It’s hard to understate the impact INXS had on my life. They were the first band I ever saw in concert by myself. They were the first band for whom I would call myself a fan. They were the best live band in Australia, and arguably the world. At the Australian Made concert in 1987 they came on as the headline act, after what is still the strongest concert line-up Australia has ever seen (Mental as Anything, Divinyls, Crowded House, The Triffids, the Saints, the Models, Jimmy Barnes, and more) and blew everything off stage.
For the better part of 9 years– from Shabooh Shoobah in 1982 to X in 1990, they were the band by which I measured all other bands.
Continue reading “IT WAS 20 YEARS AGO TODAY”
It’s no great secret that I’m fascinated by murder. My bookcases are filled with True Crime books. My DVD collection is riddled with thrillers and biopics about infamous killers. I’ve written plenty of stories involving nasty people doing nasty things to people nastily.
One little sideline that escapes notice is the number of songs in my playlist that are devoted to murderers. Serial killers in particular. The truth is, serial killers may represent the basest and most disturbed corridors of the human psyche, but there is no denying that they are a fascinating sort of maelstrom for an artist to gaze into.
So here are five of my favourite songs about serial killers from the depths of my playlist.
Five for Friday: Serial Killer Songs
Continue reading “FIVE FOR FRIDAY: SERIAL KILLER SONGS”
Da da da da da da daaaaaaaaaa-aaaaaahhhh, JOKE!
Sorry. I’m so, so sorry.
“I’m afraid the problem is simple. You’re suffering from premature extermination.”
I turn 47 tomorrow. There’s no hiding it: I am well and truly middle-aged, and looking down the barrel of being old.
I’m worried about my future. I feel like I’ve not achieved the things I want to achieve in life, and with a mortgage, a family, and all the responsibilities that come with being a fat, middle-class, hairy man, many of those things are now, realistically, beyond me: I will never fly a fighter jet; I will never be a practicing paleontologist; there’s a very real chance I will never join G-Force.
“Is he… dressed… as a flamingo?”
I’m also worried that my achievements are all in the past. As I’ve aged, and responsibilities have multiplied, I’ve lost space and time for the selfishness that seems to be a requirement of the single-minded pursuit of excellence. It’s not like I come from a family of high achievers, either: I can’t think of single thing of lasting importance that the generations of my family before me have contributed to the world– and my Father’s side of the family has been traced back over 500 years, so you know, I’m not exactly riding the crest of a wave here.
Seriously, this is about as good as it gets.
So, with this uncertainty accounted for, and with a determination to rail against the fortunes of withering capacity, it’s time to take stock and consider five things I’ve done that set me apart from centuries of familial mediocrity, and lay out a set of markers to keep me moving forward into my onrushing dotage.
Five for Friday: 47 Not Out
Continue reading “FIVE FOR FRIDAY: 47 NOT OUT”
It took me a few moments to work out what was going on in this one. That’s a giant speaker on the right: the guy in front has played a chord, and it’s blown his skin right off his skeleton. A perfect example of something that would have looked great when it was fully drawn, if I had the skill, but the thumbnail shows I wouldn’t have had the skill to do it.
Stick to writing. Stick to writing.
“We’ll take it.”
I’ve just realised, as I was writing an upcoming Five for Friday post: I took the stage for my first stand-up comedy performance in 1992.
A few fevered, and not particularly serious, attempts at publication in my University years aside, that performance was the start of my continuous arts practice: after that night, via cartooning, theatre, and writing, I have been a practicing artist in one form or another for 25 years.
Wicked Beyond Belief: The Hunt for the Yorkshire Ripper by Michael Bilton
My rating: 4 of 5 stars
Forensically detailed and exhaustive study into the reasons why the hunt for the Yorkshire Ripper went so spectacularly wrong, with first-hand accounts from many who were involved in the search, and a compassionate stance towards the victims of his crime. Bilton chooses not to focus on the Ripper himself, in an effort not to afford Sutcliffe any more notoriety than he already has. Instead, he shows us the other side of the mirror– something closer to the truth of life during that period, without the dark glamour that tends to accumulate around the cult of serial killers.
If there is a flaw with the book, it is that her is, perhaps, too lenient on the senior officers who mangled the case so badly, and gives too great an allowance to the pressure and scrutiny they were under as reasons for their errors. But the sheer weight of research and verisimilitude that comes from the page gives the reader the opportunity to believe that this allowance is genuine: it all feels incredibly real, and makes for compulsive reading.
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