Dale Slamma

Bogans love You Am I

Dale.Slamma@gmail.com (Dale Slamma) — Thu, 12 Nov 2009 15:02:00 +0000

I suppose I am quite lucky that the first time I ever laid eyes on Tim Rogers was upstairs in the band room at The Annandale. He was walking around doing vocal warm up exercises then unexpectedly broke into a fair rendition of I Will Always Love You. I was sitting on one of those Fender stools that allow you to rotate all the way around quite rapidly. Spencer was standing behind the bar fishing beer out of the ice bucket. I don't know why they have to put beer in an ice bucket when there is a perfectly good fridge. Tim Rogers is taller than me, I always thought he was a very short man but as it turns out he is not. Also his guitar tech smells like coconut and his tour manager has a tendency towards rudeness but then offers copious apologies after the rudeness has occurred. I believe she would benefit from swallowing the Little Book of Calm.

The Annandale is a bit shit really, the floor is never not sticky, the back stairs up to the band room are strange and I always run my arm across the exposed hot water pipe and jump at the shock. The sound tonight was, in places, shocking. I'm going to recommend they stop enticing the Sydney Morning Herald to write stupid articles about their fight with local council and start worrying about being a good venue again.

Confess now old friend, you were standing in a magazine shop imagining your cat playing drums while the ghosts of soliders screamed past the window

Dale.Slamma@gmail.com (Dale Slamma) — Wed, 11 Nov 2009 13:07:00 +0000

So I did forget to remember them. It's fine, they're all dead anyway.

Flapping at my kitchen wall

Dale.Slamma@gmail.com (Dale Slamma) — Mon, 09 Nov 2009 14:20:00 +0000

I thought if this lament is unending then lord let us cry. I was curled like an old plastic chip packet heated in the oven, inelegantly wetting the front of my shirt with an unrelenting flow of tears when a crow hit The Peach windows with a powerful thud and crumpling of feathers. Some days are wet with soup, tea and tears. Some days demand you walk up and down the hallway or follow the movement of light across the floor. This day I needed nothing more than to have freedom enough to feel.

The bird flew away but I was left stunned with my hands on the kitchen sink, immobile and staring at the place where the bird collided with my glass wall. The phone rang, it was Artboy, I made a silent dash and scramble to pause The Way We Were and shake off my crow-weirdness. Hubbell stood frozen at the end of Katie's hospital bed staring at her as his wife for the last time. I don't know how she stood it. I can see why everybody was going crazy for Barbara Streisand, her hands are entirely elegant and there is something about the way she stands and delivers a line. I talked to Artboy for hours while I stared at the frozen Hubbell in his Hollywood jacket and Cobra Kai haircut. I suppose the bad man from The Karate Kid was trying to look like Robert Redford but it took until today to work that out. I've never seen The Way We Were before.

A submerged and profound grief rolled in me like a whale in a pool as I spoke to Artboy today. Talking to anyone else feels like a waste of words but then I catch myself and remember I have my own life now. I have this freedom and joy. I have a house in the city and a media pass. I have friends and a magazine and a small but respectable stack of published work. I have my cat and my desk and I can tell people at parties that I am a Rock Journalist and it is not a lie. I told Artboy nobody ever thinks of Ted Hughes, what it must have been like to live with Sylvia Plath as her illness consumed every corner of his life. I don't know how he stood it.

After Artboy and the close of one of those conversations that jump syllable to syllable like synapses I finished The Way We Were and moved on Into The Wild. It was one of those stories that Loene Carmen sums up best by saying 'trying to romanticise what a cunt you are'.* He had a kind of Superman syndrome where he took the ordinary troubles of life and wound them so tight around his heart and fists that he was punching everyone, including himself, without feeling the blows. Stopped the beat of his heart because he thought he was only one who heard the noise of it. I didn't notice this about Superman until it was too late and I was interstate and trapped inside a house with his family's Christmas leftovers.

I didn't weep for the man who fled like a child into the wild but I did weep. I wept great heaving soundless sobs while I knelt down to choose movies, I wept as I washed dishes in the sink, spread marmalade on my toast, poured tea from the pot. There was no great sorrow, my mind was on ordinary matters much as it always is. I formatted my new hard drive sitting on the lounge room floor taking care not to tip tears into the keyboard of my laptop. My need for unfettered expression was profound, solid as the foundations of the earth. I suppose it as simple as this, monsoons sometimes happen as far south as Sydney.

* From the album Rock'n'Roll Tears - listen to it.

Soundcheck City

Dale.Slamma@gmail.com (Dale Slamma) — Sat, 07 Nov 2009 11:33:00 +0000

Everyone was checking sound this afternoon as I walked home to The Peach. Notes, the Greek restaurant with surprising concrete walls and the unnaturally shiny counter, were broadcasting broken horn lines and and an arrhythmic sequential tapping of drums. Buskers were unfolding themselves from hardcases, tuning up their old guitars and getting ready for the public disappearance of self into the appearance of sound. The Enmore emitted the classic 'one two tchoo two tchoo' and lost another battle in it's fifty year war to reach the number three.

I was laughing about the preparation of noise as I collected my drumsticks and began another assault on rhythm coordination and purpose. I was thinking of Spencer and how he can make music without notice, music enough to kickstart your heart or bend your neck in rememberance of something you haven't lived through yet. I was laughing at preparation with my joyful anarchic heart until I decided to water the front garden and the door knob came off in my hand. I am trapped in The Peach.

The Peachettes are out of town this weekend. Spencer has gone on tour and just about everybody I know is somewhere else today. I thought about panicking but instead I attended an interstate party at The Hive by telephone. I was passed around the guests like a favour and I believe that I had a grand old time. Gemma was lamenting her yesterdays' drinking as she cooked for the party tonight. Retro was feeling drunk and generous and the whole thing sounded all right.

I was tempted to panic but instead I persisted in telephoning Madam Squeeze. Luckily for me Madam Squeeze decided to sit this leg of the tour out and I knew if I kept calling that I'd eventually catch her between songs in her busking set on King St tonight. She's on her way now to rescue me and I suppose this fact has put one more fear to rest. It seems that when I am locked and alone in my house I will not die and be eaten very slowly by the cat but attend interstate parties by telephone and make pots of peppermint tea.

Screw you German Idealist architecture

Dale.Slamma@gmail.com (Dale Slamma) — Thu, 05 Nov 2009 13:33:00 +0000

I've just washed the last of the dull silver and gold smears from the end of my fingers. I was talking to a person or two while I ran my fingers along the circuit lines. Anne Finnegan grinned at me as my left ring finger made enough noise to pause a gallery's worth of conversation. I don't know how Joyce Hinterding did it but her drawings were circuit boards that made sound when you touched them.

I've been largely avoiding galleries smaller than the MCA for the last few years. I think it's time the stupid art world got ready for me to make a come back.

Aleksandr Hearst is an interesting young man

Dale.Slamma@gmail.com (Dale Slamma) — Wed, 04 Nov 2009 08:44:00 +0000

I happen to agree with him on this issue though of course I might word it a little differently. I've said it before and I'll say it again:

'This country's planted thick with laws from coast to coast and if you cut them down d'you really think you could stand upright in the winds that would blow then?'

Yes Robert Bolt said it first. I am aware of that.

Oh honey last night I saw you at Wu-Tang

Dale.Slamma@gmail.com (Dale Slamma) — Fri, 30 Oct 2009 04:47:00 +0000

Did you know that Dawn Tan has a little online shop?

I love prints. I can afford prints. I will be very happy with my print. I will frame it and hang it on the wall here in The Peach where I will make The Peachettes stand and admire it with teacups in their hands.

In other news last night Wu-Tang Clan performed live at the end of my street. Three underage drinkers were arrested approximately 20cm from my face. One man tried to kiss me and another man said he was going to punch me in the face but then the crowd went inside, Spencer arrived and everything was fine. Wu-Tang Clan aint nothing to fuck with.

We Buy Your Kids

Dale.Slamma@gmail.com (Dale Slamma) — Thu, 29 Oct 2009 00:34:00 +0000

I ran into Sonny Day on my way home from Mag Nation, I'm visiting that place daily until the new issue of Apartamento comes in. Sonny was opening a taxi door then closing it again after his friend climbed inside, makes sense when you stop to consider the basic physics of doors, Australia and taxis.

I've been talking to Sonny on the phone lately, sent the odd email or two, it was good to run into him and reconfirm that he is a real person and not a distinct set of telephone broadcast tones or a particular arrangement of the alphabet displayed in my inbox. Sonny is in fact kind of sunny despite the beard that can only be described as biker.

I've been talking to Sonny and Biddy about logos* for PAN magazine. They had said they were keen but needed to consider their schedule, which is unbelievably full. I anticipated a lovely but negative answer to the question of making me a logo but as it turns out I was wrong. You could have knocked me over with a dumbo feather as the taxi drove away and Sonny was standing on the street telling me yes, yes We Buy Your Kids would love to work with PAN magazine.

* Please note that We Buy Your Kids will be designing a logo very late this year, they are not responsible for any of the plain things that are up on the PAN website at the moment.

Amazeballs

Dale.Slamma@gmail.com (Dale Slamma) — Wed, 28 Oct 2009 13:13:00 +0000

Today Slammaland intersected with PANland when I met Raging Yoghurt for the first time. She ordered the chocolate soup, I had two identical biscuits. If I wasn't so tired I'd tell you all about how smart, stylish and charming she is. I suppose that kind of information will have to wait for another day.

She thought she was chained up, she wasn't chained up but she was definitely dying

Dale.Slamma@gmail.com (Dale Slamma) — Mon, 26 Oct 2009 05:11:00 +0000

I thought well this is just about the worst situation a person can witness so I got out my sketchbook and made a picture.

Sometimes being alive for 100 days is reason enough to celebrate

Dale.Slamma@gmail.com (Dale Slamma) — Sat, 24 Oct 2009 07:37:00 +0000

Since she was born I drew a picture of a teapot and paid somebody to tattoo it on my shoulder in white ink. My life has turned on a sixpence and sped directly into the unknown realms of overwhelming joy, fulfillment and optimism. I'm not saying it's because of her, not even because of the teapot but something is markedly different around here. I have a new and lovely regret founded in the discovery of the 352 bus.

Official capacity

Dale.Slamma@gmail.com (Dale Slamma) — Fri, 23 Oct 2009 07:48:00 +0000

I like surprises that are good. I like editing magazines and writing sentences like "I am putting my fingers in all your pies". I also like being approached by a ski company to write their tweets for them. In the meeting I had to repress the urge to yell about snow and also that I find twitter quite annoying.

The idea of snow excites me. I've seen snow twice now, once I saw a little patch by the side of a road and one cold day it snowed at my Mum's house in Katoomba. It looked like floaty rain or evidence of a malfunction in my brain. I had no idea what was happening and for several long seconds stood at the window unable to comprehend what I was seeing. I think I said to my mother 'there is something wrong with outside, better come and have a look'. We stood in silence for a moment then Mum told me it was snow. I don't suppose that is the kind of thing that a ski company should know about. A person being paid to write for a ski company should have the ability to comprehend snow.

More surprising than propelling high speed air into your naked armpit

Dale.Slamma@gmail.com (Dale Slamma) — Thu, 22 Oct 2009 02:32:00 +0000

I walked into yet another promising looking boutique in my neverending search to source clothes for PAN magazine's first ever editorial fashion shoot. The woman behind the counter informed me that their lending policy was 'We don't lend', but then she hesitated and asked which magazine I was from. I told her PAN magazine expecting a blank look but she smiled and asked me what PAN stood for. I said "ponies are necessary but nobody is supposed to know about that". She said "I know about it and I love it". Seems that word is beginning to spread.

Oh and she might be changing her mind about the lending policy. We'll find out tomorrow.

Deodorant that makes you smell

Dale.Slamma@gmail.com (Dale Slamma) — Mon, 19 Oct 2009 12:43:00 +0000

I went to Penguin and was pointed at by Pip Smith which was nice. I was going to talk about PAN magazine but what seems more important right now is my deodorant. I have not always been a fan of the spray-on kind of deodorant, I found propelling air into my armpits too much of a shocking experience and ended up jumping around like a lunatic. I still jump around but there has been a fundamental shift in my thinking. My new and experimental tin of spray-on deodorant increases my naturally occurring body odour in the same way that an amplifier transmits the sound of a guitar. And I like it. I am going to spray again tomorrow and become one of those people that smells just precisely like themselves.

Fine then let's make a deal - I'll give you ten for your eleven

Dale.Slamma@gmail.com (Dale Slamma) — Sun, 18 Oct 2009 12:38:00 +0000

Tomorrow we might talk about the magazine and just why it is called PAN.

Generally my preferred Elvis is Costello not Presley

Dale.Slamma@gmail.com (Dale Slamma) — Sun, 18 Oct 2009 12:13:00 +0000

Well Elvis is something else. He was wearing an expensive suit two sizes too large. He was shambolic yet dapper and he occasionally danced across the stage. Elvis likes stepping away from his microphone, not afraid to strum his guitar and just sing, really let rip like they used to before somebody stuck a cord into a black box and discovered amplification. Once or twice he got a little experimental and made some art noise with his loop machine and pedals. I feel like I'm being haunted by loops at the moment. Everybody wants to stand on stage with a loop machine and make a band of themselves. I think its because we've forgotten how to go solo, almost everyone's plugged into someone else all the time. I suppose it's only natural that they take this to the stage where traditionally it has been lonely or it was until somebody figured out how to multiply one person into the sound of many.

Daisy from Bridezilla played a solo set at Oxford Arts Factory on Friday night, before Spencer's band and then The Mess Hall. I like Daisy, she's grand because she stands like she means it and just fucking sings. The Holy Soul were, as they almost always are these days, better than the audience deserved. I didn't stay to hear The Mess Hall play, I managed to not call Jed Dan and that was enough for me. Radio Man was buying me drinks, I should have thought to drink something a little more expensive than water but it didn't occur to me at the time. I'm sure I had something else to say but I've forgotten what it might have been.

I've been saving my words lately. I've been holding back all effort that doesn't further the future of PAN magazine. I'll stop doing that eventually or maybe tomorrow but right now I'm riding that first wave of excitement just as far as it can take me. I'm hiding pens and notepads under my pillows in case I think of something in the night, I'm carrying two kinds of briefcase, working on three computers and tuning my footsteps to the sounds to the triple tap of magazine. I'll kick this habit at the launch party but for right now please don't wake me from this magazine dream.

In the morning it would be better if you've gone

Dale.Slamma@gmail.com (Dale Slamma) — Fri, 16 Oct 2009 23:02:00 +0000

Sometimes the very best way to spend a Saturday morning is sitting in bed with a nice cup of tea listening to Bob Dylan's Christmas album and reading Nylon magazine. It helps to make a tiny bubble to stop in for a moment, even if the bubble doesn't really make sense.

Double denim

Dale.Slamma@gmail.com (Dale Slamma) — Tue, 13 Oct 2009 13:10:00 +0000

Need I say more?

Lacquer my tunnel

Dale.Slamma@gmail.com (Dale Slamma) — Mon, 12 Oct 2009 12:42:00 +0000

In case you were wondering why the pictures of trains in the tunnel at Central are so shiny. It is because they clean then lacquer them every Monday night.

I suppose I should have suspected this

Dale.Slamma@gmail.com (Dale Slamma) — Sun, 11 Oct 2009 10:56:00 +0000

Editing a magazine is a little like herding kittens into a volcano of doom.

[disclaimer: neither the contributors nor the magazine are like a volcano of doom, the magnitude of my mission is like a volcano of doom.... sort of]

Salami shower (instead of two kinds of classy)

Dale.Slamma@gmail.com (Dale Slamma) — Sat, 10 Oct 2009 11:32:00 +0000

I was feeling kind of pleased with myself because I was planning on having a bubble bath with the bathroom window wide open. I was going to lie back in hot water and watch the rain. I was thinking of smoking one of those long thin cigars and pouring the smoke from my lungs out the window but then I remembered that cigars are made of tobacco and I quit smoking three months ago.

I changed plans and went with a shower in order to avoid not smoking but I must have made a pit stop at the refrigerator. It was one of those thin flat pieces of salami, the kind large enough to cover a piece of bread. I was holding it curled like a cigar in my teeth while I peeled off my clothes. It was freezing in The Peach bathroom this afternoon, cold enough to hurry me straight into the shower with less than three seconds passing from the removal of my last sock until the hot water hit my face. I turned around to let the water warm my back when I realised the rolled up slice of salami was still sitting in place like a meat cigar hanging out of the left side of my mouth. Today is the day that I ate salami in the shower and I loved it. I'm doing it again tomorrow.

Kind of like a hoppy sort of sideways moonwalk combined with a running man and also some kicking?

Dale.Slamma@gmail.com (Dale Slamma) — Fri, 09 Oct 2009 22:23:00 +0000

This morning I woke up, only very moderately hungover, and decided that today is the day I learn how to do the Melbourne Shuffle. Clearly the music is horrid and the shufflers seem mostly to be men but what the hell it's about time I developed a new hobby. I briefly considered converting my black pyjama pants with yellow electrical tape and downloading horrible music but on reflection have decided to simply perform Slamma style shuffle to Talking Heads wearing my pony dress.

Do a Loni Cha Cha

Dale.Slamma@gmail.com (Dale Slamma) — Thu, 08 Oct 2009 11:28:00 +0000

Him: You should freeze your eggs.

Me:

It seems to me like this might be the place

Dale.Slamma@gmail.com (Dale Slamma) — Tue, 06 Oct 2009 08:53:00 +0000

Yesterday of course I had twelve tantrums in the rain but everyone arrived at all of the meetings and I believe what I experienced was progress with umbrellas, boots and a magazine. Newtown will in the end deliver what you need whether it's a poetry editor, seven and a half burritos or a permission to reprint something already delivered.

I had thought to sit quietly in a bookshop and lay down one convincing argument after another but as usual I ended pretending to tap dance in the doorway of a Mexican takeaway waving my umbrella and shouting at the rain.

Peter, Paul and Mary seemed to have each other

Dale.Slamma@gmail.com (Dale Slamma) — Sat, 03 Oct 2009 13:26:00 +0000

Everyone knows they've been fucking but not everybody knows that he doesn't know her name. I decided to call her Mary. Last week I heard somebody say 'we lost Mary' and there's not one person in Newtown who looks more lost than her. I was clutching ten records to my chest and walking in the rain when she rolled past me on a bus staring at nothing, not even blank space. I imagine she lets her handbag sag in her lap.

There's no one taller, she's got those toothpick legs hooked on to the end of a floating bone pelvis. Black hair hanging clean and straight. I feel like setting obstacles in her path just to see exactly how much those long legs can step over with breaking their elegant stride. I suppose she looks like a model or something but when you see her in a crowd she seems planted from outer space. I've seen her almost everywhere in Newtown, on buses, street corners, bars, pubs, shops and supermarkets. She is always alone. Last month I saw her picking up teaspoons in Vinnies. She would hold one close to her face, turn it over then put it down again. I never picked her as the type to make off with the silver.

I would have assumed that I had imagined her, conjured out of the viable air space in my head but people talk about her. I'm not the only one that sees in corners and out on the street. I'm going to keep calling her Mary but I think I've decided that instead of watching stand hollow and decorative as a crystal vase I might just walk up to her and say hello.