James Brown, Sex Machine, Studio Version.

I'm happy to be contradicted, but I reckon James Brown's Sex Machine is the finest recording ever made in a studio.

It may not have the technical mastery of others, but everything else is simply the funkiest shit ever. Honest, simple, no fuss, great playing, great vocal, it is just cool on every level, and infectious. Put it on right now and stop yourself from moving? Impossible I say.

Live recordings are a different school of fish altogether, but in a studio I can't see past it. I've been in enough recording studios, often playing flute for other people, bit parts, not the essential groove and not overall creative decision maker. I've never had to take a group of musicians into an airless, sterile room and inspire the funk out of them. Miles Davis could do it, inspire confidence and great performances from his fellow players, and Mr. Brown had it down too.

Leadership comes in many forms, is often misunderstood. In it's profoundest form it is inspiring others to lead themselves. I believe it is atmospheric. Some people create a vibe makes all around feel confident, able to produce their best when the red light is on. Belligerent leadership that relies on fear and consequences is effective for a short term project, it will get the job done, it will suffice but never create greatness.

My experience tells me one doesn't have to be the best, like Miles or James, to lead the best. Recognizing and encouraging the best from pthers is most of the job. Being a good follower, feeling the groove and leading oneself is is the other part of creation.

Imagine being the guy who laid down that guitar lick on Sex Machine, or the guy who smacked out the drum part? You'd leave an experience like that a more complete musician, a more complete human, a better leader for yourself.

Do contradict me if you can think of a better studio recording, I want to hear about it.

Parkstreet.

Genre.

Last year a mate stuck a couple of microphones in front of me at a gig playing live and solo, just a guitar and a voice, recorded a simple live e.p. of four of my songs. We decided to throw it up online, see if anyone wanted to buy it.

I went through all the online paperwork easily enough until I got to the "genre" section. I had to choose one musical genre to cover four very different songs. Was it folk, alt. folk, folk traditional, folk modern, folk pop, folk rock, indie folk, country, country folk, alt. country, urban country, country rock, indie country, the lists went on and on. I felt like a Victorian collector trying to categorize a new species of insect.

Musical genres are simply marketing tools. The idea is that people can find music similar to music they've liked before but it has become a dorkfest, jargon for those who love jargon, not music.

It has spread beyond music to every art form. Critics talk about genre to make themselves sound knowledgeable, not to help us find films, exhibitions, plays, performances we'll enjoy.

Even worse it has spread to people. How can people be part of a genre? How can an individual human be emo, goth, alternative, a type, a sort, a species, defined by one word? I don't think they can. It's always an unsatisfactory way to describe someone.

If there'd been a genre called,"have a listen, see what you think, see what you feel", I would have checked that box. I can only recommend taking the same approach with people too.

Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/

Solo, acoustic, Red Brown Dust, on iTunes, all the other sites.



Concert Tickets

J.D. Salinger.

J.D. Salinger died today.

His book Franny and Zooey gave me more love, understanding and encouragement than any human has. The last page still makes me cry. The only way I can thank him is to live fully and honestly.

I'll start all that tomorrow, right now I think I'll give old Phoebe a buzz.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Man, Shark, Crocodile.

I saw a news story today, a man in the Northern Territory of Australia caught a large shark only to find a large saltwater crocodile trying to wrestle it from him.

Tabloid media around the world love stories like this from Australia. Shark, crocodile, man, what a combination. It could promote a false image of this country, but I don't mind. When I travel I'm glad of anything that might give me an edge with the women folk, if news stories like this give me an air of danger and the wild, then I'm for them. Nothing else is going to do that for me, certainly not my suburban upbringing or my mild demeanour.

"Don't worry sweetheart, if you ever find yourself being attacked by a croc here in San Francisco I'll take care of it for you."

Parkstreet.





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The Dead Lock and the Gay Bondage Pornography.

When I was eighteen I ran away from home, adventure bound, from mellow Melbourne to the sinful city of Sydney.

The daytime bus landed me in the evening in the car park of an inner city motel, for those who remember, it was the Koala Inn on Oxford Street. I hadn't thought as far ahead as where I was going to sleep, so I took a room, which cost me $42:50, which seemed like a lot of money at the time. The room was a pit, I grabbed a couple of beers and settled in. In my search for a bottle opener I discovered a vast stash of gay bondage pornography. A sheltered boy from the leafy eastern suburbs I never knew clothes pegs could be used for anything but hanging up washing.

Not long later a man started pounding on my door,"I know you're in there, let me in so we can have some fun". I wondered if he was expecting the owner of the bondage material, then I wondered what role he had in mind for me? I sat very, very quietly, very quietly indeed. He came back every half hour for the next five hours. Whomever had been in that room must have been a damn fine lay! Each time he pounded harder, really bashing the door. I worked out that my hotel bill was $2:50 for the room and $40:00 for the heavy duty dead lock.

Twenty five years later I'd probably figure "when in Sydney" and just open the door. After all, I set out in search of new experiences, who's to say that any one new experience is going to be better or worse than any other until you've tried it?

Parkstreet.

A Coal Dust Bear.

"Let's get rid of that old pot belly stove, it's like a coal dust grizzly bear there in the corner, it spits embers and frightens the children, we could sell it to a collector and use the money to get a brand new gas heater, it would be much more efficient."

The stove said nothing. It had boiled the water to assist the births of most of this man's ancestors, it knew about children. Those men would have taken a few hours to maintain it before every winter, if it spat embers they would have blamed themselves.

In the morning the pot belly stove was gone. The police were called but they couldn't find any sign of a break in. They put it down to insurance fraud but couldn't prove it. They couldn't know that the stove had raised it's four stout legs, lifted them from where they'd been standing for nearly two hundred years, and slipped quietly into the night.

It walked away, a coal dust grizzly bear, fuelled with resentment , stoked by indifference, spitting fire, bent on vengeance.

Parkstreet.

St. Kilda, Melbourne, Australia.

For us St. Kilda was like like one of those children's pop up picture books. You know the ones, you turn a page and the enchanted paper forest lifts up, then folds neatly away as you turn the page to reveal the next scene. Our pop up book was called St.Kilda, Architecture, 1850 to 1970, and we were the children.

Jack was a local, the genuine St. Kilda article, a Princess of Princess St. She'd owned the book since she was five and was happy to share hers with me. I was a fortunate partner in crime.

We'd walk the streets late at night holding hands. She'd show me all her old favourites, mansions hidden by orange brick apartment blocks, worker's cottages with histories from dock worker to artist to pot dealer's shop front. We'd open dusty old pages she'd nearly forgotten and sometimes discover new treasures for the revised edition we were writing together. It was like those buildings didn't exist unless we were looking at them.

We'd exchange extravagant gifts of real estate. I'd offer her a grand Victorian mansion, she'd present me with an Art Deco apartment. We'd make foolish plans, balls in the ballrooms, breakfasts in the ingles, cocktail parties in Port Phillip Bay windows. We were the most benevolent of landlords, allowing all to live in our vast estate free of charge from us.

We'd walk the streets late at night, holding hands, the poorest of property tycoons, the silliest of children, then up the stairs to the rented apartment that was really ours, a cup of tea and a cigarette on a cushion on the floor, close the book, a kiss, and so to bed.

For Jacqueline.

Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
Solo, acoustic, Red Brown Dust, available for download at iTunes and all the other sites.

Astrology.

Astrology is a crock of mediaval goat shit, it's only useful purpose is to entertain beside the funnies in the Sunday papers.

Before I gon I'd like all the true believers to take a deep breath, tell me it's only natural for me to be cynical because I'm a Virgo, say in a caring, heartfelt manner, as if you are trying to save me from myself. All better? Now you've stereotyped me with one in every twelve humans on the planet I'll continue.

The planets are rock, ice and gas spat out by the Big Bang, some of them just happened to end up orbiting the star that we call the sun. There are billions upon billions of such stars, who knows how many planets, all floating in the infinite void of space. What makes anyone think for one moment that the planets closest to us have any affect on our nature, character, strengths and weaknesses? Are the planets anthrocentric gods or is it some mystical, undetectable law of physics?

Why do humans need to believe that something greater out there has an interest in us? Are we that ego maniac, that pathetic? Is this horoscope business another in a long line of methods for parting fools and their money? Is it just another expression of the psychopath who has to believe he or she, usually she, is somehow special, a conduit to greater power and knowledge? At least Narcissus only chose a pond to reflect his glory, not all the heavens.

The "I've tried it and it works" argument is thin. I've tried wearing lucky underpants on dates and that has worked. The human brain can use any trick to gain a hoped for result. The truth is within us, not out there in the godless void.

Let us leave astrology in medieval history where it belongs, with all the other nasty witch burning, human mind numbing superstition.

Parkstreet.

the naive e,p., live, solo, available on itunes, cdbaby, all the rest.

Got A Light Mate?

I've been playing with the assorted international jazz lunatics at Cafe Oz, Rue St. Denis, taking some rest and relaxation, the chance to speak Australian English with my countrymen, beach, babes, beer.

The bar is closed, I'm headed back to the 8th, walking diagonally across one of those huge civic squares that are crowded during the day. Any sensible brass monkeys have their balls in front of a fire, mine are freezing off, it is raining chats et chiens. A solitary figure is coming towards me, from the other corner of the square, he is cupping something in his hand.

"Got a light mate?"

I'm delighted by his optimism, trying to smoke in this weather, I hardly notice that he has picked me as a fellow Australian.

"Thanks mate."

"No worries."

We look each other in the eye, decide against the "where ya' from, whatcha' doin' in Paris" conversation, nod and continue walking in opposite directions.

"See ya' mate."

"Yep, see ya'."

Like most Australians I am not vocally patriotic but I'm quietly confident that my culture stacks up pretty well against most. Yet here I am, on the other side of the world, living my Parisian dream. Why? Hemmingway said it is a moveable feast, the memory will come with me when I return home but I don't want to go home. I love it here.

Ten years later I still don't have a finger on why I'd prefer to live somewhere else. Sydney has everything I need, Melbourne too. If someone offered me a job in Paris, playing or writing, on the condition that I could never return home I reckon I'd take it. I don't know why. I guess there is no girl to drag me back now.

Maybe Australia is the moveable feast? Walkabout without end, I can take the best of Australia and live anywhere. Gotta' go, I can hear my phone ringing with that job offer.

Parkstreet.

the naive e.p., live, solo, available on itunes, cdbaby, all the rest.

Lemmings.

When lemmings strike a season with abundant food they breed even faster than most rodents. As their numbers swell they have to keep moving to new food sources, the lemmings at the front of the charge gaining the most nutrition and therefore the most breeding opportunities.

The rush soon gets out of control, an eating and fucking frenzy that can't stop. Mob rule pushes the pack faster and faster. When they reach a natural obstacle, a literal cliff, it isn't that the leaders deliberately commit suicide, the lemmings at the back just keep pushing forward.

Female penguins mate with one male, but if another male brings them an appropriate stone for nest building they will profer him sexual favours in return. Male dolphins commit rape. Killer whales throw baby seals around, torturing them, apparently just for kicks, before dispatching and eating them.

Chickens will attack and kill any other chicken who appears diseased. Blood spot on the feathers is often the sign they react to so if blood flies during the pecking frenzy others can be stained and become targets themselves. Many animals, alpha male and alpha female, kill the babies of their rivals, sometimes even their own.

Humans in civilized cultures are still capable of horrific acts but on the whole I reckon we are doing pretty well. Natural barbarism is always lurking, we should treasure civilization, culture, humanity.

Parkstreet.

the naive e.p., live, solo, available on itunes, cdbaby, all the rest.

El Paso Booty.

In the sex strip of Rue St. Denis in Paris there is a shop named El Paso Booty. I have never been so disappointed as when I learned this establishment sells footwear.

Parkstreet.

the naive e.p., live, solo, available for download on itunes, cdbaby, all the other sites.

Treason.

So I'm at my local cafe, sharing a table with the owner, the bloke from the convenience store next door sits down. He has been reading Middle Eastern websites and is excited, overjoyed that seven C.I.A. agents have been suicide bombed to death by a treacherous double agent.

He can't understand that I want no part of that conversation. He is happy about the bloody deaths of other humans, he is happy about the deaths of Australian allies in a time of war. The deaths of these men will possibly make the lives of Australian soldiers less secure.

A week later he wants to quiz me, wonders why I don't want anything to do with him, then turns it into a freedom of speech issue. The reason his head hasn't been removed for treason is that he said those things in this country. If he were cheering on the enemy in the country he came from he wouldn't be so lucky. He clearly doesn't appreciate this fact.

For or against our part in Afghanistan, the fact is our country is at war, our troops, fellow Australians, are risking their lives in that war. I don't care who you are or where you are from, if you can't display some respect for that don't talk to me.

Parkstreet.




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Some Of My Favourite Words Starting With The Letter F.

funk

Funk and Wagnell's

fervent, fevered, feverish

Frangelico, Fanta, Frisbee,

freaky

fun

fantasy

fond, fondle, fondle

fiend

frommage, frottage

furniture, furnish, furnished

fart

fearless, fearsome

fish fingers

fury

femdom

flummox

furtive

fortitude

France

farce

frontier

fuck, fuck off, fuck you, fuck me, let's fuck!, shall we fuck?, fuck that's hot, fuck the neighbours, fuuuck mate, fuckable, fuck everything, fuck fuck fuck.

Parkstreet.

Patience Is The Essence Of A Man.

The only thing that deters mosquitoes in my bedroom at night is a fan, if you've ever flown turbulent air in a light plane you'll understand why.

While I enjoy the idea of making these loathsome insects puke into tiny paper puke bags I do feel guilty, I can imagine the man at the power plant dropping a couple of extra chunks of coal into the furnace every hour just for my precious fan. Still, a man has to sleep.

Last night I rolled over, wrapped my arms around the spare pillow on the other side of the bed. Lonely? Sad? Me? I was bitten countless times, all at the latitude that was protected from the air stream of the fan. The little blighters had waited four hours to win the war.

I'm no good at waiting. People shout in my ear about journey over destination, process over result but I can't dig it. If the journey is a cliche ridden track, a series of hoops to jump through just to prove I can then put me on a plane and wake me up when we get there. If the process involves lurking in the dark, waiting for a drop of blood I'd rather starve.

When I meet someone I like I want to be free to say,"I like you, let us hang out for an indeterminate period of time". When I hit a good band I want to put it on stage, rehearse there.

The final destination is death. I'm in no hurry to get there. I want every day to be an arrival in it's own right. As an improvising musician the end point is very hard to discern, it all appears to be travel, but I want every note to be a landing, a time and place.

Real life is happening as I write this, whether I am patient or not won't change that. Waiting in the dark for an accidental opportunity is for bloodsuckers.

I feel myself arriving as these words hit the screen in front of me.

Parkstreet.






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Old Politicians, Old Tricks.

In his Illuminatus trilogy Robert Anton Wilson talks about the Revolution of Lowered Expectations. We are living through that revolution right now.

In the past politicians wowed us with grand plans and promises then came unstuck when they couldn't deliver. In this advertising savvy culture they are trying a new trick and it appears to be working. They tell us to expect less, that times are tough and they can only hope to minimize harm. This they can deliver on.

If we assume that politicians who are in the game for the betterment of their fellow humans are few and far between we can also assume that nothing has really changed, that lowering our expectation is just a tactic designed to maintain power. Climate change fanatacism has played into the hands of these power hungry men and they are milking it beautifully. The global credit crisis helped them along.

We shouldn't stand for this nonsense. We vote these fuckers in to lead us, and our children, to a better life, not to kill hope. Striving for greatness is one of the things that makes us human, don't let power hungry wankers who didn't get enough attention from their mothers take it away from us.

The only people who gain from a Revolution of Lowered Expectations are the very rich. Vote against any politician who tells you to be grateful when he promises less then gives it to you.

Parkstreet.

Pan And Syrinx.

The Greek god Pan was of the stuff that gods were made of, half man, half goat, notorious for his ravishing of women and other drunken debauchery.

One day Pan fell in love, with a young wood nymph named Syrinx. It's a beautiful name isn't it? Syrinx. Maybe it was something to do with the half that was goat, Syrinx refused him and fled.

Being a god and used to getting his own way Pan pursued her. Rather than surrender her honour Syrinx threw herself in a river and drowned.

Pan could be seen sitting on the bank of the river, he really loved her. Some reeds sprung up in the place where she died and the wind rushing through them reminded him of her voice, mournful and sweet.

So Pan invented the flute.

Parkstreet.
Use a minute and a half of your life to listen to Claude Debussy's Syrinx, it's a beautiful thing.

It's Tough Being American.

On the same day that Haiti suffers a disastrous earthquake the United States of America banks one hundred million dollars and starts preparing an aircraft carrier and a hospital ship. The next day she is being criticized for not doing enough or not doing it quickly enough.

Like any nation there are reasons to criticize the U.S., but it seems to me all of us who live in other countries should look at what we are doing before we give the Yanks a hard time. They've spent hundreds of years building a nation wealthy and powerful enough to be able to rescue another nation. They don't have to do anything, they could take their bat and ball and tell their critics,"this one's yours, you deal with it".

I see Americans as my cousins, brought up in a different house but largely the same family stock. Apart from liking them, their way of life, their urgent sense of freedom, I respect what they've built. It truly is a great nation they've created. There will always be family disputes, my cousin George was a problem for me, but if we want our families to get along, if we want to rely on them to help when they are needed, let us get off their case when they are giving what many countries can't give.

When Haiti is being rebuilt and America is footing the bill maybe once we could say thank you.

Parkstreet.

Kentucky Fried Nostalgia.

My father died without ever visiting Paris. He did, however, take an all expenses paid tour of Kentucky Fried Chicken stores in New York, Chicago and San Francisco, and as we all know, K.F.C. is a drive through feast.

In 1968 K.F.C. decided to move to Australia, Dad was hired as a consultant to select properties to place the stores on so seeing how they worked in America was essential. It's interesting he wasn;t taken to a city in Kentucky, I suspect K.F.C. is as Kentuckian as Outback Grill is Australian. No, he didn't get to meet The Colonel.

As far as he could tell what was required was a main road, a giant bucket suspended on a tall pole so it could be seen at a distance, a middle class population nearby and a car park. As it turned out we ended up living not far from one of the first stores in Melbourne. I wonder if my father, as he drove the Volvo into the car park, had a feeling of a dream realized?

The whole family would go, it was something of an event for the first year or so. A smaller version of the iconic bucket would be ordered and we'd wait for fifteen minutes while the crumbed chicken pieces were deep fried. Fifteen minutes! Can you imagine? The anticipation, the pent up desire! Many would smoke cigarettes, large ashtrays on the floor would fill up over a night. Finally the bucket, the boxes of chips, the plastic tubs of coleslaw and mashed potato with gravy would slide through the window from the mysterious kitchen. We'd race to the car, one box of chips would be opened on the way home, Mum feeding Dad his share as he drove.

All this before the Cult Of Busy told us we couldn't wait for anything, that food should be kept warm under lights so we can get at it faster. All this before chicken salt, which, if you don't know, is a combination of chicken lips, chicken arseholes and monosodiumglutimate. All this when there were jobs for humans, deep frying chicken to order for happy families.

O.K., maybe I'm overstating the case by suggesting all the families were happy, but if any were unhappy at least they could be unhappy at a gentle pace, and their chicken was hot and freshly cooked. That has to count for something.

I still think I would have preferred my father went to France and helped to open cheese shops here in Australia, but I can't complain about my Kentucky fried memories.

Parkstreet.

The Squeaky Wheel.

So I'm sitting outside at the Piccolo Bar Cafe in Kings Cross, Sydney. There is an angry, angry man at a table behind me who is using the word fuck as if it were a comma. He thinks he is Jack The Biscuit.

He is maintaing a constant whining, just enough to set a mood, that he might create a nasty scene at any moment if he doesn't get exactly what he wants. He has a waitress and his girlfriend running around after him, placating him like a baby in a cinema.

We put up with dudes like this because it is easier to amuse them, hand them a bill and see the back of them than stand up to them. It's a tired and tedious act, it's been performed before, it will be performed again.

We can gain pleasure in the knowledge that if this bloke caught fire no one would waste their piss on putting him out, not the waitress, not the girlfriend, I might try pouring kerocene on him to see if that helped.

He is a small boy craving the attention that someone didn't give him. In a way I'm grateful to him, he has given me the idea for my new self help book, Annoying Your Way To The Top, How To Get What You Want By Being A Complete Shit.

Parkstreet.

From my flute blog, www.parkstreetfluteblog.blogspot.com

People keep telling me they've seen a Japanese robot that can play the flute. It is true, such a thing exists, so if a machine can master the physical requirements of playing the notes why do we bother playing music at all?

There is so much more to flute playing than playing the correct notes in the correct order. We can decide how we play each tune, give it something of ourselves each time we play it, we can give it love.

We aren't machines, we can't be programmed to make our breath, lips and fingers do the right thing every time, so how do we train our brains to comply with the directions we give it?

Part of the answer is to get out of the way, don't think too much. Regular practise forms muscle memory, so if you practise smart, don't practise bad habits, a lot of the physical will take care of itself.

If you are having trouble mastering a new technique try to find a trick that your brain can follow; the right image or words can free the brain to let it do it's job without confusion. For instance, striving for clean, easy high notes, imagine them blowing out the top of your head, the natural instinct is to dig down into the floor and push them out but the image of the notes flying free seems to work. It has worked for me and everyone I've taught, maybe something else will work for you.

The secret is to think about what the physical requirements are, then find a trick to make your body perform them. For high notes I want a clear, relaxed path for the breath, standing up straight and letting them flow works, the image of them flying out of the top of my head does the job for me. Each time you strike a problem area try to imagine what will work for you.

The human brain is too complex for us to understand. Ironically if it were more simple we wouldn't be smart enough to understand it anyway. Don't be bluffed by your own brain, just trick it into behaving.

I always seem to return to this point, the best thing you can do is relax and enjoy your playing. Let your brain be an ally, you are dependant on it's imagination and decision making, don't fight it.

A robot can play the flute but only a human can use a flute to create music.

Parkstreet.

Kent Parkstreet's flute and saxophone are built by Temby Australia, www.temby.com

What Is Jazz?

What is jazz?

Scantily clad lovelies singing "all that jazz" is as much jazz as a sterilized safety pin is punk.

Jazz is punker than punk. It isn't rebellious for the sake of it, it is ignoring any rule that stands between the musician and the music.

Jazz is surfing the seventh wave, improvising on a surge of nature that supports me but will feel nothing if it spits me off it's face. It is surfing at dawn, no competition, the audience that can take the cold is welcome, and welcome to join me on the wave.

Jazz is the Tao, dharma, the spirit of the day, it is style but not fashion. It is the roar of the sports crowd, the silence of the night, the rhythm of sex, the groove of the city. Jazz is the fearless life, the fearless death. Jazz will go wrong on occasion, depending on the definition of wrong.

Jazz is a harsh mistress but in the mutually consented fun way. Jazz is being truly alive for one moment so I know what it feels like, so my daily life can strive for the same reality. Timeless, ageless, flowing with the universe.

I hope that clears it up.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Blues, Not Art. Single from Blute - Kent Parkstreet, blues flute, on iTunes, all the other sites.

Happy Birthday Buzz.

Buzz Aldrin turns eighty today. Happy birthday Buzz, you legend.

What I love about Buzz Aldrin is his humanity. When the line,"lying in the gutter but looking at the stars" was written it could have been written for him. Buzz hit the biggest high possible, walking on the moon, then hit the earth hard, drinking himself into an institution. It is how I imagine I would handle such a situation.

Of course there is the small matter of having the right stuff before one finds oneself in such a situation. He didn't make it to the moon by accident, he was and is a great man.

We all have these highs and lows to some degree. Who hasn't hit the bottom of the shallow end after the high of a love affair? For Mr. Aldrin the high was as big as it gets, but it all feels the same when you fall back to earth.

The beauty of Buzz Aldrin is that he fought his way out of it. Most reformed addicts will tell you that stopping isn't something to be proud of, all they did was stop what they shouldn't have started, but that staying clean is what feels like an achievement. Oblivion is alluring, choosing this real life over it and maintaining that faith is something to be proud of. Choosing to take the highs and lows, not flatten them out, that is courage.

If Buzz Aldrin can do it after his massive leap and fall, then I can do it with my introverted life.

Parkstreet.

What Happened To You, Man?

What happened to you, man? You used to be cool.

I love this quote, it works so effectively on stage and on screen. It's old enough that I have no idea where it came from, maybe you can tell me? As much as I love it I believe it is rarely true. Generally the discovery that someone is uncool is due to me opening my eyes to the truth, not a sudden change in that truth.

I knew a woman who apparently did lots of cool things in the past, but none since I met her. When she was an idealistic arts student she did something with Burmese refugees on the Thai border, I could never quite work out what she did, but she did something. I was pretty impressed. I've since worked out that spoiled rich kids have always travelled to where the drugs are cheap and there is no social disgrace. This woman had a huge range of such interesting stories, but nothing seemed to happen now. It just took me time to see that she was never cool, she just wrote a cool past.

I knew a dub reggae drummer who gave up playing for his family. His wife, four kids and others got the best of him, he played for fun and satisfaction on weekends. Some might say he'd lost his cool but when I saw his kids kiss him in public, how safe his family felt because he was there I knew he was always cool, drumming in bands or not.

Cool isn't dependant on environment, fashion, social pressure, cool is internal and real. It can't be found or lost. I'll always love the words,"what happened to you, man?", but I know that what really changes is my perception.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

The Old Man On The Train.

Years ago I was on a suburban train in Melbourne, sat opposite a crusty old bloke, some high spirited schoolboys playing up nearby.

The old man leaned forward, conspirational, in an old fashioned Aussie drawl said,"girls grow up to be women, boys grow up to be bigger boys". I laughed and agreed with him, knowing I was no exception to this rule.

Encouraged by my appreciation of his wisdom he leaned forward again,"you know son, there are millions of beautiful women in this world". . . I was waiting for him to tell me to see past beauty and look for something deeper, or to wait for the right girl, instead he said,"there are millions of beautiful women in this world, you should fuck as many of them as you can".

At forty two I'm just starting to see he wasn't such a crazy old bloke after all.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Solo, acoustic Red Brown Dust, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.

Guitars and Politics.

The only political issues musicians should attach their musical names to are the issues that affect our freedom of expression. Music is about espressing essence, if your essence is in politics become a politician.

Bach said that all music is a tribute to the grandeur of God. I get where he is coming from, would probably word it differently but the idea is the same. If your music isn't true to you, to art, to love, to your perception of god then let it be and do something else, there are plenty of other things to do.

I'm at that tipping point in a player's career, no money, no prospects, do I pursue something new or dig deeper, find a more truthful reason to play? Yeah yeah, I already know the answer, but sometimes I have to ask the question before the answer tells me to live my life more fully, ignore distraction and seek truth.

All the daily struggles are nothing if the essence is true.

Parkstreet.





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The Summer Of Love, '67.

I was born at the end of the Summer of Love, 1967. In the upper middle class home I was born into it was known as the Summer We Bought the Fondue Set.

All my life I've felt that life is happening somewhere else, real life, the actual stuff. Australia is a fine place to live, safe, happy, warm, comfortable, like a giant retirement village. Real life happens in the bush where actual stuff happens, but in the cities we just pass the time.

I can't wait to pack a saxophone and get out for a while, maybe come back when I'm old.

Parkstreet.

Royalty Schmoyalty.

Someone calling himself Prince William of Wales is visiting my country right now. He is spending three days here, the least he can do considering he plans to be our king in future. Three days in a country of twenty two million people, a land mass roughly the same size as the U.S. mainland. My king? My arse!

I wonder if his mother Diana ever pondered the history of the family she married into? Young women who'd completed the service of providing two male offspring rarely lived very long in that line of butchers. I wonder if baring a king was enough for her?

Lance Armstrong is the real royalty in town. The great man is king of Adelaide and the Tour Downunder this week. A man respected for his achievements, character, style, charity work, all the things a king of old would hold dear.

As the Monty Python peasant said,"King? How'd he get that then? I didn't vote for him." The French of 1789 knew how to deal with people who claimed superiority due to blood lines and money.

Republic now.

Parkstreet.

Words and Oil.

Eucalyptus trees release an oil when they are infested with insects, some of the oil gets carried by the wind to other trees, these other trees begin producing oil in advance of the insects arriving.

G.P.S. trackers on whales show that occasionally a young rogue male will leave his pod on the east coast of Australia and visit his cousins on the west coast. Recordings of whale song show that these males return with different songs, and that the entire pod quickly learns the new material.

When Bnobo monkeys have a territorial dispute the dominat females from each troupe will argue it out, if a peaceful solution is reached the deal is sealed by the two negotiators performing oral sex on each other. This seems to me a tremendous method of diplomacy. Bnobos use sex for many communications and appear, to paraphrase Osacr Wilde, charmingly unaware of gender. There is no biological sign that Bnobos have any trouble conceiving offspring, evolution has simply chosen sexual activity as a secure method to build trust and unity.

An octapus in a tank can communicate with another octapus in a seperate tank, with no eye or other contact. A new octapus in a laboratory will know all the tricks of the others within twenty four hours.

Being human isn't just a shared evolution or biology. The way we express ourselves defines us as a species, not just the bi pedal height, the opposing thumbs and the giant brains.

Humans can express love. When humans stop expressing love for each other they become just another animal.

Parkstreet.

Hometown Blues.

I'm taking a trip to my hometown in a couple of weeks. When I take a moment to think about it dropping an actual trip might be less of a mindfuck.

I love Melbourne, it's a cool town. The people there dig their music, their cafe scene, food, all the things I like. It's easy to get around without a car and when you do there is usually something worth getting to. There is also a very low level of bullshit in Melbourne, having lived in Sydney so long now that is always a massive relief.

So why am I tripping out? I won't bore you with the personal details but it is the town where my family lives, removing the thousand mile buffer between them and me is a scary scary thing. We all have family and we all deal.

It is also where I lived with her, where we ate at Ti Amo, and Pelligrini's, and Leo's Spaghetti Bar, where we drank coffee at The Galleon cafe while our washing went 'round and 'round in the laundromat next door. It's where we swam at St. Kilda beach, where we shopped in the supermarket, where we lived and loved. Every little detail is her. Melbourne doesn't change quickly enough to have forgotten her presence, or maybe I don't.

It's just a town, a big, cool, stylish town that always welcomes me and makes me feel loved, I'll get down there and get over it.

Parkstreet.

Bollywood Sucks.

I haven't had a good complain for a while now, so I may as well write about Bollywood films. What a pile of crap, how did this shit ever become hip? How?

Plot, character, direction, a deeper understanding of the world? None of the above apply to Bollywood. With so many superb films being made by actual film makers around the world it's a crying shame that this Indian inanity hogs the box office payoff. It proves that fashion is not about class, taste, style, as if that needed proving again.

I will admit that the gentle tease of beautiful Indian boys and girls has it's charm, for a few minutes. I will also admit that after about twenty minutes I am hoping Bruce Willis will yippee whatsit their arses with a truck and small arms fire. I've never seen a Bolly film to the end, I feel so guilty about wishing death and destruction on all concerned that I have to switch off.

Most of the Bolly activity takes place in tabloid news, not on screen. They run a good line in scandal those Indian actors, sex, guns, drugs, they do it all, and so bloody gracefully. The gossip is great fun, just don't make me sit through the fucking film.

When they start making films where the young Indian lovelies dance then get their gear off I'll take another look.

Parkstreet.

Has Anyone Seen My Huskies?

I feel like I've been trekking solo across the Antarctic, my sled has overturned and my huskies have scattered. There is no one to rescue me. All I can do is fire up the gas stove, heat up the best smelling meal I can muster, leave some meat out for the dogs and hope they return.

If you ever feel you've lost your mojo, that your groove thang has desserted you, all you can do is hunker down, create the conditions most likely to entice it back, and wait.

Parkstreet.

Another's Eyes.

Two raindrops are racing down my window, like tears down a cornea. They distort the light briefly as they move, the same way tears give a unique perspective through the soul's window, looking in and looking out.

My corneas originally belonged to other people, mine were cut out and their's stitched into place. It feels like no one can see my soul now, that the brief moment of a tear is the only insight into who I am.

The rain will stop, the last drops finish their journey down my window, it will become glass again and my soul will disappear from sight.

Parkstreet.

Steven.

My friend Steven died this week. If you've been reading this for a while you will know about the death of my friend James, Steven was his partner. The circumstances of Steven's death aren't pleasant and will remain private.

When someone dies people often go on about what a great bloke he was. We all felt comfortable to say great things about Steven when he was alive. He was a listener, in his work and with his friends. I could trumpet my greatest triumph or expose my most embarrassing flaw and he wouldn't look at me any differently. I could trust him, speak openly and honestly with him, he really was a great guy.

Both James and Steven lived a different way of life to me, in every way, so we didn't see a lot of each other. I saw them in their quieter moments. Too many of these wonderful, sensitive, outrageous, open hearted people die the same way. For any of my friends who are still using, and one in particular, please, please stop it, we are getting on but we are all too young to die. Please get help, please stop.

So long Steven, you and James made fifteen years here despite everything, now you can chill and have some real time together.

Parkstreet.

Blissful Ignorance.

Two of the coolest chicks I know work at the rehearsal studio I use. They've found the groove of being fucking cool without being fucking rude. They both have that natural, skinny rock waif thing going on, free of pretence and make up and all the more feminine for it.

I'll never tell them, part of their charm is that they don't seem to know how cool they are. If they ever became self conscious, too aware of their own beauty it might make it difficult for them to maintain.

I know a girl whose face smiles on one side before the other. It's gorgeous, like a sun of joy passing over a pretty planet. I can never tell her how much I like it, how her smile makes me smile, just in case she stops doing it.

Self awareness is a double edged sword. It's often our most naive charms that shine the brightest.

Parkstreet.

Gay Porn.

Very late last night I was flicking radio stations, trying to find a weather report for an outdoor event today. On one talkback station I heard a very excited woman talking about how great it was for a young woman to do gay porn. My interest was piqued.

Turns out a sixteen year old Australian girl is sailing solo, non stop around the world, gunning for a world record. It also turns out she just rounded Cape Horn and that I had misheard the excited radio caller. I was a little disappointed, but sixteen and sailing around the world, yahoo!

When I wake up cranky because I didn't get enough sleep I must remember that this teenager hasn't slept properly in a month but still sounds happy and excited. Maybe there is something to be said for this living your dream thing after all.

Sailing around Cape Horn, acting in gay porn, whatever rocks your boat I say. Young women can choose their own path. The men in porn flicks are seen as studs, the women as exploited. Yet the men in gay porn do all the things that women in straight porn do and they seem to enjoy themselves more than a little. If a woman marries a man for his money she isn't seen as exploited yet the girls who have sex for cash and giggles on film are. The porn actrees isn't lying about being in love. Women who lie about being in love for money make life difficult for all women.

I love independent women who choose for themselves, they are the sexiest of all, no matter what they choose to do.

Parkstreet.

God Marketing Device.

God botherers around the world are using the suffering of the people of Haiti to promote their faiths and causes, jostling for headlines and airtime.

Here in Sydney the local archbishop used the mass media to ask me to pray to his god. If his god is all knowing and all powerful and therefore caused or permitted the earthquake that has caused so much death, pain and destitution I'm wondering how my prayer should be worded.

"Oh God, any chance you can stop being such a cunt to these people? You've given them decades of political turmoil, corruption and dire poverty, the earthquake was a step too far, back off big guy."

In the U.S. madman Pat Robinson is doing his standard, "blame it on the sin" routine. The man is a cold hearted bastard, the worst example of media driven religion. He is yet to explain the relationship between the movement of tectonic plates causing the surface of the earth to shake violently and the perceived transgressions of humans. I've tried to imagine how the physics of sin work but I just can't see it.

The new faith of Climate Change is pushing for it's moment in the sun too. Again, the physical effect of carbon in the atmosphere on the plates below the earth's surface is yet to be proven. Every time the Climate Change true believers make a ludicrous claim they weaken their own argument, lose support from the common man.

Religious nutters see themselves as a conduit to god, holders of greater spiritual knowledge than the rest of us. They justify their means, even if their means is the suffering of others. Like all egomaniacs they must expand their petty empires at all costs, they attach their messsage to any relevant news story in the hope that media exposure will lead to popularity. They could serve their god and the people of Haiti more effectively by shutting up and offering money and food and shelter.

Parkstreet.

Every Day I Write The Book.

So I'm playing at Joe's Cafe Deluxe. A very beautiful, very young girl is smiling at me and listening intently as I play Elvis Costello's Every Day I Write The Book.

After the set she approaches me, all shy and sweet. Could this be one of those rock and roll stories, an old dog woos a young lovely with a song? Does that really happen? Could it be happening to me?

"Was that an Elvis Costello song?"

I'm delighted that a woman so young even knows of Elvis, let alone knowing his songs.

"My father used to sing that song to me."

You know when you blow a balloon up, really full, then let it go, how it goes flying 'round the room, making that hilarious farting noise all the way, until it is a pathetic flop of wrinkly rubber?

Parkstreet.

Watching The Detectives.

Call me old fashioned but I prefer detective stories written before cell phone technology, D.N.A. testing and C.C. cameras.

The classic detective story is a psychological study of one man, a loner, hero, anti hero, lover, champion. He is saddened by the awful things that people do, that he has done, but still believes in redemption through love.

The modern detective story is overwhelmed by whiz bangery, the character barely gets a look in. Horatio's sunglasses are as much a fully developed character as Horatio. The focus is on vengeance, getting the bad guy, not the change in the man as he follows the case.

Blade Runner was an example to screenplay writers. In it we see the detective grow and learn, his sensee of duty, honour remaining constant. This code of behaviour is what makes the detective a romantic, makes him timeless, no matter what era he is set in. Our current television sleuths will seem dated in years when technology advances, the classic detective is by nature a classic, Sherlock Holmes is still a star.

Literature is more than a rollicking good story, it changes us, affects who we are. Watching a brilliant technician employing superior technology is fascinating, great entertainment. A great detective story changes how we see ourselves and the world around us.

Parkstreet.

Lightning.

Last night I was on my balcony when the first lightning flash of an incoming storm exploded. I heard myself say,"wow", but it sounded how I imagine my voice sounded when I was five years old.

The thunder sounded a long time after each strike, the sky was still clear, every detail was perfectly outlined, inrense beyond words. There are no words to describe lightning, nothing to compare it to. Better poets than me have tried and failed.

I can compare the feeling it inspires. Two women have given me that feeling on first sight. The first hearing of the studio version of James Brown's Sex Machine. The first time I played a solo Bach piece and nailed it. One solo jam on Monk's 'Round Midnight on the tenor saxophone.

Only one of those women loved me, playing tunes isn't always so glorious, very few performances work let alone inspire. If scarcity defines value then these moments are to be treasured beyond all others. We should strive to create the peace of mind that allows them to come to us, to allow us to take the time to appreciate them.

They can't be forced but have faith, they will come. They will come out of the dark like lightning.

Parkstreet.

Tramps Like Us.

Gypsies, tramps and thieves, some people just can't imagine holding down a day job. Some are born that way, others end up that way, once it happens they are doomed to a different life from the ordinary.

You can add whores and musicians to that list, we'd both rather sell our bodies and souls than work. I have the hands to prove it. Apart from a row of guitar callouses on the tips of my left hand fingers my hands could be those of an aristocratic lady. These hands were made for loving, not fighting or working.

The Christian work ethic is overrated. The sign above the camp gates said,"work sets you free", but it never did. Feeling, loving, dreaming sets us free, work pays the rent. Later this year I plan to wander this world a little, one instrument, one bag, one notepad, drift from gig to gig wherever it may take me. Sounds romantic, but really I'm just avoiding settling down, avoiding work.

Running away to join the circus of life has a long tradition. Give me music and clowns and costumes and illusions so I can see the real life.

Pack a bag and come with me.

Parkstreet.

Food, Give Me Food.

Food, food, give me food, real food, haute cuisine or greasy spoon, just give me food.

There is a bloke who walks around the inner city of Sydney trailed by two goats. Why? I don't know why, all I know is that while everyone else is oohing and aahing about how cute they are I'm thinking,"gut 'em, stuff 'em with bread and herbs, turn the pizza oven way down low and roast 'em slowly until their skin is crispy". Cute is one thing, whole roasted goat is another.

A friend told me about her pet duck when she was a girl, how loyal, loveable, gorgeously stupid it was. The next day I went to my usual rehearsal studio and practised for an hour just so I'd be passing my favourite Chinese restaurant, the one with the roasted ducks hanging in the window. I don't care if the Chinese take over the world and enslave us in their weird totalitarian system, as long as they keep roasting the ducks so perfectly.

I take the small pot from the fridge, leave it on the bench and go out for three hours so I won't be tempted to eat that cheese before it is room temperature and at it's best. When I return I remember how small my flat is, that visitors will think that smell is me because all evidence of that Stilton will be gone in one hour. The gulty pleasure of eating great cheese on my own is worth any social stigma I may suffer, just give me the good stuff.

Give me spaghetti tossed in roasted garlic infused olive oil and smothered in real aged parmesan, give me a slice of good bread with bubbly hot melty cheese on top, give me a pie with flaky flaky pastry, give me a pizza with just two toppings, but make one of those toppings anchovy. Give me any combination of potato, oil and salt.

Give me music, sex and food, anyone who fiinds their appetite for these things has returned is a happy happy man.

Parkstreet.

New Band Time Machine.

Just home from a successful first rehearsal with a new band. Great vibe, great blokes, a great old fashioned band doing classic tunes and sexy originals.

It was like stepping back in time, four old pros running through tunes, all knowing our roles, all listening to each other, no one ego tripping, turning up too loud, it was actually all about the music.

The name? Jimmy Varges and the Blacklist. An unashamedly masculine groove with a sexy 1950's edge, maybe even sleazy. Once we add two dancing girls it will go off. It's so nice to play in a gimic free, real music outfit, it is like stepping back to another era.

I often complain about the triumph of form over content, I guess I should do something about it. I reckon this band won't be embarrassed to play with the form but we'll always concentrate on the content, stay true to the groove.

A satisfied feeling, taking the best of the old to create something new.

Parkstreet.

Exposure.

She stands in the middle of the room, blindfolded, exposed, vulnerable.

Now I have your attention I have a question for you. When you read the above opening line where did your mind take you? Did you imagine a hostage situation or a sex story? My female friends tell me that a combination of the two, complete with swarthy men with exotic accents, is a common fantasy. A fantasy, not something they'd like to experience in real life.

We often desire and fear the same things. In his Illuminatus Trilogy Robert Anton Wilson claims that most humans live in silent terror of being found out, of others finding out their hidden desires. Fear makes us ineffective, prevents us from living fully.

Someone I know recently revealed the sexual secrets of another person I know. His particular kink is a little out of the ordinary but when I see him I don't think of him any differently now I know about it. I think I even respect him more for having the courage to live out his desires. I admire people who can live fully in every way, who aren't afraid.

The feeling of lying in the arms of someone you love and trust, feeling free to tell them your silliest dream, your most deviant fantasy, your darkest fear, is one of the purest and sweetest feelings available to us. When we trust others not to judge us we feel free. More often than not others don't judge us, we judge ourselves.

If it isn't too late to add one more resolution to the new year list I resolve to be more honest with the world, with myself. I don't have any plans to embarrass people with unwanted information, but I won't hide my true self any more.

Oh yeah, if you are still wondering, it wasn't a hostage situation.

Parkstreet.

Ownership.

The indigenous Australian people didn't have a strong cultural concept of property ownership. Many still struggle with the idea that one human can own what belongs to nature, to the universe. In our culture this philosophy can make life difficult.

Men in our culture must own stuff to be deemed successful, the statistics on the financial status of unmarried men speak for themselves. Poor men stay single. Men are supposed to own a car, house, the room, the limelight. It's all smoke and mirrors and we all know it but we all subscribe to the nonsense in one way or another.

As a man who lives out of a suitcase I don't like the idea that ownership defines success. For me success is in the work, in the way we live, maybe even the way we die. I can't say I subscribe fully to every aspect of the indigenous culture, or even claim to know much about it, but I feel they are right about ownership, yet my own culture and times tell me otherwise.

I'm sure one day I'll make a few bucks, I guess my philosophy will be tested then. Will I buy stuff in order to impress others? Maybe I'll just buy a better suitcase.

Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/

Something New Every Year.

I reckon you learn something new every year. I'd like to think that at forty two years old I know about forty two useful things about life.

There aren't so many really useful things to know. Early on you learn that fire is hot, most of the things you learn after that are variations on that lesson. At some stage you learn that other people are other people, that you can never truly know what they are thinking or feeling.

You learn about death, often the hard way, then you learn that life is real. Again, you learn many variations on these things.

I'm pretty confident I now know twice as many things as I did when I was twenty one, I hope to know twice as much again when I'm eighty four.

One a year is plenty, any more than that would be too much to take in.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Red Brown Dust, solo acoustic version, available on iTunes, all the other sites.

Art And/Or Pornography.

The government of the state I live in has formed a committee, this committee is going to decide what is art and what is pornography, they will then inflict their decisions on us. Fuckers.

This fiasco stems from an exhibition by photographer Bill Henson which included nudes of a twelve year old girl. They were meant to depict innocence I believe. As far as I know paedophiles don't exhibit in public art galleries all that often.

Politicians made a fuss, most without seeing the pictures. They didn't make such a fuss when one of their own, a minister of the government, was convicted of seducing teenaged boys with the help of drugs and alcohol. Hypocritical fuckers.

Letting politicians make decisions on art, love and god is just foolish, it is like letting me decide which theories of quantum mechanics are accurate and which aren't; I'm not qualified for the job and the decision simply doesn't need to be made. Ignorant hypocritical fuckers.

In Australia we don't have the freedom of speech debates that are so prevalent, and valid, in the U.S. Until now we've maintained a folksy, small town attitude, if it isn't hurting anyone don't make a fuss, it will go away soon enough. It's worked well enough until now. Now we have to fight these jumped up wankers who would tell us what is pure and good and what is dirty and evil. I for one don't have a problem with a little evil and dirt in art, who are they to tell me otherwise? Self important, ignorant, hypocritical fuckers.

The connotations of this committee are bloody obvious, thin end of a socially engineered wedge and all that. We can't let these ex lawyers, ex teachers, ex unionists decide what is right and what is wrong when it comes to self expression, they have no right to involve themselves in our choices.

Meddling, self important, ignorant, hypocritical fuckers.

Parkstreet.

Exploding Underpants.

A man boards a plane planning to bring it down with his exploding underpants. When intelligence officers search his living quarters they find the Khoran and The Complete Scripts Of The Goon Show.

Any text can be claimed holy, any man can be claimed to be a prophet. If your holy book and your prophet lead you to wearing exploding underpants, to intending to kill your fellow man in the name of your god, then maybe it is time to opt for another text, another prophet. The Goon Show scripts and Spike Milligan would serve just as well.

The Prophet is just a prophet, there are plenty of others. If your response to this statement is to fatwah me to death then there is something wrong with you and your faith. Bring it on, I'd die a happy man if you could keep a straight face while explaining and justifying an exploding underpants terrorist to me, that would be the funniest comedy act ever.

Parkstreet.

Love Bites.

Love unrecquited is like having a mosquito in your bedroom at three in the morning. We've all experienced it, survived it, but at the time it's bloody awful.

The little voice in your ear is real, the itch is real, the desire to sleep and hope it is gone by morning frustrates but comes eventually. It is hard to empathise with someone else in this situation, the memory is nothing like the actual feeling at the time.

Mosquitoes will take your blood and leave. The girl who doesn't love you like you love her will take a whole lot more. Both will pass, become a memory.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

The Togo Football Team.

The Togo football team has become my new definition of courage. For those who haven't heard the news story their team bus was strafed with machine gun fire on the way to the African Cup Of Nations in Angola. The driver and two support staff were killed.

The attack has been claimed by a group who can't accept that the civil war in Angola is over. Hosting this footbal tournament was meant to be proof to the world that a new country had emerged from conflict. It was quickly decided by all that the football tournament must continue, not cave to cowards with small arms and no respect for human life. It was thought Togo would withdraw but today the team themselves voted to play. In a country where football is the one unifying faith the bravery of these young men has done more for national pride than winning the cup could have.

I'd like to think I'd make the same choice but in real life I'd probably be at my local cafe telling war stories about how brave I was under fire then going home to my own bed to cry myself to sleep. I know that a lot of my readers, you folks out there, aren't into sport, and that you are probably a little sick of me going on about it but again I say that sport is more than a game.

This event takes me back to the Munich Olympics, 1972, the first news story I remember hitting me emotionally. The games went ahead, the Palestinian terrorists gained nothing for their cause, some innocent athletes and their families and friends were the only victims. The footballers of Togo should be remembered for their example, the small men who shot up their bus, and the cause they say they represent, are already forgotten.

Parkstreet.

youporn, Imagination, Feminism.

I recently changed internet providers so I had a large amount of data to use up before the end of the month. I used it to satisfy my curiousity about youporn, have a look at what was going on over there.

It wasn't purely academic interest, I had all the usual reactions a boy might have, but I was also struck by how ordinary the whole affair was. In an hour I could only take a general view, if someone wants to pay my internet bill I'll spend more time time looking into it more deeply. Anyone?

I noticed that porn production houses are using the youporn site to run teaser campaigns, to be expected I guess. This professional and semi professional material is standard "dumb girl who can't get enough" nonsense, or one girl and six men scenes.

I was very disappointed by the amateur scenes, they seemed to be porn copies, anonymous male, sex crazed female. I'm surprised how many women in this post feminist era choose to post videos that depict themselves as passive, being used for pleasure by men. Surely women have their own fantasies beyond the average? There is a small percentage of different scenes on youporn but the vast majority seemed to be in the same genre.

Compared with the variety and imagination seen on youtube youporn is a huge disappointment. Are we really so boring? Is there really nothing more going on in the real world? Can the sex lives of a generation be summed up by oral, anal, facial, swallow? Is that all there is? Is that the role women really like? Surely now that women own their sexuality there is more. Maybe the people having imaginitive sex are too busy doing it to bother filming it, or maybe they are concerned about being judged.

I'm available if any imaginitivee women want to break the cliche, I see it as my duty to freedom of expression on the internet. Until the offers start flooding in I think I'll dodge youporn. Being bored by porn just makes me sad.

Parkstreet.

Sweet Little Gig.

Just home from a sweet little gig at an old fashioned pub, playing flute for the lovely Belle Phoenix. Saturday afternoon is a great time to play, everyone is mellow but not yet pissed.

The Sydney Festival opens tonight, quite a big event in and around the city so there is a fine buzz afoot. a hot muggy day is turning into a balmy sub tropical evening, Sydney at it's best.

I walk through the long tunnel to Central Station, a busker's haunt from way back. There is a glorious moment when the Japanese Flamenco guitarist's sound blends horribly with the funk groove stratocaster man further up the way, like the soundtrack editor has screwed up, dissonant yet beautiful.

The trains are already failing the crowd is coming into town from the suburbs but no one seems to mind, it always happens. Some young jazz groovers set up a beat, slapping thighs, stamping feet, singing a riff. The drummer loses his keys from his pocket, says he needs velcro pockets. The riff adapts,

Velcro pockets,
I need velcro pockets.
Velcro pockets.
Velcro . . . Pock . . . etszz.

I think I'll steal it and call it my own. Maybe not the lyric, but the melody is sweet.

Home early, time to relax at The Piccolo Bar Cafe down the road. Might even leave the p.c. at home and enjoy being a civilian on a Saturday night.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Warm Up, solo, improvised flute track, on iTunes, all the other sites.

Places Are Just Places.

Last night in this park junkies were shooting up, drunk young men were punching on. Today the same park is hosting an organic farmer's market and everyone is full of the joy of the world.

No place on earth is cursed, none blessed. Go out and take a look at how big the universe is, then try to figure out why any god or devil would be interested in one river, one mountain, one strip of oil free desert on this planet, one of billions of planets. Why? Because humans need to feel special? Nonsense.

No house is evil because someone died there, someone died on every square inch of this planet at some time, the wheels of our carts grind the bones of the dead wherever we go. No piece of land is powerful because cavemen erected rock structures on it. Over millions of years any number of places have been pronounced holy and just as many taboo, but as the superstition of the day is forgotten they return to being places like any other, nothing bad happens because of it.

Get over it people. We're on a rock spinning in space, the rock changes, the humans change, what was once an ocean floor is now a mountain top. The park is just a park, how we perceive it is in our own minds.

Parkstreet.

Franny and Zooey, J.D. Salinger.

Joseph Conrad described the stories of his character Marlowe as being like a halo around the truth, the shell that implies the essential nut. For J.D. Salinger the plot is a hook to hang the painting on.

With Franny and Zooey he writes the story of a lifetime about an actor giving the performance of a lifetime down a telephone line to an audience of one. That audience is his sister, a fellow actor, his fellowman. There are only three real characters, nearly everything happens inside a New York apartment, the tale is elegantly simple, yet it illustrates a fundamental truth.

The plot is a perfectly designed hook, I cry as I read the last page. I feel Salinger has written this short novel for his brothers and sisters, his fellow artists. It is a lesson in how to create art and how to live with the process. It is the gift a family should give an artist and I love him for it.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Elvis Impersonators.

Elvis Impersonators shit me. Why don't these necrophiliac freaks let the great man be dead in peace?

If Elvis is alive I hope he spends his time revealing himself to, then killing his own impersonators.

Parkstreet.

The Dexter Psychopathy Conversation.

Last night I heard a radio program, a conversation about the nature of psychopathy. The panel included psychiatrists, specialists on the brain and the author of the Dexter books that spawned the television series. I like these popular culture insights into deeper knowledge.

They talked about the existence of the non violent psychopath. It was suggested that many driven, intense, successful people display the symptoms of this mental illness. The common ones are an obsession with maintaining the political high ground, of winning, coming out on top in every situation, to the point of provoking conflict so they can have the opportunity to win. They can possess the ability to empathise but not the ability to care about the pain of others, especially if it intrudes on their chosen path. Every word and action is in their own service and they can manipulate without knowing they are doing it, serving themselves is so intrinsic to their nature.

The radio panel also warned that these people are often extremely charming and attractive. This explains why I've been in love with one for nearly two years now. The panel agreed that once recognised these people were best avoided, no good outcome is possible.

I wish I'd learned this information two years ago, but I'm counting my blesssings that I fell for the non violent kind and not a more Dexter sort of personality. In my efforts to get through to her I've done plenty to annoy her.

Popular culture is often seen as shallow and silly, but good writing is good writing and always offers us something new no matter what form it is presented in. Dexter has opened discussions on the nature of humanity, it doesn't get much deeper than that.

Parkstreet.

the naive e.p., live, solo, available on itunes, cdbaby, all the rest.

Going Commando.

I recently learned that the term commando came from the Boer War in South Africa at the turn of last century. It basically meant a group of fighting men operating without the usual infrastructure of an army, and sometimes outside the usual rules of war. The Boers had a fraction of the men and resources that their enemy had so terrorizing the civilian population seemed justified. Another example of one man's terrorist being another man's freedom fighter.

To go commando has now taken on a different meaning. For reasons that will remain my own I recently had cause to leave home sans underpants. There was a soft rain falling and as I walked up the half dozen stairs into the square at the end of my street I suddenly wasn't sure if that cold feeling on my cock was the buttons on my Levi's or if I had neglected to button up properly and it was the rain I could feel. Of course it was a silly, irrational, overly self conscious moment, of course my modesty was firmly protected, but I felt everyone at the two outside restaurants in the square were watching me as I performed a surreptitious double check of my flys. Ridiculous considering I would happily walk through the square naked if appropriately bet or dared.

Now every time I approach those stairs I do the same check. Shame is a useful training device. Every time it is only my Pavlov's Dog that is exposed.

A human can be trained to do anything by any number of circumstances, from checking his fly in public to frightening innocent women and children in war.

Parkstreet.

Strangled At Birth, revisited.

A few months ago I was living in a house in Portland Oregon, I remember writing about the guy across the road and his guitar sounds that should have been strangled at birth. After today's rehearsal I've decided to give those guitar sounds a reprieve, I've now heard new ones that have been bumped up the first against the wall when the revolution comes list.

I often bang on about form over substance, it is the modern cultural plague, but when people get lost in whiz bangery I have to say something or I'll explode. A musician's job is to create sounds that affect an audience emotionally, not to show off his new favourite toy in some childish rock and roll show and tell. The media is not the message, the message is the message.

I caught a train home, the driver's announcement of the stations was more entertaining, more honest than the oobly doobly guitar masturbation I'd just been working with. The announcements were clear, concise information delivered in a manner pleasing to the ear. If a fucking train driver can do it . . .

After the apocolypse there will be no electricity. Guitarists will have to use their fingers and their imaginations to make sweet sounds on their instruments. Bring on the apocolypse.

Parkstreet.

the naive e.p., live, solo, available on itunes, cdbaby, all the rest

Manners.

If manners are a sensitivity to other's feelings rather than a set of rules designed to denote class then it makes sense they will change over time, change for every new situation.

I've noticed a whole new ettiquette around communication on social network sites. It developed overnight and was obviously driven by young people so manners have nothing to do with age. Some of the best manners I've witnessed have been on skateboard pipes, where beginners are given time and encouragement, everyone has a turn and no one hogs the show. It's truly heartwarming to watch teenagers displaying perfect manners and therefore mutual respect when they are so often accused of the opposite.

People with that awful sense of entitlement have a weird relationship with manners. They expect the best from all around but feel no responsibility to return the courtesy. I've tried to think how to express how I feel about these people and all I can come up with is that I fucking hate them, pushy fuckers who expect the world to roll over because they are so important. It is like they go looking for insult. If that is what they want I for one will give it to them.

Manners are not a display of weakness, actually the opposite. Respect for others shows self respect, that you expect the same in return. I'm sure they are part of a social pact that keeps a society working, prevents us from tearing each other apart to get what we want, the grease that keeps civilization from siezing. If one part isn't oiled it impedes the rest.

An old fashioned word, an old fashioned idea, but I believe manners are making a comeback. They will have to do battle with the disrespect of those who see themselves as above the rest of us but I reckon those fuckers are going down, the polite will prevail.

Parkstreet.

Skirts and Sweat.

One of the commercial television networks here in Australia is covering the summer tennis season culminating in the grand slam Australian Open.

They are promoting it mercilessly with the rock music one associates with tennis. With tall aggressive women running around in tight skirts and sweating a lot I can't see why this game needs promotion at all. I believe men play tennis too but I can't see how that is in any way interesting.

The Australian Open is a great event in Melbourne, the whole city gets involved, as much a festival as a tournament. The Melbourne Cup horse race is the same, it's even a public holiday in the state of Victoria. Some cities just get these things right, when they host any event they put their best foot forward, welcome guests, celebrate their own culture.

Sport is more than a game. In Melbourne it is intrinsic to the culture, conversation, way of life. Every other part of the culture joins in the fun instead of snubbing it as oafish. It isn't taken so seriously that it shadows art, cuisine, style, it is just absorbed into the whole. If you are planning to visit Melbourne make sure you do it during the Open, the Spring Racing Carnival, Aussie Rules Grand Final week, one of the many big events, you'll see the city at it's best.

Parkstreet.

The Superior Alien Intelligence Game, revisited.

I've mentioned The Superior Alien Intelligence Game before, when life is too confusing or distressing imagine yourself a recently landed alien from a culture that has evolved far beyond that of earth, then ask yourself questions. You'll find you know the answers, it is just distraction and emotion that prevents us from seeing them.

A girl who said she never wants to speak to me again is suddenly appearing at my local cafe and inviting my friends to her home for new year. She never wanted anything to do with my friends before. My friends are important to me and not to be used as pawns in some neurotic game, I'm pissed off beyond words.

So I ask myself what she is playing at, get more confused and angry. I pause to apply the Superior Alien Intelligence Game and all becomes clear. Until we develop some kind of mind reading skills we'll never know what someone else is thinking or feeling and it isn't important. If what they think and feel brings good things to your table then enjoy the good things, if it brings problems then remove yourself from their company. I trust my friends to do right by me, they always have before. All this shit only becomes a game if I join in, if I don't participate it remains her weird trip, her problem.

This game is another way of saying have faith, in yourself, your friends, that life will take care of you if you believe in yourself. Have faith that there is a superior being inside you, encourage it to play a larger role in your daily script. Appeal to others on that higher level and they will respond, and they will know that you are above any mind games they might usually use on others.

Have faith in faith itself, use whatever trick works for you to restore that faith when times are tough.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Caveman Blues.

Our caveman ancestor is using a very hard rock to turn a hard rock into a shaped tool.

He knows it will be a long job, taking microscopic shavings with each stroke. His muscles set up the natural tempo and rhythm to suit the work. He finds the even pulse relaxing, meditative, his brain becomes serene, happy.

This caveman is a little different to the cavemen around him. He is a genius and genius must be expressed in one way or another. He wants to tell others how the work is making him feel, finds his tongue tapping the beat in his mouth, then nonsense non words come out of his mouth, imitating the sound of the work, he is singing the first song.

I love my caveman ancestor for this gift, a simple song that expresses a simple emotion.

Parkstreet.

Sarah and I.

I met Sarah when she was waitressing in a wine bar in Melbourne I was playing in. My contract stipulated a small amount of cash and all the wine I could drink and despite testing the limits of the second part of the contract I was invited to come back and play the week after.

On my return someone asked if I'd met Sarah. In a lame attempt to be cute and charming I said,"oh yeah, Sarah and I go way back together." Part of me wished we had that it's like I've known you for years connection. Sarah was hot.


Sarah and I we go way back together,
I haven't known her very long.
So I'm going to try to impress her,
By putting her first name into a song.
Sarah and I.

Sarah and I are just like old friends,
I don't even know her last name.
I want to consumate this friendship before it ends,
And I hope, I hope she feels the same.
Sarah and I.

Sarah and I Sarah and I,
I barely know her so I'll sing it to the moon.
Sarah and I Sarah and I,
Guess I'd better ask her pretty soon.


Sarah and I are like old mates,
Whenever I see her I get shy.
I wonder if she puts out on first dates?
Will I ever get to say Sarah and I?
Sarah and I, Sarah and I.

Parkstreet.

the naive e.p., live, solo, avaialble for download on itunes, cdbaby, all the other sites.

Emotional Flow.

I've spent parts of my life being completely emotionally open, other parts completely closed. The latter usually as a result of being hurt by the former.

Many see an emotionally open person as a target, I don't know why, maybe because of their own problems. The question is how to keep those people out while allowing the right ones in?

I don't see it as a door, to be constantly opened and closed, a nightclub bouncer deciding who is fit for entry and who isn't. Maybe it is more like the digestive system of a shellfish, allowing all to flow through, absorbing the quality and crapping out those who would detract from my wellbeing? Fear is the only obstacle, but as Graham Parker said,"It's not the knife in your heart that tears you apart, It's the thought of someone . . . sticking it in.

Many people cover up but like condom sex it never quite feels the same. Being emotionally naked is risky, some will point and laugh, but only because they are uncomfortable.

Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/

True Socialism.

When every human is taught to read, listen and comprehend, and to write, speak from their hearts, then we'll have some hope for an equitable society.

If a human can't communicate effectively with the society he lives in he will screw his own life and detract from that society. Despots prosper on the back of the alienated and ignorant.

The rich aren't rich because they are smarter or better but because they know how things work.

Parkstreet.

the naive e.p., live, solo, available on itunes, cdbaby, all the rest