more to eat, or less to drink, or just gone home at some point.But no regrets, apart from the pain in various parts of my body. The gozleme that served as breakfast and lunch and dinner was tasty, Peabody grunted out a set of their current heavier style, ran into people I know every twenty minutes, Laura Imbrooglywoogly played a new song or two and made an open call for a new drummer, Darth Vegas showed M. Lira sticking to his guns with a band that basically sound like Vicious Hairy Mary playing circus music (though packed with keyboards and horns), Bluejuice were far more impressive on a small stage outside than last time I saw them in a big room, $5 longnecks of Coopers from icebuckets out the front of the Courthouse rocked super-hard, and Andy's backyard & toilet queues provided glorious haven in between pub and bands.
Gem of the day goes to The Drugs for livening up their demotion from main stage headliners to small stage afternoon-fillers by making play out of their loss of a bass player; pre-recorded intros heralded the arrival on each song of another Sydney indie luminary contending for the role (then being unceremoniously voted off, Australian Idol stylee). Representatives of Frenzal, Dappled, Devoted, Peabody and the Hoodoos all doll up in Ronald McDonald outfits for their turn, and return en masse to dack Ian Baddely onstage in the last song.
Dud of the day: The Cops having too much of a crowd to get in front of the mixing desk and see if they sounded any less like murky sludge from there.
After the bands finish, it just gets murkier as more beer follows the sun down. I know I managed to corral a posse to stroll Annandale-wards and catch most of Smudge's set at the SER benefit, but by the time Big Heavy Stuff were playing, it's all stumbling round, drunkenly babbling, falling over and spilling my beer. So glad I committed to showing up at the Hopetoun band comp thingy tonight, instead of going home and sleeping. Or getting a motel room just to have a bath...
look ma, I'm MP3blogging
Okay, so it’s the result I expected, and hardly even disappointing in the wake of our own appalling re-election a couple of weeks ago. But still, this fervent rant from TISM seems even more appropriate today than when it was first performed, 21 years ago…pathetic
I really will have to fall back on inventing the lunchblog, it seems.Today: penne with chicken and artichoke, in a creamy sundried tomato sauce. Was going to go for a meat-free day, but thought if there are proper, organised nibbles at the Melbourne Cup party this arvo, I might be limiting my freeloading options. None of the horses even have especially stupid names, so boring.
may you never be so shamed
Possibly the most touching John Peel tribute yet, nicked from the Vic:I spotted the great man at Glastonbury once. After skirting my shambling hero-worship intro, he promptly dispatched longtime cohort 'The Shend' to get my friend and I a beer. I was 19. From Droitwich. John Peel, who we'd met literally minutes previously, was buying us beer. Christ on a bike. With only a couple of chairs in the whole tent we sat at the feet of Messrs Ravenscroft and Shend. Hesitant chitchat ensued for a while before a young William Ravenscroft appeared to interrogate his old man as to the clean towel situation within the Peel tent/household. Sent packing with a verbal clip round the ear, including numerous and quite shocking extremely non-BBC 'phrases', Peel launched into "I'm sure it's just an age thing but our William seems an almost constant source of embarrassment to me lately. Just the other night I was sat at home watching some god-awful late film and he wanders into the room, seats himself in the chair next to me and starts nodding off. It's almost 2am and he's quite obviously shattered so I say to him 'Son, it's late. There's a direct link between sleep and fatigue so why don't you get yourself to bed?' To which he replied 'Come on Dad. You know if I go to bed now I'm only going to masturbate.'"
also, in the carpark on Friday night
got to hear a few mixes of tracks from the in-progress Nic Dalton solo album. He described it as his “Bernie album” – presumably the singer-songwriter making a debut solo record at 39 after several decades as a working musician – but it could turn out to be the first Australian classic break-up album. With the odd twist that many of the songs are co-written by the breaker-upper: of the three I heard, one is also on her unreleased Ladies’ Tearoom album, and another with lyrics by her (Play All Night) is written from the perspective of the aging, lonely singer, admiring girls in the crowd but knowing he’s out of their league. So he’ll just keep playing to stave off loneliness. It’s killer.I think all the songs are new, with the exception of what will be the album opener, a version of There’s Nobody Coming Over (previously recorded for The Kombi Nation 7”). This has a vocal performance that’s leagues better than anything Nic’s ever recorded before, singing with nuance and expressiveness that come off like a different singer using his voice. Every track features the same instrumentation, and no amplified instruments – banjo and mandolin ahoy (although Dalton’s done a lot to claim the mandolin as an electric instrument in this year’s Sneeze gigging), and the Gloomchasers Orchestra laying strings on everything. I picked Billy Gibson BVs, and Nic says John E’s in there as well. 2BL might be the only radio station to give this attention when it comes out, but Nic could settle into a new “mature” career, playing the Vanguard and wineries…
lilac time blooming
"You're supposed to do in the second half of your life what you didn't do in the first," Stephen Duffy muses, "and I'm failing miserably. I'm back on Top of the Pops."
Smudge: Gearin's Hotel & the Hoey, 15-16/10/2004
Katoomba ended up being something of a rehearsal, though bless the twelve punters who turned out. Even if half of them just turn up to see whoever plays on a Friday night. ESPECIALLY if, from the pub's perspective!Sekiden played well and had decent sound, but Smudge had endless mixer problems - Tom Morgan's vocals never made it to the front of the mix, Adam Yee didn't bother trying to sing, and had to stop for three or four minutes after every song to wrestle with his amp and request alterations to the feedback/foldback ratio. Tom and Al started doing croony Springsteen and Steppenwolf covers to fill the space though. Guest stars on guitar added to the fun, but also caused more amp issues. Leti played on I Was Born To Change The World, and Nic Dalton got up for a couple - including The Outdoor Type, which he'd learnt the day before just for the occasion (and was visibly concentrating hard, like a kid playing a solo in school assembly).
Said rehearsal paid off for Sydney, though: Smudge were blowing away the previous night's performance by soundcheck. At which Al was singing some lead vocals, which they hadn't had any of the day before. Modern Giant have written some new pop songs following the radio success (Triple J and Radio National) of Keep On Movin'. Sekiden played a blinder, and shifted almost three times as much merch as Smudge - though there they have the advantage of their entire career coming after Smudge's last release. But obviously won over a lot of people on the night, a great achievement for a support slot. They'd put in a big effort in Katoomba, but went over the top tonight - Simon doing guitar leaps across the stage, Mirko going overboard on the standing-up-to-hit-harder and shouting-unmiked antics, general joy.
Smudge belted out an all-the-hits-and-more set, barely pausing between songs in order to squeeze in even more. I don't think I've ever seen them (or Tom, or Tofu Cock) play Don't Wanna Be Grant McLennan live, so hooray for that alone. Scary Cassettes got pulled out of the "remember this?" box. Tom opened the floor to requests at some point. Leti on Born To again, Outdoor Type was without Nic tonight - but he came on for Eighteen In A Week and just stayed onstage. Must have gone well past the five songs he'd actually learnt to play for the tour, gleefully rocking out as a sideman for the first time in years.
The main set closer was a stomp through AC/DC's Whole Lotta Rosie, with Al Galloway on vocals, then they were quickly urged back for a quick Divan, and wrapped it all up with a cover of She Cracked by the Modern Lovers. All requests for further encores were denied, quite possibly because they couldn't remember any more songs. I’ve missed both the 2002 and 2003 Christmas reunion shows, but tonight backs up the opinion of attendees that they’re playing better now than they did when they were an active concern. More!
Rollinson's Return
Tony R is still the best superhero comic reviewer in the non-business:Supes uses the old Kryptonite KY jelly to fist Supergirl. Meanwhile Bats uses the ‘Go on then, Darkseid, I’ll blow the lot of us up. See if I fucking care?’ gambit.
All is rosy, Darkseid defeated. Supergirl get’s a belly top. (Is that what you call those things that fat birds take great delight in wearing? “LOOK AT MY GUT!” they scream at me on the tube. “AND LOOK, WITH THESE JEANS, YOU CAN ALMOST SEE MY PUBES TOO!”) Erghm, anyway, after a double page spread/Nostalgic wink it all goes wrong and Supes is NOT BEST PLEASED. It’s going to kick off next issue, that’s for sure.
"one-night stands: classic or dud?"
"I had a friend who once asked the girl the next morning if he could send a text on her phone. he then deleted his number, and said he was going to make a sandwich, and ran out the back door, climbed a wall, and made his way home."
playing catch
well, that didn't work out so well, did it? (today: a sundried tomato and avocado roll from one of the eight thousand takeaway sushi stands in the CBD! yesterday: leftover aloo mattar and pilau rice from the week before last! still good too.) how about a general ramble of stuff that I could have posted if I hadn't been slack and generally not on a computer:fuck a duck, and then fuck another eight ducks
coming home from suburbs on Wednesday night, and a bloke walking by my seat fishes a wallet out of his backpack, shows me some kind of badge and asks to see my ticket. I am happily able to oblige, but then he gives me the "feet off the seats, it's a hundred dollar fine" mumble. now I've actually brought two sheets of newsprint with me to lay down under my sneakers, being well aware that after necking the best part of a bottle of wine to get through dinner with the mother, I'd be wanting to slouch and lounge as much as possible on the journey back. I point out this considerate protection, and he just gives it some more "it's a rule mate, there's a sticker here, it's a fine" etc. I'm too tired and drunk to bother arguing that the principle isn't customer discomfort or posture, it's maintaining cleanliness of the facilities for future users, so haul the converse to the floor.but then! on going to switch trains at Strathers, homeboy is milling around the landing by the doors with another guy in civvies and two uniformed guards. State Rail are perfectly happy to cancel three trains in a row on any given morning, cutting me out of 45 minutes of time earnt, due to driver shortages or whatnot. but then they'll shell out on FOUR FUCKING DUDES to patrol a suburban line at 10pm in search of fare evaders, TWO OF THEM DISGUISED so as to flush out fifteen-year-old kids who might otherwise get off at the next stop and miss a fine. I'd been ticket-inspected by a uniform on the way to work that morning too! sort out the actual schedule and services, hire and train some drivers that you don't have to send home on pay for being too stoned to operate the FWD/STOP switch, and stop insulting your clients.
like our gracious host said
The benevolent dictator of SquirrelNation has interviewed my former employer for a new, embarrassingly-designed addition to the Joey Manley Media Empire. No embarrassment on the interview though, Milo's smart as ever and good on the creative mind stuff, which brings out the best in Eddie. Nice glimpse of the new Alec book too, though love his reasoning for switching to wash: "well, the last two books I did this way were printed so badly that you could hardly read them, but printers prefer to receive digital files nowadays." ah well, not my place to try and convince him to find better repro anymore...
read this week
The Mazz and Jamie B said that this was the best Brookmyre, and though it might mean the rest will be a disappointment, it's hard to beat this. Terrorists, extortions, close to a single set (one of my favourite literary devices, probably stemming to The Castafiore Emerald), a hero who crawls into an air duct then pukes through the vent out of nervousness, comedy and killing - all set at a high school reunion. Gold. Now someone do a budget-price Parlabane omnibus and I'll be sorted.
Written in a slightly different voice from usual Hiassen, more detached and omniscient narrator than the usual tone of glee the writing takes in the incompetence of his criminals, and not as furious about the destruction of the ecosystem. The male lead who finds women baffling is also more at ease with his inability to communicate than many. Bit of overkill in having a new animalistic and asocial character but also using Skink in an unnamed cameo. But! great semi-intricate plot full of scheming and double-crossing, even if it reads straighter than others.
not read yet
Coming out in February! (Maybe!) Finally!
birthdayish stuff
Took a couple of days off, with intention of going to beach locally and up the coast. Rain stopped play (or grey overcastness, at least). Friday night saw Modern Giant drop a new song in the up-pop mode of Keep On Moving, and the Lazies threw out Killing Moon and Alone With You covers (P. Andrew later opined that the former immediately splits a room between under and over thirty, which I refuted by having cheered on the third chord). So drinks brought to me throughout, hurrah, and a late unexpected entry from Eli chez Townie, on condition I pretended to be friend Toby whose day of birth it also had been same hours before. Always a pleasure. Haul? Warp DVD, pre-All Seeing Parrot/Cocker collabo's ahoy. New Nick Cave double, first I've actually owned since Songs About Murder And The Murder Act (though I haven't unwrapped it yet actually). Chocolate. Uh, a towel.tonight
roast turkey and champagne. well, the flatmate bought some cranberry sauce, so we've gotta do something to use it up...
back on the blogk
Alright! Don't you hate it when people blog about how they're so slack and haven't been blogging, and promise to do so more regularly only to post again nine days later with an apology for failing to do so? Me too. But fuck yez, I've had a terrifically fun workplace back injury and couldn't sit down for a few weeks, so no real chance to type extended blathering about gigs or comics or my hair or whatever. And I didn't want to devolve into a linkblog.So now that's settled, I'm going to attempt to post a lot more often! For reals! Even if this means just typing up what I had for lunch every day in order to make quota. Expect the next entry at 2pm tomorrow saying "sushi roll and a schooner of Carlton" I guess.
killing it
His new rant on the state of fine arts in the US is the most focussed and funniest piece that Pete Bagge has done for Reason yet. The usual obvious targets, but with wit, research and genuine informed anger behind the shots.I don't know what town sign you'd use
BESTIALITY
I've had relations
With hamsters and dalmatians
I've made passes
At donkeys of all classes
And if your squirrel is grey
I won't turn it away
And if your goat is brown
It and I can find some common ground
Bestiality, young and warm and wild and porky
Bestiality, your laws do not apply to me
A specialist magazine comes in the post from Sweden
I always get a wrist ache when I read them
I knew a farmer once who played
With his piggies in the glade
I said "But some things are really best left unspoken"
But he preferred his livestock out in the open
Bestiality, plump and pink and wild and furry
Bestiality, your laws do not apply to me
I'm sure that everybody knows how much my doggy hates me
I take him out most every night because he looks incredibly tasty
I feel a total jerk
Taking my badger into work
I'm getting weighed down
With all this information
Safe sex doesn't mean no sex
It just means buy yourself a big alsatian
Stop playing with your pets
Or you'll end up down the vets
I look like Johnny Morris (A zookeeper who presented animal shows on British TV)
I love a penguin and her name is Doris
Bestiality, cold and damp and wild and scaly
Bestiality, your laws do not apply to me
Bestiality, come shear and snog some sheep with me
Bestiality, we can be what we want to be
(Billy Bragg via Porky The Poet via Ade via the V)
Liza Minelli was his first nomination
John Darnielle makes the case: Wiley For PresidentIf "Cabaret" would make kick-ass inauguration music, how much more awesome would/will it be on the day that the first black president turns out not to be Blowfly but some English guy: not only the first black president, then, but the first British president since Washington! Somebody tell me what's not to like: they inaugurate Wiley, the speakers blast "Here comes Wiley, my name's Wiley, I ate all the pies," everybody's happy. The nation is embroiled in scandal months later because of Wiley's great fondness for killer hydro bud? Not to worry: Wiley appears before a joint session of Congress, sings "Pies," all is forgiven. If Richard Nixon had written "Pies," he would still be President today, even though he's dead. Vote Wiley: he ate all the pies.
lessons on taste from Rupert
Tee hee. The Daily Terror has run a story lambasting Triple J for using an image of the World Trade Centre, during its intact days, in an online graphic about a promotion... but then they've illustrated said story with an image of a plane crashing into the second tower while the first one is on fire.
comics last week
La Perdida #4
Oh dear. After three issues of anthropological slice-of-life, apparently Jessica
Abel has become bored, or afraid that the readers will. So here we have the
gringo girl's Mexican boyfriend involved in the kidnapping of her former friend,
telegraphed to the reader in the first few pages but then reserved for a
dramatic reveal at the end of the issue. Sure, the character has been shown as
being self-absorbed not to notice, but just because it's shocking to her doesn't
mean it should be shown as shocking to us, who already know. Remedial
suspense classes before the denouement, please.
Still, the usual lovely dry-brush work.
Eightball #23
Of course it's alightly disappointing that Clowes takes the "loads and loads of short stories in different styles and genres adding up to one story" format of #22's Ice Haven and scales it back to "different chapters of the one story told in different styles", but then it's not like anyone else has come along to play with this mode that he invented in the meantime. Anything I could write about the story or colouring or size or themes have probably already been hashed to death by that there comics blogosphere by now, so I shan't bother. how Ditko is that cover?/teenage alienation and friend more engaged with life than protagonist continue to be rich seam for Clowes to mine/is it all in his head?/metaphor for nature of a serial killer/draw comparisons with loneliness and isolation of adult superhero fans/best colouring in comics today/so great to see someone returning from the rise of the graphic novel to make single-issue comics something worth analysing and celebrating/etc etc - there you go, rearrange those and imagine your own transitions.
Conversation #1
In which two of the wispiest, most self-regarding cartoonists in America today join forces! This overpriced minicomic should not be sold to diabetics without a presription. The "what is the nature of artistic creativity? and God: Whither?" ruminations ultimately don't express anything deeper than "we really like to draw", but one presumes that's all anyone's going to buy it for. They start off doing alternate panels, but it soon becomes a full-on jam (executed via email and .psd's!) that works remarkably well. Kochalka's flat cartoony style is challenged and extended by Thompson's flair for detailed landscapes (reflecting, as in Blankets and Goodbye Chunky Rice, internal turmoil).
Carnet De Voyage
"OH LADIES I AM SO SENSITIVE! WHY WON'T ANYONE TOUCH MY WANG?"
But here he gets a chance to do representative drawing! This is nothing more or less than a sketchbook draw while travelling in Morocco, France & al., which is a boon for those who don't fancy working through the navelcrying of Blankets twice in a year, but would very much like to see more of young Craig's lush brushstokes. Also includes some of his vibrantly amorphous bigfoot cartooning, in the service of diarrhoea humour. It's got something for everyone! Including a healthy portion of the Brian Emo sighing mocked above.
The Comics Journal #261
The Phoebe Gloeckner interview is largely pointless, being a biographical recap and then endless pages of her refusing to say that all of her comics about teenage girls having sex with their mother's boyfriends are autobiographical. She's obviously prepared to talk about the fictional character's experiences, and is very interested in the nature of translating her diaries into "The Diary Of A Teenage Girl," so just approach it from that angle and talk about the subject that way!
Darcy Sullivan, who did Dame Darcy's Journal interview ten years ago, follows up by reviewing her big MeatCake collection. Did he reserve it back then? I really loved how the Dame tried to insist that they both be billed as "DARCY:" in the transcript, and wish Sullivan and TCJ had gone for it. That's what the bold on the questions is for! Also, the resident Christian in the long-serving reviewers' roster gets to do Chester Brown's Gospel adaptations. Fair enough.
Plus some great news stories, snoozy RC Harvey columns and frustrating minicomics reviews.
Batman: The Order Of The Beasts
When I saw the original pages last year and read printouts of a lot of the early
lettered versions, I told Campbell he should see if DC would agree to just print
the art at magazine size and let that be. As it turns out, not only does the
skinny, mechanical Trevfont look awkward, but somewhere in the pre-press process
even the lovely paintings have become fuzzy digital blurs. The story is a
perfectly fun classique-'40s style Batman adventure (though labelled as an
alternate world version due to the ludicrous nature of superhero "continuity")
with some good jokes, but such a drag on the eyes that it's unlikely to become a
beloved re-read for many. Big ups to Daren for cracking the "big time", though -
maybe Marvel will come calling and ask to buy his idea for Bruce Banner buying a
job lot of purple pants.
Captain America #28
The second Eddie Campbell work-for-hire effort of the week (and about his tenth
in history). First part of this story was a hard-to-follow [possibly less so if
you read previous issues] thing about time travel, alternate universes and
massive terror attacks on major American cities. This issue just turns into a
big running-around-a-comic-convention caper, and Eddie can hardly be bothered,
drawing the main figures in most panels and leaving the rest up to a hired
assistant. I don't understand the colouring in yer modern superhero comics
either - the whole thing (linework included) is basically printed in shades of
ochre. Isn't the whole point seeing the big blokes in bright colours looing
dynamic? Maybe it's meta-commentary.
Death Takes A Holiday #1
This just appeared on the local shelf, a year after initial release, and I picked it up because of the author's great talent for spontaneous comedy on the V. As soon as someone comes up with some kind of graphics app which will draw whatever he wants as fast as he thinks of a gag, Mr Massey will be unstoppable. This? This is a lot clunkier. Its main weakness is the contrast of a mechanical fake-assembly-line-hand-lettering font with Jim's very individual rough drawing style. The drawing itself is perfectly serviceable at getting the gags across (though the use of a floating Pac-Man to represent a genie seems to be a joke about his limitations never made explicit, and there's a recurring scenario about indie comics or European films being depressing that never comes off, but I think this is because it's based on some imaginary ideal of the style being parodied just as much as because you can't tell what he's trying to draw), but the lettering serves to counteract the expressiveness that he obviously works to get into his limited style.
Er, what's it about? The Grim Reaper enjoys some downtime hanging out at a bar. Lots of scope for set-ups here, obviously, and Massey does get decent mileage out of it. I don't know if this just collects all the strips done in a certain period or if some degree of editorial collation was involved - if the former, he brings in recurring characters that don't relate to the premise surprisingly early. There's a second issue due out now-ish that I might lay eyes on in another year's time: I look forward to seeing how the concept is developed, or just getting a few good grins out of it.
Mystery In Space #1
Bought to indulge the Grant Morrison completist still whimpering inside me, but
the lead story is actually much better. For this first issue of a batch of
trademark-polishing tributees to Julie Schwartz, Morrison avoids having to start
caring about sixties sc-fi hero Adam Strange by taking the opportunity for a
metatextual musing on Schwartz' career and influence. It's good at what it's
doing, but restrained by Jerry Ordway's workmanlike drudge-art. And one great
bit where a thought balloon on Earth turns into a cloud on Rann with words
half-visible in it is ruined by lame computer lettering.
The same bloke probably did the cover, an Alex Ross homage to yer classic image gubbins, as it uses the same awkward curly lettering. This is plain lunacy, since Todd Klein has designed a fantastic faux-Ira Schnapp font to use on the first story inside.
Which was obviously given the front of the book on merit. Elliot S! Maggin, who I havent read since his Superman prose novel when I was five, is now two for two with me. He just turns out a flat-out fun adventure tale, the plot of which could have come straight from a '60s issue, but told with more sophistication and illustrated with far more style by J. H. Williams III. The Promethea/Chase artist inks himself here, showing a lighter line and more detailed touch than his usual work wth Mick Gray.
Tom Strong's Terrific Tales #11
The typical blend of awful Steve Moore/That Bloke story about young Tom getting a
boner and not knowing what to do with it, nigh-content-free Steve Moore skiffy
thing with lavish Art Adams architecture and tits (Adams relegating himself to
inking only here), and absurdly slight Alan Moore dabble in an archaic genre.
The latter of these is, this time around, a Bruce Timm-illustrated spoof on the
"jungle girl" archetype; the ostensibly feminist satire is so flimsy as to be
non-existent, but it's all worth it for the story title: "Jungle Is Massive!"
Star Wars Tales #20
Are there any altcomics anthologies these days that could get
Millionaire, Bagge, Beto, Jason, Kochalka and Bob Fingerman into one issue? This
could have been more personally entertaining if so many of the stories hadn't
been focussed on ripping the piss out of Jar-Jar Binks, a character I'm only
aware of due to the uproar caused by people my age being upset that someone
who's made two good movies ever, and the last of those 25 years before, failed
to satisfy them with a new film for 7-year-olds. The letterer bloke from Savage
Dragon bucks the trend by ripping the piss out of Ewoks, at least satisfying a
grudge of betrayal from his own callow youth.
Having said that, the best story here by a thousand miles is Tony Millionaire's, wherein he simply sticks the lizardy thing on an 18th century sailing ship to satisfy his own illustrative preferences. And then has Jar-Jar sink the ship due to characteristic moronity, being the cue for a truly sad story about Binks Senior's disappointment with his son, and having sacrificed true love and happiness merely in order to have an heir. It shouldn't be surprising, I suppose, that Millionaire wrings such emotional weight from computer-designed merchandising, given what he does with inanimate toys in the Sock Monkey comics.
Next best is Gilbert Hernandez' "Young Lando Calrissian" story, which is a straight-forward boys' adventure about a charming scam-merchant in an SF milieu, not relying on franchise knowledge at all. This is what the Star Wars comics in the '70s and '80s should have been like! (And may well have been, for all I know.)
American Elf
In which the first five years of James Kochalka's Sketchbook Diaries are
compiled into one bulging volume. I always wished they'd do the books as wee
368-page hardcovers - ie resembling real diaries - but even retaining the
four-strips-a-page format of the comic-format collections, this thing is big
enough to cut off all bloodflow to your dick if you're reading it in bed with
the book in your lap.
That's if there's any left after the opening pages; I love the diaries, and the first glimpses of them in Dee Vee were what started to convert me from "Kochalka is a micro-talent with greater interest in talking himself up than improving his art, and belief that childishness is a substitute for creativity" to "Kochalka is a brilliant cartoonist with occasionally poor impulse control." The mixture of immaturity with pathos, angst, joy, love, and philosophising from day to day in the diaries gives them their strength, but he doesn't do himself any favours by opening his first adult book to be put in front of a mainstream audience by taking advantage of colour signatures to print unbearably twee full-page drawings of himself as half-human half-elf in washed-out blue.
Still, anyone who flips past the glossy pages gets almost 2000 comic strips to form a broader judgement from. And by the time they get to the second colour section in the back, a double-page spread of photographs of cakes that his wife has made comes off as a lot more charming.
