Well, they sure took their sweet time, but Aqua are back!

Yes, that loveable Danish quartet who rose to power in the nineties with their hit song ‘Barbie Girl’ have returned and are performing in sold-out shows all across their target market: Australia. Scandinavia has always seen Australia as a prized colonial possession and Denmark is no exception (as shown by the admission of Tasmania’s own Mary Donaldson into their royal family.)

But what a night! Aqua played hit-after-hit to an exuberant crowd made up of fans old-and-new, who were either singing along to every verse, or scratching their heads to their dodgy newer material. It was high-octane, titillating Euro-pop of the highest calibre. Unfortunately, the night took a disturbing turn about halfway through the gig, and it was hard to pinpoint why – but after a few seconds of thinking, it was clear.

The answer was René Dif. The bald sidekick known for his faux-rap vocals exhibited behaviour that was thoroughly disgusting and completely unacceptable. Imagine, for a moment, that you were one of those young girls at the front of the crowd, innocently filming your favourite member (Lene, the lead vocalist) only to have it snatched by some bald guy who you never really cared for, and watching in horror as he shoves your brand new iPhone 4S down into his underwear, wearing a peculiar expression of concentration while he shakes it around in order to maximise his sexual pleasure. Well, this is exactly what happened on Thursday night, and the young fan looked completely traumatised. He continued to do this to another three unsuspecting fans, each one freezing up in fear and disgust. I don’t think they’ll be listening to the song ‘Candyman’ in a hurry. Talk about nightmares.

While René Dif was brandishing the microphone stand and holding it up from his genitals like a derelict sex-offender, I started wondering why he would ruin his own concert this way. But as the night unfolded it became clear why.

René Dif was suffering from depression.

Any fan could see that despite his cheesy grin, his overuse of sly winks, and his attention-seeking air-humping ritual, this was a man seriously in need of help. Every ‘come on Barbie, let’s go party’ seemed to bring him closer towards a complete mental collapse, with small, Danish tears streaming down the side of his sweaty face.

Lead-singer Lene’s introduction of the Aqua team towards the end of the night provides clues to the reason for his fragile state. Dif, with whom she was once in a serious relationship with during Aqua’s peak (as seen in the ‘Barbie Girl’ video) now had to suffer the indignity of being referred to as ‘my best friend’ by a woman who clearly has no respect for him. To rub his bald head in it further, she continued by introducing her husband, Søren Rasted, the group’s songwriter and keyboardist – and the man who she was having an affair with back in the Dif Days. Even though René Dif managed to hide the tears behind his nauseating grins and winks, the pain in his heart was unmistakable. Fifteen years may have passed, but despite now being married with a wife and kids, Dif clearly hasn’t moved on.

Despite the phone incidents, Aqua provided a fun night at the Palace. And I suppose if René Dif must continue these lewd acts, we can only pray that he restricts it to the front of his underwear and that the traumatic damage to his fans will be minimised.

7/10

Here is my new podcast - The Uncle Peter Show, with me, Peter Van Dort, and my two ‘friends’, Patrick Bosher and Lionel Lucas.

Download here:

http://theunclepetershow.libsyn.com/

Or here, if you’re an itunes kind of person.

http://itunes.apple.com/au/podcast/the-uncle-peter-show/id497280811

There’s an old Lithuanian saying:

‘The only reason to go to Lithuania is to leave Lithuania!’

There are obviously problems with such logic—not least the fact that, if you’re already outside of Lithuania, you don’t actually need to go there in order to leave. You are already out of Lithuania’s orbit and it would be unwise to enter it purely with the intention of leaving it. But such a statement didn’t become Lithuania’s national motto without containing an element of truth. And what I saw in Lithuania in July, 2010 has left me scarred.

I had come to Lithuania purely to spite some two Americans I’d met in Krakow a week earlier: a delicious father-and-son-combo, both of whom were historians. I’d mentioned to them my desire to travel to Vilnius, the capital of Lithuania, and although I had no concrete plans to go there, I hoped it would make me seem more appealing and adventurous. Of course, it didn’t work.

‘Why on Earth would you go to Lithuania?’ the son asked me, obviously irritated. He was a fit, blue-eyed young man with short brown hair and a baseball cap to prove that he was an American citizen.

A natural coward, I tried to defuse the situation with my trademark non-committal shrug, answering with a friendly: “I just thought, ‘why not?’”

He remained unimpressed, furrowing his forehead and pressing his index and middle fingers above his eyebrows, confused and possibly in pain. ‘Wait a minute. I don’t understand what historical value Vilnius holds! Why would you go there? It doesn’t make sense!’

His father interjected. He was more your classic historian; greyed and seasoned, wrinkled from years of academia. He wore a baseball cap; again, to prove he was an American citizen, but also possibly to hide a bald spot. ‘This is what I always tell you! Discover new places without planning! No, I agree with this Aussie’s thinking!’

The son maintained a stone-cold silence. Great, I’d just destroyed their relationship. But before the week was over, I was stepping off a Latvian coach and onto the pagan soil of Lithuania.

Of course, travelling anywhere out of spite is bound to lead to disappointment. Sure, I enjoyed being shoved to the side of the road by gangs of boys led by hip, fit, Lithuanian priests. I enjoyed exploring the former KGB headquarters, breathing in the musky air of the execution chambers and sighing to myself with smile. I excused the ‘Independent Republic of Užupis’ for not being a republic (it was merely a street filled with Eastern European hippies) and I even enjoyed the takeaway boxes of mock-Chinese food, cooked and served by Lithuanian gentlemen who knew that their own cuisine, pork fat and sludge, wouldn’t impress even the most adventurous of culinary tourists.

So you can understand why, after two days, I was keen to hop on the first train to the airport. But Vilnius’s worst horrors were yet to reveal themselves, and that may-or-may-not include any brutal massacres from pogroms the Russians carried out over the previous centuries.

I was standing in the queue of the Vilnius railway station. The backpack was weighing heavily on my shoulders and my armpits were sweating in July’s intense Baltic heat. There was nothing to suggest anything unsavoury was going to take place. And then it happened.

A pigeon flew into the foyer. It wasn’t a remarkable pigeon, mind you; just your average greyish, brown city-pigeon, the kind that flutter about in Lithuanian skate parks picking scraps of sandwich crusts out of Soviet-era rubbish bins. As anyone would be, I was amused at the pigeon’s attempts to fly back outside, hitting itself repeatedly on the glass doors. Life is filled with such simple pleasures, and although pigeons show many signs of intelligence in day-to-day life, this one looked a damn fool.

Soon a balding white-moustached man rose up from his small, plastic chair in the waiting area. Smiling at the group of sweaty backpackers in the ticket queue who were looking at the pigeon’s follies with wry amusement, he took it upon himself to saunter towards the grey-spotted bird, carefully enveloping his hands around the wings and calming it with a few strokes across its feathers with his right thumb. It was a beautiful sight. This man’s simple act of kindness would ensure the pigeon would continue to live a happy and free life.

Except that’s not what happened at all. Although retaining his warm smile, he did not move toward the exit as I would have assumed—instead, he carried it eagerly across the foyer and straight into the men’s bathroom. As the door slowly shut, there was a stark silence. I felt sick.

I paid for my ticket and caught the fastest train directly to the airport. I’ll never know for certain what happened to that poor pigeon, but if one thing remained clear, it was that old, familiar catch-cry:

‘The only reason to go to Lithuania is to leave Lithuania!’*

*Not an actual Lithuanian phrase.

A lot of Catholics will tell you the same thing; it doesn’t matter whether you’ve stopped going to church, whether you’ve stopped believing in god, or whether you’ve desecrated a church with urine with your friend back in 2004 — there are elements of Catholicism that will continue to pervade your life, no matter how hard you try.

Lately, I think it’s led me to decreasing my coffee intake. When times are bad, it’s important to make things worse, to go all the way and remove those little things in life that you used to enjoy. One of those things for was double-teaspoon coffees; I could deal with anything provided I was getting those once every three hours.

But then one day, I was listening to Ricky Gervais on a podcast, who, for a reason I now forget, that no-one should have coffee past four in the afternoon — it’s unhealthy and it damages your sleep patterns. So I stopped drinking coffee past that time, but my evenings became quite depressing affairs after that.

But the Catholic in me presses on! I remembered an interview with Shaun Micallef, which revealed that he not only doesn’t drink alcohol, but coffee either. In fact he was now giving up orange juice; being non-competitive by nature, he sets himself challenges and makes himself suffer. This rang true to me; however, I thought I better, at least, try to wean myself off coffee by having half-cups. After all, times are hard and I can’t keep indulging in such luxuries as Nescafe 43.

It’s been a week now and it’s made life damned depressing. So I treated myself to the only other thing that gives me pleasure: reading about the misfortunes of Eastern European countries in the twentieth century. Sometimes, after I finish, say, a thick book detailing the running of Hitler’s Nazi Empire during the Second World War, I’ll pat myself on the head and say, “Now, now Peter, that was a bit of fun; but now it’s time to lighten up. Here, read Russell Brand’s Booky Wook 2!” And I’ll read it, suffering through his pretentions and arrogance. I’ll even read Mark Twain’s A Tramp Abroad, and put up with, what is essentially a rich man’s journey through Europe, much the same as someone who treks across France tasting wine today.

Today, I’ve snapped. I’ve sat in a cafe and happily indulged in the reading of Stalinist Policy in Poland, and even though I know it’s a sin, it’s nice to indulge in something now and again.

Wikipedia boldly states that cats are the most popular choice of pet in the world. And indeed, there are few things in life that bring as much pleasure as a cat. Even those who hate them find them endlessly amusing. So now, I want to explore the phenomenon that is felis catus, what we’d often refer to as ‘the household cat’.

But not all cats are created equal. Some cats, such as the ones I found scurrying around in Malaysian rubbish bins, left little to be desired. Others, however, showed leadership skills that made me wonder: why is it that human beings rule the world? In this very special tumblr, I’m going to list some of the more noteworthy cats I’ve met in my travels.

10 - The Living Dead

At the very bottom of the scale, I found this street-urchin lurking in the back streets of Balaclava, Melbourne. It barely passes as a cat; its decrepit figure and fur coat looks like it’s been tumble-dried but not ironed, making it look more like a drug-addicted rat. And don’t be fooled, this cat doesn’t make up for its looks with personality either. Not recommended.

9. The ‘Cute’ Cat

Oh, isn’t this nice! This bundle of joy was spotted in a Ballarat street a few years ago.  Unfortunately, once again, this ‘kitty’ is severely lacking in personality. How was I supposed to engage with this feline if it wasn’t going to meet me halfway? Obviously I admire the choice of location - the tree branches alone provide ample shade and in my opinion, that was a smart move. But until we can enter into a metaphysical dialogue, I remain unimpressed.

8. The ‘Missing’ Cat

This poster was found at the Basilica of Notre-Dame de Fourvière, in Lyon, France. As you can see, this cat is missing - or ‘perdu’ as they say in France. I like the French-hat-thing it’s wearing, very snappy indeed. The problem is that this cat lacks a certain spark. It’s staring blankly into the camera with a glazed expression and the nose leaves little to be desired. As much as I hate to say it, ‘Mimi’ is probably better off missing.

7. The ‘Normal’ Cat

So now we come to the ‘normal’ cat, this one found in Carnegie, Melbourne. The white coat is spoiled by the choice of location; lying straight on top of dirt. I like the way the white flowers play off his fur, although I doubt this was intentional. Still, this cat got style. I like the expression particularly. Not a bad effort.

6. The ‘Rooster’

While not a cat in the strictest sense of the word, this one is nonetheless an impressive example of felis catus, with its striking red feathers and confident stride. Unlike many cats, this one has style by the bucket-load. No, it’s not fluffy and cute, but it is proud and majestic, and sometimes that’s all you want from a cat. Impressive.

5. The Third-World Cat

You have to respect a cat that chooses one of the least Buddhist town of Sri Lanka, the Catholic hub of Negombo, to be its home. Certainly I’d be more inclined to live among the Buddhists if I was a Sri Lankan cat; and so I’m giving this cat extra points for bravery. Despite it’s ragged appearance and starved physique, this cat oozes personality. Not bad for something that just crawled out of the sewers.

4. The Long-Suffering Cat

This cat, known as ‘Trixy’ to friends, is one of my  favourite cats. Affectionate, fun and frisky, Trixy unfortunately must suffer at the hands of her master. But it’s the long struggle for independence that I admire, the tiny glimmer of hope that she balances in her little paws, suffering day-by-day in the pursuit of freedom. Good luck, Trixy.

3. The Moravian Castle-Dwelling Cat

If you squint your eyes enough, you’ll notice Brno, the black and white cat lying at the entrance to the Helfštýn Castle, in the Olomouc region of the Czech Republic. I was very impressed when I met this one. Instead of choosing to sit on a pathway like other cats, Brno has chosen to lie down on an actual seat. Furthermore, Brno has chosen this particular castle because it hosts the annual International Blacksmiths Fair - it makes you wonder what sort of ‘blacksmithing’ he could do if he applied himself? When it comes to Brno, the sky’s the limit.

2. The Japanese Castle-Dwelling Cat

I know what you’re thinking: this is just an ordinary, lazy, overweight piece of shit who just happens to have found the perfect tree to sit against. And true; it is all those things. But this cat, known as Hayato, lives in the gardens of the Kyoto Imperial Palace, Japan. Considering Kyoto was the capital of Japan for over 1000 years, I suspect even cats are bound to get a royal spray if they hang around long enough. I’d like to personally thank Hayato for turning his head and posing for this photo, and promise to serve him for the rest of his days. Long live the king (or queen, I didn’t check).

1. The Charming Swede

And so we come to the finest cat I’ve ever met. This one was found at the top of the stairs in Sofo, a trendy district of Stockholm. I was wonderfully surprised when I came across this dashing example of cat, one placed so strategically at the top of these stairs, stairs which led away from the hip bars and down to the shady entrance to the station. Believe it or not, by blocking my path, he saved me from the famous Soho-rape of 2010, the well-reported Viking takeover of Sweden’s capital last summer. If it wasn’t for this Charming Swede, I wouldn’t be here today. Top marks; and nice fur too.

Have you heard of Mr Dominic Emmenegger? He’s the Swiss backpacker, famous for recently skateboarding through the Burnley tunnel and causing a nuisance. I was so impressed by his recklessness that I decided to add him on facebook. He accepted the next day, but I’m not sure he’s the wise Swissman I took him for. For instance, analyse his facebook wall post.

All of a sudden he seems less eloquent than I had imagined. He’s obviously got himself into a spot of bother (I’m pretty sure he’s on bail or something). But he continues:

I like how he is sick of lying to the world, although once again he’s not making a very clear point about his situation. Either way, I think I might delete him from facebook. I thought he was a cool guy but like I do with most Swiss guys, I misjudged him.

I’m procrastinating over editing my film (however enjoyable it is to edit), so I’ve decided to make stupid lists, á la Rob in High Fidelity. Ok, go.

FAVOURITE FIVE SONGS ABOUT PETS 

1. Martha My Dear, The Beatles

This song has such a specific message (“when you find yourself in the thick of it, help yourself to a bit of what is all around you”) that it’s possibly not about his pet sheepdog at all. But it’s the Beatles and it’s brilliant. 

2. Little Lamb Dragonfly - Wings

Paul McCartney again, this time in Wings instead of the Beatles. This song is more specifically a love song to his deceased lamb, which is once again validated by making making it a masterful epic composition. It’s really powerful actually - wistful, beautiful longing! Ok, it’s a little dumb but Paul is feeling it. And smoking more pot than the average person.

3.  Lucifer Sam - Pink Floyd

I like the idea of Syd Barret tripping, guitar in hand, glaring at his cat, writing ‘that cat’s something I can’t explain!’ This song really feels feline.

4. Delilah - Queen

On their last (real) album, Innuendo, Freddy was virtually on his death bed. What can you do in that situation? On this song, Freddy sings about how much he loves his cat, even when it pisses all over his chippendale suite. 

5. Seamus - Pink Floyd

Pink Floyd, on the experimental Meddle, went all out - David Gilmour’s dog sings his own lyrics on this one. 

Sometimes I’m alarmed by the sorts of songs that enter my head in the morning. I’m talking about songs that play in my mind without any real provocation.

Is it normal for a twenty-six-year-old male to wake up repeatedly with this song playing in his head? Especially given he hasn’t seen this show in about seventeen years? Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. But this morning a different song played in my head. I’m scared.

http://www.theage.com.au/travel/has-new-york-lost-its-edge-20110126-1a54j.html

It’s interesting to ponder whether New York is starting to lose it’s touch. So much of its uniqueness is formed by the impressions we get from films, whether the nineties, eighties, seventies or beyond. But it’s true: Times Square has become a real family affair, Coney Island is a wasteland, and CBGB has been closed down. 

When I went to New York, I was trying to experience a seventies New York, one that placed me somewhere in between a Lou Reed album and Sesame Street. It worked for the most part, as long as I was able to stick to certain areas. 

So come with me now as I go back to 2008: Lost in New York.

Harlem

Harlem had a village-like atmosphere. Families laughed down the streets and old men swept their tiny doorsteps of their New York apartments. It was very charming. On the other hand, gangs fought outside my hostel in the early hours of the morning, and junkies were littered around the counsel estates as you walked east. Americans I’ve met seem horrified that I would stay in Harlem, reminding me that the real New York is Manhattan. I disagree. Harlem felt more alive, with corner stores and cheerful street creating a real functional, unique experience.

Brooklyn

Central Brooklyn wasn’t very nice. Apart from being used as an interchange for busines-people trying to get to Manhattan, it didn’t seem to serve much value. But it still had a real ‘stuck-in-the-seventies’ feel to it. Black schoolgirls grooved down the street, sporadically bursting into song with incredible voices like it’s the most casual thing in the world. A big-haired Jewish girl chewed gum while dating a confused-looking Chinese guy, especially confused when she fell backwards on her chair, bursting into laughter and flirtatiously waving her finger while scolding me for laughing at her. She was just like Val from The Nanny.

Random Spooky Park

New York isn’t necessarily a spooky place, but it can become that way if you get too attached to the area north of Central Park. Especially if you decide to alight at one of the less celebrated, neglected subway stations that thread up north from Manhattan. Putting on my brave face, I spent a lot of time trying to thread my way from Manhattan to Harlem via Central Park East, and taking strolls through these silent, empty parks filled with New York street lamps made me feel like I was in an old, silent film.

“Right now it’s time to think about young men as they embark on the journey of life. Dreams are formed, hopes are realised and the world’s your oyster. And like the warm glow of the candle, love flickers bright. But sometimes in our lives, those dreams are shattered. Our hopes fade. The oyster is contaminated by an ocean-dwelling algae. And like a candle, the flame of hope grows cold, eventually burning out. With this in mind, it’s important to take time in our busy schedules to stop, gaze out a rainswept window, as the world goes by, and think about all those people who are more successful than us. Who are happier, healthier, content. For whom dreams DO come true. It’s important to reflect on what might have been and where we might be if, perhaps, we had tried a little harder.”

The comforting words of Richard Silk from the Lonely Hearts Club, the now concluded series from Radio National. His silky voice has been soothing me over the last week.

The burqa ban has finally been enforced in France. Women wearing burqas in public have been arrested in accordance to Sarkozy’s new policy. It’s a strange issue - where liberal thinkers can get tied up in knots. It’s too simplistic to call France intolerant of Islam - anyone who’s been there knows how many Muslim immigrants they have, and France has long stood for liberty. France also believes in sexual equality and the celebration of beauty and sexuality - so obviously, the notion of wearing a burqa doesn’t sit well with French culture. The burqa represents a form of Islamic extremism, that a woman’s face is too tempting to be shown in public. 

But a government ban is just as ridiculous. I didn’t mind them banning the burqa in public schools - as part of the secularism of France, Christian symbols are also banned. But on banning them in French public, they are headed in a strange direction. It appears Sarkozy has mainly pushed for the ban to win conservative votes, bowing to public pressure rather than sticking to proper ideals of liberty. Hopefully a future government will lift the ban, because it’s not a good direction to go in. This is why English law is a touch stronger than French, right? 

I feel out of my depth now. Abort.

The Arctic Monkeys released their new single yesterday, ‘Don’t Sit Down Cause I’ve Moved Your Chair’. Like ‘Brick by Brick’, I like the sound but I would prefer more of the melodic focus that was on 2009’s Humbug. 

Sure, I shouldn’t really be so focused on a band that was clearly part of a long-passed NME craze, but I think Alex Turner can only get better and better. I preferred the sound of the second album to the first, and I preferred the sound of their third album to their second. Let’s see how the forth album goes.

I’ve tried two attempts to find ‘St Ali’s Coffee’ in South Melbourne, both times catching the Light Rail back in failure. Upon a second googling, it appears that I was right next to it - but it’s one of those ‘secret Melbourne cafes’ that require you to jump through a broken window at the back of a warehouse to find. And I did that enough in Shenmue. I don’t know if I want to do it anymore.

Part of taking these pointless trips to South Melbourne is to breathe in the fresh air and walk the streets to help my film ideas. It doesn’t work, and now I feel quite behind on the project. I feel like a malfunctioning machine these days, unable to feel the excitement and unable to harness any real energy - this is despite deliberately trying to abolish any social life. Anyhow. I should be okay. Like Ed O’Brien says about the lacking confidence in Radiohead during In Rainbows, ‘you have to keep faith in the creative process’.You just press on. I hope I get some work done tonight, then.

I’m a latecomer to the world of Charlie Sheen. I’ve been living in blissful ignorance of his shenanigans, taking only a casual interest in his cocaine habits and priding myself having never watched ‘Two and a Half Men’. But my lack of interest has snuck up behind me and bit me in the arse. It turns out he is ahead of the pack in terms of debauched Hollywoodism, and I have the feeling we have entered a new chapter in the life of Sheen. He is a phenomenon. After his recent escapades involving trashing his room and locking a pornstar in a closet (Capri Anderson apparently), then being found naked and coked-up up by the police, he has been fired from his sitcom and is coercing the media spotlight through bizarre, narcissistic interviews. It’s great. The crucial soundbite would be, when asked if he is bipolar, the response ‘I’m bi-winning…I win here and I win there…’ It’s all good stuff.

On the other side of the spectrum, according to The Age, artist Phil Collins is bowing out of the music industry due to hearing loss and damaged nerves in his hands. Obviously I can sympathise, having hearing damage myself. But further quotes taken from a recent FHM interview indicate other, more bitter reasons. This quote is somewhat heartbreaking: “I don’t really belong to that world and I don’t think anyone’s going to miss me. I’m much happier just to write myself out of the script entirely….I’m sorry that it was all so successful. I honestly didn’t mean it to happen like that. It’s hardly surprising that people grew to hate me.”

Is this all South Park’s fault, with their bitter lampooning of Phil in the fourth season as revenge when his song beat ‘Blame Canada’ at the Oscars? I’d argue it’s more Phil Collin’s fault for being so unashamedly Adult Contemporary. But on the other hand, I find “Two Hearts”’ and “Something Happened on the Way to Heaven” to be classic pop songs. So I propose a two minute silence for Mr Collins. If nothing else, he will always be remembered as that extra from A Hard Day’s Night.

Friday night was a wonderful night in the world of Radiohead. Barely minutes after the release of ‘Lotus Flower’, Radiohead decided to release their entire album online a day early! So, my decision to stay home all night was well rewarded. I downloaded the zip file of The King of Limbs, lay in bed and listened to the album’s eight tracks unfold.

• 1. Bloom
• 2. MorningMrMagpie
• 3. LittleByLittle
• 4. Feral
• 5. LotusFlower
• 6. Codex
• 7. GiveUpTheGhost
• 8. Separator

Immediately I had to acknowledge that there were two songs missing: ‘The Present Tense’, and ‘A Walk Down the Staircase’, two beautiful acoustic songs that Thom Yorke had debuted in the last 18 months. But when you listen to TKOL, you can understand why these songs don’t fit. It all begins with ‘Bloom’, a schizophrenic but glorious song that asks, ‘it’s what keeps me alive, so why does it still hurt?’ Just like ‘Everything In It’s Right Place’ on Kid A, it sets the tone for the album by being the most extreme, ‘out-there’ song. And over the next four tracks, you are left shaking your head. Is this still Radiohead? The instrumental, ‘Feral’, sounds very similar to the kind of music Thom Yorke’s been releasing solo for the last five years, but that stuff was claustrophobic electronica. This music is organic and punchy, vague and spastic, soulful and heartfelt, computerised and glitchy. It ticks all the Radiohead boxes but it sounds remarkably different to In Rainbows. Perhaps this is the direction ‘Hail to the Thief’ hinted at.

But that said, there are a number of songs that follow on the usual Radiohead path. ‘Codex’ is a classic, a melodic and understated song that’s a cousin to ‘Pyramid Song’ both lyrically and musically. But Codex is incredibly mature in it’s execution, with the tiniest pulse providing a subtle grove, while a brass section appears midway, lifting the song with beautiful dignity. It’s so beautiful that I nearly cried on first listen. They must be doing something right.

The album is short, but that’s no serious problem. Every track is deeply mysterious and well-written, and I haven’t mentioned the addictive ‘Little By Little’, with its twisted bluesy melody that I wont get out of my head. But the album finishes too abruptly; one moment you’re being carried into a new and beautiful world of colour and nature (most obviously with the pastural beauty of ‘Give Up The Ghost’), the next you’re abandoned by the sudden ending of ‘Separator’, a breezy song with hiccuping beats where Thom states, ‘suddenly I’m free from all the weight I’ve been carrying’, and ‘if you think this is over, then you’re wrong’. The album feels complete, but perhaps underwhelming when compared to the majesty of their other album closers.

There is a theory circulating around that the final song is called ‘Separator’ because it’s only signalling half the album, that a further portion of this ‘newspaper album’ will be released at some point. This theory may hold some weight. It may also be clutching at straws. But personally, I’m betting on some new releases in the new few months, if only as bonus material. Better still, I’d hope there’s another ‘Amnesiac’, a complete album filled with the songs that didn’t fit the TKOL concept. 

Or, perhaps, I can stop over-speculating and clock up another fifty listens - for every listen reveals something new and wonderful, and Radiohead knows it too.

Richard opened up the door. He immediately closed it again, fearing that this time, he had overstepped the mark. He wiped a droplet of sweat from the top of his eyebrow, rolled his sleeves up and decided to open the door again. This time would be easy, he told himself. After all, people open doors all the time. Doorknobs differ in size and shape, in fact some doors don’t even require them. But in Richard’s case, this door did indeed feature a doorknob. It was time to face his fear and open the door.

Not again! It was shameful, really. He had opened the door, only to close it immediately. He hadn’t even peeped his head into the other room. How long was this going to go on for? It wasn’t as if Richard had never opened a door before. He had done it countless times, in fact so many times that you wouldn’t be able to count them on one hand. Counting on two hands, however, and you come much closer to the exact tally of door openings.

Richard was a weak man. Throughout someone’s lifetime, you might pinpoint the moments where they showed strength, and the moments where they showed weakness. But if you were to draw a pie chart of Richard’s 48-year-life, you would find over 90 percent of that pie chart in yellow: the colour of weakness and cowardice. It may seem awfully high, but you need to keep in mind that Richard was a very weak man.

Richard gave up. He couldn’t even remember why he was opening the door in the first place. A great passion had flared up inside him only three hours ago, where, upon waking from his futon, he had decided to enter the laundry room. His mind had been obsessively focused. It was a glorious plan. He had knelt up from the futon and wiped the sleep from his eyes, slipping his pants up his legs, nearly leaving his room before realising that he had forgotten to put on a shirt. Of course, a shirt is not a necessity except for formal engagements. But he cautiously buttoned one around him, because you can never know. He prepared a strong mug of instant coffee, sipping it as slow as he could, each sip causing him to tremble with anticipation. Of course, there wasn’t much at stake. A man opens a door to enter a new room. It’s not genius. In fact, Richard embarrassingly realised that, in making this coffee, he had opened a few doors already. His bedroom door, for one. Not to mention the cupboard doors or the dish washing machine door, the one that fell like a drawbridge and nearly hitting his foot.

But he didn’t want to think about those instances. After all, it would only take away from the importance of this one particular door he was going to open, the laundry door. Hours had past, however, and all hope was lost. Richard sat on the floor, gazing at the fibres on the carpet. The world felt like it was spinning. He couldn’t attach his focus to any particular clump of carpet. The lines were blurring. His toes looked like giant logs, merely hilarious jokes that were embarrassingly attached to his foot. One of the toenails began speaking, although no clear audio was to be heard. Speech bubbles, instead, grew out of his toes. Speech bubbles of Neil Armstrong, the first man on the moon. And they said unto Richard: ‘I went to the moon. You, however, can’t even open a door.’

Richard shrugged at his toe and a tear fell from his eye. The world kept spinning, back and forth. Today had been a disaster. He lifted himself slowly from the carpet and made his way to the bathroom. He counted every step: one, two, three, four, five, and peered down at the tiles. His dog was still alive, but barely. It needed to be fed, and Richard had every intention of feeding it. But this old kelpie was not the same dog he had saved from a needle only three years ago. Then again, Richard was not the same man either. Alas, that Richard had faded away, faded like a lead pencil on an eighty-cent supermarket exercise book cover. All that remained was a shadow of a man, and a bad smell.

‘That poor kelpie’, Richard thought. Didn’t he realise that food was just around the corner? And Richard knew where the can of dog food was - it was in the laundry, of course. This was something that had slipped his mind earlier. The can opener was placed next to the can, if he remembered correctly! He had developed a routine over the years, a routine in which the dog would be fed every day without fail. The cans would be stacked beside the rusty old sink, right next to the red bowl.

But Richard soon realised that this only highlighted the futility of life. It smacked him down when he least expected it, the absurdity of the whole situation slapping him in the face. A dog eats the food, a dog digests the food, and later a dog leaves the faeces in the back garden, dismissing it as quickly as yesterday’s paper. And Richard had chosen to ignore this for the first year or two. But it slowly ground him down, in all its desperate pointlessness. Surely Richard would feed the dog again; he had always been an advocate of feeding animals. But why the rush? People spend their lives rushing into things. Rushing to work and back, rushing to check their emails, pressing their horns and yelling at strangers on congested roads. It needn’t be so. Richard laughed loudly at his skeletal-figured kelpie, crossing his arms with an affectionate smile. Why didn’t his dog have faith?

Soon, the dog had died, and Richard’s head tilted down slightly, in disappointment. Oh, it was all so typical. Then a coldness flushed through him, like a bucket of icy water tipped unsuspectingly over his head. He decided that the day was lost. As they say, you have good days and bad days. This was a bad day. Richard slowly backed out of the bathroom and slunk back into his bedroom, carefully placing himself on the cheap, green futon and pulling the doona over his body and face. He felt tired. And although it had been a bad day, tomorrow could be a good day.

Richard’s mind span around like a top, falling dizzy like a little child spinning in a garden while gazing at the fluffy clouds. The child finally fell on the ground in laughter and Richard fell asleep.

My grandfather was a fiercely protective man. The blood of Scottish separatists flourished in his blue, tortured veins. According to a classic film, ‘a man’s home is his castle’. My grandfather’s castle was a run-down house on top of a hill near ‘Boggy Creek’, surrounded by the dried up waters of the Gellibrand River and placed in the middle of Carlisle River National Park. The national park belonged to the state, but the Thomson farm belonged to him, and nobody wasn’t going to change that, nobody.

It wasn’t always an easy life on the farm. I found this out on new year’s eve, 1998, when my grandfather demanded I clean out the septic tank. It hadn’t been cleaned since 1974, coincidentally the same year my mum ran away from the farm, never to return. Halfway through the two-day process, between shovelling the human faeces into a wheelbarrow and relocating it over two steep hills with the help of my autistic, 40-year-old uncle to safely dump it on the neighbours’s property, my mum called the farmhouse phone to ask how I was. To her delight, I confessed that things were not going so well. I was covered in human shit. ‘Now you know how I felt!’ she laughed. Thanks, mum.

Dumping faeces on the neighbour’s property for two days wasn’t the ideal new years for a 14-year-old, but it was memorable and that’s what matters. Besides, at the end of the process, something wonderful happened. My grandpa, cursing aimlessly and rolling his checkered sleeves up past his elbows, placed himself down into the septic tank, uncurling a long wire and poking it through the pipe until 7 feet had disappeared in. I watched with great suspense. Soon enough the pipe unblocked and grandpa was greeted by a glorious rush of diarrhoea! It hit him like a wave, covering him from his mouth to his feet! That final gasping yell was a sound I would never forget.

But what did his neighbour think about all this? After all, gallons of human faeces was dumped on his property; in some cultures, this would be seen as a declaration of war. The next-door house was usually empty, however, and was only occupied for a few weeks a year. I felt my grandpa was taking advantage of this. For instance, I recall another situation where he stopped the car outside the neighbour’s driveway, telling my brother and I to wait a few minutes. He would make his way through the backdoor of the neighbour’s run-down weatherboard home, emerging minutes later with a satisfied grin on his face. He never told us what he did, but I doubt it was, well, savoury.

Two years later, I was required to undertake work experience at school. To to avoid working for an actual organisation, I chose the ‘Thomson Farmstead’ instead, known to me via ‘family friends’. Asking your grandparents to lie to your school and pretend that their grandson was unrelated to them was a risk, but luckily grandfather was always up for a facade. I was three days into it when the phone rang, asking how I was getting on.

‘He needs to work on his appearance - terrible acne!’ grandpa complained. ‘He’s a bit tardy, never turns up on time! But he’s alright. He’s a bit weak, I s’pose.’ He placed the phone down and turned to me with a grin. ‘So who the fuck was that bitch?’ he asked. 

Part of work experience involved keeping a diary. Mine was getting stranger and stranger. Already, I had described a process that involved cleaning the back of a pickup truck using a butter knife. Looking back, it was probably for my grandpa’s amusement. Another task involved chopping the head off a rooster - a difficult thing to do if you haven’t had practise, but also difficult if you don’t like violence against animals. I eventually cut the head off with a blunt axe, but not before a few gruesome misses - one at the body and one at the beak. The dog wagged his tail and licked the blood. That day I decided I vowed to never kill again.

But one particular task confused me. One morning my grandpa told me to get my gumboots on and to follow him outside. He remained vague as always, simply asking me to carry a plastic bag filled with empty bottles of VB and walk with him for a few acres, until we finally crawled under a fence and stood inside the National Park reserve. 

‘You see, Peter, these dirt-bikes come here, causing a racket, it’s no good!’ he yelled angrily, pointing to the tire tracks in the soil. ‘Come on! Do what I’m doing!’ He took a few bottles and began hurling them at nearby trees. I followed suit. Soon the whole muddy area was covered in reddish glass and VB stickers. My grandpa turned to me with a straight, satisfied expression. ‘See that, that’s controversy. Controversy is a good thing, Peter. Never forget that.’ That night my grandpa reported the incident over the phone, angrily blaming ‘those damn dirt bikes’ for the terrible trashing of one of the most beautiful national parks in Victoria.

I only hope those awful dirt-bike riders were caught.

I was always suspicious about taking part in Kevin’s drunken nights. I was only eighteen and had only been drunk a handful of times - mind you, they were always brilliant, magical moments. But they were only at house parties, where the communal drunkenness made more sense.  So come with me now, step back in time, if you will, to 2003. 

Yes, 2003, when Kevin would report his drunkenness to me over the house phone, back in the days when ringing someone on the phone was a normal thing to do. He would tell me how he had agreed to meet his friend Pinky at the Ashburton golf course at midnight for his usual drunk antics. He would be instructed to bring a golf club, while Pinky would supply the cheap bourban cokes. The only problem would be him leaving the house at this hour. So when going to the front door, he was stopped by his father, a white-haired man of pale complexion and sporting a pair of average-man glasses. 

‘Where are you going?’

‘Just to my mate Pinky’s party, dad.’

‘Well it’s dark, I’ll drive you.’

This was a problem. You see, Kevin was supposed to be headed straight for the golf course. Pinky’s place wasn’t particularly close to the golf course. Kevin had to think quick.

‘No, it’s okay, I’ll just walk,’ Kevin said, unconvincingly. 

‘Come on, get in my car,’ his dad insisted, and Kevin had no choice. But what about the golf club? That was an essential ingredient for tonight’s adventures. The whole point of going out tonight was to play golf drunkenly in the dark. They had already been in this golf club at night - that was done! Golf clubs were the missing ingredient and Kevin wasn’t about to let his friend down. He decided to risk it, and hid the golf club awkwardly behind his back, sliding it down by his feet in the car so his dad couldn’t see it. 

Kev remained silent on the short journey to Pinky’s place. He didn’t want to say anything stupid, didn’t want to give away his plans with an accidental ‘have you seen my golf club, dad?’ What would he say to his dad if he was caught with the golf club? He couldn’t think. It sounds easy enough to make up a lie, but it’s very awkward. It’s much better to hide it, full stop. 

But luckily he got away with it. His dad stopped the car outside Pinky’s house and Kevin opened the door, managing to throw the golf club out onto the nature strip without his dad noticing. Thank god for the darkness. As his dad waited for him to head to the front door, he drove away, leaving Kevin to take his golf club and walk another 30 minutes to the golf course.

I think one of the reasons I didn’t take part in these nights is the tribal ritualistic removal of clothes that took place. It’s not something I would have been comfortable with. From the sounds of it, neither was Kev. They would drink their cheap, nasty bourbon cokes, hitting golf balls around and struggling to find them again in the dark drunkenness. 

He would describe to me the mysterious security car that would slink up the green at 3am every drunken night. They were always careful to avoid that car and the menacing high beams. Kevin recalled how, drunk out of his head, stumbling in the darkness while gripping a golf club, he suddenly became blanketed in the headlights! He immediately leapt into a pool of mud under a bush and hid.

‘What happened then?’ I asked. 

‘I have no memory past that. All I know is I woke up in my bed the next morning, covered in mud.’

So, fun as it all sounded, I wasn’t keen about joining them.