April Foolish Wandering Thoughts.

Twenty years ago, if I'd been told crowds would be gathering in Sydney to protest against a government tax on carbon dioxide I would have laughed. It's still funny today. There are vast islands of festering plastic floating in the Pacific but we are combatting a gas with a tax. In India and the U.S. there are abandoned coal mines burning, constantly spewing carbon dioxide into the air. Whole towns have subsided as the earth below them is consumed. A tax on Australian carbon dioxide is simply a joke. Government ministers taking a break from flying all over the country, all over the world, would prevent more pollution than any ill considered tax will. 

I always thought bone china was thus named because the hostess brought it out on occasions when she hoped she'd get laid. Apparently it is made from bone. Some crazy dude named Spode spent his life crushing up cattle thigh bones, experimenting with the strength and flexibility of the material. I love the idea that something so gory as a dead cow's bones holds the finest tea in the finest establishments.

I can't dig listening to the radio. The idea of letting someone else choose my music never made sense to me. It's like letting someone else boil your eggs, they're never quite right. When I was a kid record companies used to purchase large numbers of their own records, thus making them hits on the charts. The ensuing radio play would then sell that record to the public. Today we have better options, internet radio where enthusiasts in a certain field offer interesting selections. Now we can produce our own music and sell it online the diversity of the internet offers freedom from the man.

Today I'm deciding if I can stomach a seriess of pub gigs, playing for after work drunks who have no idea how to behave. My mind is wandering, thinking about anything but the money versus dignity debate.

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

First Blute single, Blues, Not Art, now available at iTunes, all the other sites.

Today I Told A Lie.

So I'm in one of those gigantic, soulless department stores, I'm feeling smug and cheerful despite the Air Supply background music, I'm carrying my new snuggly winter flannelette bed linen,  Snuggly flannelette is a good reason for smug cheeriness.

As I approach the checkout a small gate is closed in front of me, without explanation. The lady opening the next checkout makes it clear she is a saint for doing so. She fills me in on her entire day, how she has to work an extra hour before she gets to go to lunch, how tough she is doing it, but she will battle on and serve me anyway.

She asks me why I'm not at work. I explain that I work odd hours. This is close to a lie, I barely work at all, but I'm just making small talk, trying to escape this loathesome human. She is a conversation rottweiller, has the small child of my employment status in her jaws and won't let go. She guesses I'm a musician. I admit this flaw in my character. She then proceeds to grill me about how I make a living, if I'm independent of any other assistance? Now is the time to lie, just for fun.

"I'm rich."

I can't help myself, the words are completely unrue but very satisfying. This woman can't conceive of being rich, she would have nothing to complain about. The lie is successful, she has ceased talking.

It is a glorious white knight of a lie, vanquishing my enemy. My rich spirit is soaring as I carry my spoils of battle home.

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

The Ghost Of King Canute.

"Let all men know how empty and worthless is the power of kings. For there is none worthy of the name but God, whom heaven, earth and sea obey".

King Canute.

The man known as Canute was some kind of man. He was actually an emperor, a ruler over many lands, most of Scandinavia and all of England. When members of his court were kissing his arse they said he was powerful enough to turn back the tide so to prove them wrong he sat on his throne on the beach and let the sea wash over him. Canute was a master of reverse propaganda, this stunt made him more popular and powerful, just a man but a great one in the eyes of his people.

It's hard to imagine a leader with absolute humility, a man who knew his limitations. It's also hard to imagine a leader who knew how to stage a stunt without looking like a dork. Modern politicians have no idea, donning hard hats and hanging around with working class folks for photo opportunities just makes them look lame.

I'm not so much into god or heaven, but I do dig a man who understands his place in the world. The place of the modern politician is to serve us, the people. Australian politicians have forgotten this. When their courts kiss their arses they believe every word.  They have no respect for democracy, history, the people who elected them. Eventually they do try to turn back the tide, drown in a sea of hubris, wonder why nobody dives in to save them.

Canute was an emperor, a king, a man. I hope his ghost visits some modern politicians in a Dickensian dream. Did I mention he was a bloodthirsty warrior too? If he doesn't scare some sense into our leaders soon enough a rising tide of the people will.

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

Bitter Enough, Thank You.

When asked if they take sugar in their coffee some folks say no, on the basis that they are sweet enough already. I say no on the basis that I'm so bitter that no amount of sugar is going to help now.

Am I really bitter? And what about? Well, I could write you an alphabetical list, starting with A for autotune and the ludicrous recordings that contain that electronic effect, ending with X for xylophone and the humiliating experience involving that instrument that I endured as a child, but I won't.

Instead we'll just take it that I'm making a little joke, a variation on the tired old gag the waitress has heard one million times before. Autotune, xylophones, everything in between, all water off this little black duck's back as I enjoy my coffee.

Life is sweet enough today.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Sport And Humanity.

A sweet thunder storm is blowing in over Sydney, I'm on my rooftop, snugly under cover, hot coffee, watching the Wednesday afternoon yacht race on the harbour turning into a mad woman's breakfast. Brave sailors are bravely braving the elements while a laze and observe, all is as it should be, everyone is in their natural place.

I love sport. I can watch it all day. And all night. There was a time I used to take my place on the field but my eyes and knees and cowardice made my decision to retire gracefully an easy one. Now I happily witness the moments of humanity that only sport can bring us.

Usain Bolt taking a moment to turn and smile at the cameras as he nonchalantly broke a world record is one of my favourites. There's a guy who gets it. The Aussie rules football team I supported as a kid being written off as too old, too slow winning the premiership then appearing the next day in T shirts reading, "Too old, too slow, too good" will always stick in my mind. Denis Beerkampf's humourous, balletic goal at the world cup, lobbing the ball over the head of an opponent, dancing around him then fooling the goalkeeper with a feint displayed all the elements that make us humans successful on this planet. The vaudeville doubletake of a cyclist as Lance Armstrong raced past him on a steep mountain was priceless, couldn't have been written then performed better by the finest comic actor.

I don't care who wins and who loses. Who remembers a winner just for winning? We remember the humanity. We remember Jessie Owens making Hitler look like a schmuck then the fact that he was a great athlete. I recall a three quarter time speech by a football coach imploring his team to "do something", so they could look back later and, win or lose, know that they took some action, fully lived. I remember Australian cricketer Shane Warne defeating entire teams with his mind, his knowledge of human nature.

The sailors down there are enjoying a shared experience, one they will laugh about over beers in an hour or two. They are taking knowledge for future voyages with them, and knowledge of themselves. I don't need to be on the boat with them to watch and enjoy and learn.

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

There Goes My Guilt.

We were a jaunty crew, striding jauntily along the beachfront to the late night liquor store, the chill Autumn wind off the bay was no concern to us, we kept warm with laughter and hugging and jauntiness. On the return journey we kept warm with a shared flask, some of the boys performing spectacular or comical feats on the old bluestone beach wall.

We heard the sound of a bottle hitting the pavement. We all cheered jauntily. All of us except my girlfriend who had dropped the bottle of cheap port. She was upset. I was twenty one years old so my first thought was, "there goes my night."

She was still upset when we got home, none of my words had any affect, action was required. Some of the sticky port had splashed up into her long blonde hair, I hit on a brilliant plan. While the party went on I ran a bath, took her by the hand, undressed her, sat behind her in the tub and washed her hair for her. It was probably the most romantic thing I've ever done, biblically beautiful. When I stood her up and wrapped her in a towel I could feel she was still sobbing. "There goes the rest of my night", I thought grimly.

I dressed and returned to the crowd but everyone knew something was up, someone had let the air out of the jaunty balloon. As I waved them godbye I thought, "there go my friends".

Then she was angry with me for being kind to her. Angry to the point of psychotic. I rewound the nigt in my head, tried to locate the point where it had gone wrong. There was nothing, not even the crash moment of the bottle hitting the ground that made sense of all the extreme emotion. I realized I would have to rewind well back into childhood to work this one out. I was twenty one years old, up for jaunty good times, not qualified for the patient work of a counsellor.

"There goes my relationship."

For years I beat myself up over this girl, this night, cursed my youthful selfishness. Years later I ran into the girl again, a charming lunch at a friend's home turned into another crisis. I was twenty one years old but goddamnit I was right, there was nothing I could do, then or now. That night I sat in a bath and washed my own hair.

"There goes my guilt", I thought as I stepped jauntily from the tub.

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

A Pocket Full Of Grown Up.

I have a pocket full of American dollars, a first step towards a trip I'm hoping to make this year. Something about exchanging currency makes me feel like a grown up. Owning a current passport is part of the feeling, a document that defines me as a citizen and a traveller.

American dollars are gorgeous, each one a tiny work of art and a document at the same time.  They have numbers and stamps and seals on them, all official and important looking. I know most of the humans depicted on each denomination, some of the buildings, they are a daily reminder of a history, a collective cultural memory.

While I have this large wad of green stuff in my pocket I feel connected to another hemisphere, another nation. It doesn't matter when I get there, now I've taken this first step I know I'm going, that soon enough I'll be there, giving and taking with that culture, like a grown up.

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

Sydney After The Rain.

After the rain Sydney glows like a city. Built on convict bricks and misery then sandstone and corruption she is now all concrete and steel and electricity.

The individual buildings merge in the grey, their collective energy reflects off the harbour, a lonely outpost of the modern on an ancient red brown island. She is convict tough, she'll knock you down if you look at her funny, but she's debutante pretty too. Every newcomer feels himself the first to deflower her, and each of them are, she is never the same city two days in a row.

Tonight I am looking down at her from a rooftop, like a lover with her head on my chest. She is glowing as a lover after a storm should. I wonder how I can ever leave her, know I will, know she is a modern girl, she won't mind me seeing other cities, none are as beautiful as her.

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

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

The Little White Headphones Of Insincerity.

I'm not choosing to listen to music, I'm choosing not to listen to anyone else. I'm plugged into James Brown's Sex Machine, I can't hear you, I'm somewhere else.

I know that deadbeat is calling out, "brother, brother, come here a moment", so he can butter me up then rip me off. I can't hear him but I know what he is saying. I can stride past him without embarrassment for either of us, without conflict.

The sprukers outside the clubs ignore me, I'm spared the invitation to, "come on in and take a look", as if I don't know what I'll see. Do I really want to be in a room full of drunk, sweaty men and one woman I can't talk with, let alone touch? I don't. Stick those little headphones in and I saunter past, harassment free.

That guy who always wants to tell me the same story, I smile and nod, eyes glazed, whatever greeting he offers I smile and nod, I can't hear him, I'm somewhere else.

Tune in, drop out, it's not new. The little white headphones of insincerity just make it easy.

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

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

The Unchosen Few.

The day of the Lord cameth less like a thief in the night, more like a firestorm of death at around eleven on a Tuesday morning. I guess it was night time in the other hemisphere where most of the people lived.

A lucky handful survived. Comparing notes later we realized that none of us had kept up with our paperwork and we were all still in bed when it happened. Only the lazy made it, a new clan of inner city wasters were all that remained of this city.

A couple of pothead engineering students cobbled together enough solar panels and pumps to satisfy our energy and water requirements, a morphine addicted doctor keeps us healthy. There is plenty of stuff, so much stuff, so few humans.

A bunch of strippers and hookers are with us, their Daddy issues perished with their Daddies, what was bad news for most has worked out pretty well for them. As the majority they have ensured that women and men share this life equally.

It turns out the ashes of sinners makes perfect soil for growing fruit and vegetables, the fish have returned to the harbour, we have thousands of yachts to play with and fish from.  The air is clear now the dust has settled, the water is clean. Every day in this new Eden is simple and free and easy.

As the only surviving songwriter my ditties have become the songs of a culture. I have to write more carefully, knowing that what I produce now will endure. We are all careful about what we do and say, we have a great responsibility to create a culture of beauty and equity for all.

We, the unchosen, lazy few, we are humanity. The way we think and act now will affect our offspring and theirs. We don't have rules and therefore don't have sins. We have love and kindness and making new things.

Every day we wonder why we didn't live this way before the day of the Lord?

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

Conflict Acting.

So I've returned to retrieve something from a conference centre after playing a corporate gig there and an acting class has taken over the joint since my party departed. In every room, including the storeroom and janitors room there are pairs of actors rehearsing scripted dialogue, and the theme is conflict.

In the two minutes it takes me to walk through the place and leave I hear eight arguments and abusive tirades. One involves a girl screaming, "fuck you", many times, once done she laughs and says how good it felt. In a fight about morals a nice middle class girl has to say the words suck and cock out loud. She's done it plenty of times but never said it. A good looking guy in his early twenties is obviously out of his depth as he shouts about not wanting children with his actor wife. It's an hilarious scene, a soap opera jamboree.

Every stoush sounds like the real thing, these actors are emulating the petty squabbles of the every day very effectively. It's an easy job because most human conflict is acting anyway. Real essential conflict isn't verbal, it's physical, someone punches someone or someone physically walks away. One on one or nation versus nation this is how real conflict is resolved. All the words are just play acting, fun drama for the bored. The sounds of conflict are a gun shot or a door slamming, not swear words or a witty retort.

Just like in real life the actors end their scene and move on to the next. No real conflict occurred, nothing was resolved. I leave the sound and fury of the acting class behind me, head home.

On the way I witness a couple arguing about dinner plans and who got them wrong.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Carkeysia.

I'm currently writing a silly rhyme about the land of Carkeysia. It's the place where all the lost stuff goes for vacation.

Carkeysia occupies a different dimension to ours, obeys different laws of physics. It is populated by malicious beings who delight in the large suffering they can inflict by removing and replacing small items. They particularly enjoy blinding one spouse in a marriage, allowing the other to see. They always pick on one, not the other. It can be enough to drive their victim mad.

It appears mothers are immune to the powers of Carkeysia. They can always find everything. For teenaged offspring this is inexplicable and annoying. How can someone who can't operate google always know where pens and keys and tickets and every other small thing was left? How can they?

Physicists are confident that ours isn't the only dimension of reality. The way they describe it the dimension of Carkeysia is just as likely to exist as not.

It's always nice to be reassured it isn't your fault, and that the greatest minds of science are on your side.

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

Watching The Wheels Go 'Round And 'Round.

The taxi driver is upset, he can't fit his car into that space, that other car should have parked closer to the one behind. I've been sitting outside this cafe long enough to have seen the other cars come and go, the cabbie is accusing an innocent man, assessing the case with insufficient knowledge.

The cafe owner arrives, sees a stack of dirty dishes but only six customers. He checks the till, can see it has been busy, rolls up his sleeves to help.

People see me sitting here, this is their only knowledge of me, they believe this is all I do, sit around drinking coffee. I'm watching, writing, working. They don't know I'm drinking Tao coffee.

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

Gods And Men And Flautists.

As I put my flute together I have two images in my mind. Pan is sitting by the side of the river, listening to the sound of the wind blowing through the reeds, hearing the sound of his lost love. Boehm is sitting at his workbench surrounded by different lengths of pipe, discerning the perfect physics and mechanism for the modern silver flute.

To play every note from the spirit of a god and a man, the essence of the romantic lover and the integrity of the craftsman, the soul and the physical, this is the dream.

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

Solo, improvised flute track, Warm Up, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.

A Text Message From A Friend.

A while back I was playing a regular Thursday late night gig with a quirky psychadelic jazz band. All was going sweetly until the venue owner decided to become our musical director, told us to change what we played or ship out. He who pays the piper and all that, we were all on our way to what we knew would be the last gig, not feeling too excited about going, when we all received the following text message. It came from a friend who has forgotten more about music than I'll ever know. I quote it exactly, I still have it on my phone.

HavagreatgigDudes,FucktheChumpassedBeanCountingCockSuckingBarstaffingSheepCountingMonkeyUnManagingFoolswhoDaretoJudge+CriticizeYourBravelyTrueAndAwesomeART. Hitlerdidthatshittoo, KillNazisAndFuckthePolice ILoveyou Loverick, WishiWasThere In the studio till 2am, havefun X

We played a great final gig.

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

Doneness.

My blues band is currently mixing it's first single. It's a tortured business. We are seeking the right balance of natural "four guys in a room playing a song" feel with the polish that makes a recording sound like something above the ordinary. Right now I'm concerned the tiny rhythmic shaker that runs through the track is just a tiny bit too loud.

We could keep working on it forever but there must be some point when it is done. At this point it is so close that I'm inclined to say, "that's close enough", yet I know I'll hate myself for this hastiness in a year from now, especially if the song is successful. There is also a point where more work is destructive, the natural essence disappears, we could end up with a triumph of technology over gut feel.

This decision, knowing when a piece is done, is one of the most difficult any artist deals with. It's essential because the work will fly off into the world like a rogue teenager, find it's own way, once we let go of the work it has a life of it's own. We hope to be proud of our offspring but can't be overprotective, hold it back from that life.

Tomorrow, when the volume of that shaker is brought down one notch, we'll kick it out of the nest. It will be done.

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

Blute, blues flute band, first single Blues, Not Art will be released on iTunes next week.

Chatting With The Old Folks.

When I was a kid, in the 1970's, I rode the trams around Melbourne. The trams were 1920's technology, an emergency stop was assisted by mechanically dropping fine sand onto the brakes. This sand combined with city soot to tarnish the glorious Victorian era buildings Melbourne was constructed around.

Parliament House stands at the uphill end of the main commercial thoroughfare. For all my childhood it looked like a charcoal illustration from a Dickens story. It looked like it had always been old. A state premier decided to clean it up despite criticism about self aggrandisement. When the people saw the result they were astounded. I was astounded. It was beautiful.

The decorative lights were gold and red and, well, decorative, not charcoal grey. Different shades of bluestone, the remarkable ornate work of stonemasons past, suddenly it was all current and modern. The building connected us with the history of our own city, it was ours just like it belonged to other people in the past. Everyone felt grand, not just the premier.

The 1920's trams are mostly gone, replaced with air conditioned light rail, as is fitting for a modern city. Some things stay, others pass.

People ask me why I sit around cafes talking with old people. It's because I used to ride the Melbourne trams as a kid in the 70's.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

And I Call This Work.

The gap between singlet top and blue jeans is making me think unholy thoughts. The waitress has turned a brush and pan into erotic art. After a late start the intensely strong coffee is singing, "zing, and zing again". The kitchen smells like toast and all the world is charming me.

The bass player from my band is mixing our first song, sending me rough mixes, a badminton of messages, reassurance, ideas, love.

And I call this work.

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

Blues, Not Art, first single from Blute, available from iTunes next week.

I Food You.

One day, when I'm rich and famous, I will build myself a real kitchen. There will be stainless steel benches as vast as sheep stations, an oven large enough to roast many ducks. The dining table won't be a white clothed affair in another room, it will be a huge old piece of tree right there where the cooking is happening.

In winter, late on Sunday mornings, guests will drift in, welcomed with pitchers of freshly squeezed fruit juice and coffee from the commercial espresso machine. Everyone will have a job, rolling the spring rolls, stuffing plump little dumplings for yum cha, or filling buttery, eggy crepes with lobster Mornay, asparagus for my vegetarian friends.

There will always be large bowls of communal food, rice, pasta, crusty bread and excellent olive oil, depending on the theme of that day's brunch. Crosswords from The Times of a couple of cities will be scattered about, for communal solving. Those who do so well will play and sing for their supper, those who do so badly will too.

There will be packages of leftovers, encouragement to return, and, as I said, I'll be rich and famous, so I'll pay someone to clean up.

I'm no good at telling people how I feel about them so one day I'll build a real kitchen.

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

Brothers In Arms.

Some men are comrades in arms, men who have fought side by side, fought for each other. Not always in physical battle, the fight can be in business, in art, the battle to survive, but men who've known each other's worst and best are bonded in a way that is more than friendship. They don't even need to like each other, the shared experience of fighting together is beyond like and dislike, it is pure humanity.

The feeling of knowing a brother in arms is reason enough to go out into the world and fight, no matter what the fight is for, no matter if you win or lose.

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

More Sleep And Biscuits.

Without desire we do nothing, be nothing. Taking on the desire that is expected of us or pushed on us means we will do and be what we aren't. Desire has to be honest.

I wonder what happens to folks who just desire more sleep and biscuits? I wonder because I believe I may be one of them. An easy, slow paced life, long and lazy, time to create small beauties quiet love, harmony and simple, deep joy. If being first to break the tape doesn't matter, does it matter?

I've seen some of the smartest and most talented guys I've known being pushed to desire what they really don't. It always ends badly. Musicians racing to be stars when all they want is to play in the band. They do what it takes and hate themselves for it, and hate the success because it's not really theirs. If they were honest with themselves and what they desired, more sleep and biscuits and a decent band to play with, they could have avoided self destructing.

Finding what we honestly desire is the secret. I'm still not entirely sure what does it for me. I'm pretty sure it starts with a desire for more sleep and biscuits.

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

Our Prime Minister And Religious Hypocrisy.

I'm beyond being enraged by the hypocrisy of politicians. When politicians use religion as a tool for popularity I'm suitably disgusted but I can't get angry about it any more. I can suggest that the politicians who mouth these words are lower than shark shit but we all already know that, it's not worth becoming upset about.

The self declared atheist Prime Minister of Australia has claimed that our moral stance should be informed by bible stories. Really? When a small percentage of us are Christian? When the church is supposed to be removed from the state?

I can't help wondering which particular bible stories she means? There is some whacky shit in that book. I could be stoned to death for all the Sundays I've worked. I hope she doesn't mean that bit of the bible. Of course she was discussing gay marriage, so she probably meant that bit. Which bit? Oh, you know, the bible story that says . . . I don't tthink she knows. Most Australians don't either.

Our Prime Minister was simply attempting to distance herself from other politicians whom the public see as pulling her strings. It was political hypocrisy, nothing more. I can't get angry about it. Using the heartfelt faith of other humans to promote her own popularity? Why should we get angry?

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

Hard Life, Soft Death.

It is a hard land. You can't die in summer, the heat bakes the earth so hard it will be months before anyone can bury you, and you can't die in winter, the cold freezes the earth so hard it will be months before anyone can bury you. People here must live forever.

This hard land makes hard people. Lost travellers pass through, they seem soft and pathetic and fearful. They talk of soft things, oceans and trees and love, but their words fall on hard ears. These soft people can die at any time, they can be buried in the soft ground, mourned by soft tears.

The travellers return home, never speak of the hard land, try not to think of it. The hard people never speak of these visitors once they leave, try not to think of them.

One day a holy man will bring the peace of death to the hard, the intensity of life to the soft.

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

Fuck Off Money.

"Money is sad shit", so said Richard Brautigan. I reckon these four words should replace In God We Trust on the currency.

Money can buy two things of value, the power to tell pricks to fuck off and a comfortable death. I certainly want to be able to afford the right drugs when I know I'm dying, all the right drugs, and a pretty nurse.

Every second Thursday I play a corporate gig for a prick. Last week there was a problem with the sliding doors at the venue. The boss snarled at me for it even though it had  nothing to do with me. Right now I need this guy's money, so I walked away without saying a word. I felt the lack of a small pile of fuck off money. A man my age should possess enough money to be able to tell a prick to fuck off, don't you think?

Money isn't a test of a man's worth but sticking enough away to be free of pricks is a test of how a man values himself. I believe my new band, Blute, will make me the amount of money I need so I'm looking forward to knowing how it feels to have this small amount of control over my own life. I'm guessing it will feel pretty damned good.

How much is enough? For me it is enough to fly to the other side of the world and start over, around ten thousand dollars. Not so much.

Like any other pursuit, the pursuit of money is fine if it is undertaken with a noble spirit. It doesn't come any more noble than the desire to tell pricks to fuck off.

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

Blute demo at www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet, first single out soon.

Why George W. Bush Was A Genius.

The modern tyrant possesses the same trappings as his medieval counterpart, a mouth full of religious nonsense, two heirs, a court of sycophants kept in line by fear and greed, a strong military to supress unrest, a torture chamber. A tyrant also needs an air of invincibility, created by the propaganda of giant statues and television, without this illusion even a small child can see that the emperor has no clothes on.

Right now tyrants in Africa and The Middle East are falling like multi billionaire nine pins. Most are at an age when they have to hand over to the next generation, the weakest point of any regime. They are all finding their illusion of power has been seen through. They are resorting to drastic and repulsive tactics to hold onto their positions but everyone knows they are delaying the inevitable.

A genius doesn't always appear to be a genius, or even know he is a genius himself. He may appear to stumble into a position of power without knowing how or why. It may seem that he was looking the other way, tripped and fell into the most powerful office on earth. Once he holds that position he may appear to be making decisions without any knowledge, without even stopping to think. From the outside it looks like he is acting on a personal whim then justifying his actions with nonsense and riddles.

So the genius strikes, apparently haphazardly, but in that stroke he destroys the illusion of invincibility of one tyrant, the others fall as if by magic, like pins. All who thought him a jester must see he is a wizard.

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

An Original Set.

Anything that needed to be said in song form was said thousands of years ago. I love you, I love you but you don't love me, fighting songs, drinking songs, praying songs, I'm happy and I'm unhappy songs, travelling songs, hating songs, the songs of birth and death, they've all been penned and sung a million times, yet at this moment, at every moment, a serious minded person is fumbling with a guitar, struggling over a rhyme. The singer and songwriter is the cockroach of the music business, he or she will keep writing songs long after there is no music business.

I feel free to take the piss out of the singer/songwriter breed, I am one myself. I don't  know why. I don't have anything to say that hasn't been said, yet I still feel compelled to write and sing it. I tell myself my song is different because it comes from my heart, that no one else can sing my love, my travel, my view of the world. It might even be true. I think on the handful of real songs, the ones that came from my heart, it just might be true.

So how do I, or any other somgwriters, know when a song is real and true, singing from the soul? It's easy to pick the not so good ones, the cringe test works every time, but knowing when one's own work is solid, that is difficult. When I've worked hard on something I naturally want to like it, my feelings can be dishonest with me. The audience isn't always the test, they might applaud for so many reasons, only I can know if I'm singing an honest song.

For me the test is in the process itself. Songs that write themselves, that feel like they've been delivered to me, when my part is only to open my mind and soul to the flow of the chords and words, I know these songs will be good songs. There is always some mechanics involved, placing the new work in a key I can sing, jiggling a guitar part to make it groove, trying a few tempos, these things are just polishing the gem.

It sounds an inexact science, waiting for a song to be delivered. What if it never happens again? For me that's o.k., songs are a gift, I don't feel the right to demand them. There is something we can do to invite songs, sadly it mostly involves living a life in a dream world. Not an entirely practical way to live, incredibly annoying to all around. The real songs come when you let your mind wander to another place, when there is nothing real but the self.

Plugging out a song that is just another song is easy enough, the skill can be learned. Writing a real song that is truly new and original is a bitch. At this moment, at every moment, someone is doing it, writing their own song, even if the world doesn't need it.

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

Solo, acoustic Red Brown Dust available for dowwnload at iTunes, all the other sites.

Two Old Rock Dogs.

Two blokes, of a certain age, an outside table at a groovy cafe, late summer Sydney sun, all is gentle and as it should be. The conversation is of women, politics, women in politics, art, life, as it should be.

They've shared a stage, one the singer, the other a side man saxophonist. They've shared recording studios, one the writer and producer the other a hired gun. They've shared contacts and tips, encouragement and sympathy, today they are sharing conversation and company.

One is feeling a loss of direction, the other offers confident advice, he is sure that his friend's recently formed band is exactly the vehicle he should be riding, the path he should walk. He states this advice with one word, the name of the band, he knows he is right. This is all the advice required, what was in mind anyway, confirmation.

The afternoon sun is setting, the two old rock dogs know there will be another day, another gig, another session, another tour, another coffee, another chat. The two old rock dogs know that all is as is it should be.

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

Solo, improvised flute track, Warm Up, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.

A Fourth Grade Injustice.

My Grade Four school project was on Australian explorers Bourke and Wills, famous for traversing south to north across this vast land, then, sadly, only one third of the way back. It is a glorious and tragic tale, I achieved a mark of A minus.

The projects were pinned to a giant notice board outside the classroom. A precocious squirt, I stood by and eavesdropped as my teacher discussed these academic contributions with a young student teacher. I wanted to know what this minus business was all about, I was accustomed to the A standing alone.

It turned out I had missed the whole point of the explorer's venture. I'd reported the facts of the mission including the political push and shove that had given Bourke the job, the victory of reaching the north coast, the tragedy of missing a cache of buried food left by other members of the party who'd stayed behind. I'd speculated on the fact that one open minded explorer had survived by accepting assistance from the local indigenous people, that maybe a joint venture with the people who had lived on that land for centuries might have lead to a different outcome. I didn't know what cultural blindness was back then, but I was headed in that direction. The point I missed was that Bourke and Wills mapped a route north. According to my teacher that was the great achievement of this dramatic inland voyage, hence the minus.

All these bumbling trippers did was head north and draw a line on a mostly inaccurate chart. The glory was in the folly, in the head first rush against the odds. The politics was a microcosm of a new colony, class and religion, there were much better candidates for the gig of explorer. The tragedy occured because the white men didn't see the black men as fellow humans, another poignant comment on colony and culture.

I should have been given an A plus, the injustice still hurts.

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

Philharmonic.

The term philharmonic, as applied to an orchestra, loosely means a love of harmony. When you think about it it's a pretty damned good band name.

I don't think orchestras should have this word to themselves. I want to apply it to all day, every day.

I want to take my morning coffee at a philharmonic cafe, surrounded by philharmonic friends who create beautiful conversation together. I want philharmonic meals that induce all the flavours and textures to sing on my palate. I want a philharmonic wardrobe, as opposed to the all over the place like a mad woman's shit attire I carry around now.

I want a philharmonic band, on and off stage, a philharmonic audience who understand they are essential to both the love and the harmony. I want a philharmonic commercial life that never states the godawful cliche "win win" but provides it just the same.

I want a philharmonic relationship, in and out of bed, a woman who wants to play her own melody, one that stands alone, but when combined with mine creates an entirely new tune full of quirky harmonic joy.

I'm a philharmonic kind of guy, is a philharmonic life too much to ask?

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

A Rolling Apple Gathers No Moss.

Last night I heard someone state that their father had two emotions, rage and suppressed rage. This made me laugh because my father possessed frustration and suppressed frustration.

The old nature and nurture debate raises it's tedious head, let's agree on some of each, shall we? We'll assume our emotional range is partly innate, partly learned. I firmly believe that emotion is a language that some speak much more fluently than others. A language informs our knowledge of the world as well as allowing us to express it.

For me another language, music, opened up a range of emotions I didn't know existed. Others find this in another person, a crucial experience, a passionate involvement of any kind. It's a common theme that artists don't speak the emotional language well, that they have to express themselves in a different form,  that art evolves from the human need to communicate. If we were all born emotionally sound, in emotionally sound homes, would art exist? Maybe it wouldn't.

For me the only response is the old zen concept of emptying my cup, allowing each new moment to be filled with whatever it brings. If I think too much about my own emotional language skills and how they inform my music the natural flow disappears, like a language student constantly searching for the correct word instead of  a native speaker for whom the words flow.

Can an apple will itself to roll away from the tree from which it fell? It can.

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

A Romance Of Lies.

I'm going to write a romance novel, a romance of lies. None of it will be true. The characters, the situations, locations, none of it will be related to anything I've ever done, been told about or overheard. The details will be so vague that no one will be able to relate them to any real life people or places.

The romance will follow the classic romance novel formula, meet, fall in love, turbulent days then the miracle that brings the two together, the moment when they both realize that they love and need each other. This moment will be gorgeous, colourful, exquisite in detail and passion. Anyone who has managed to read this far will be rewarded with a literary moment that they can see themselves in, imagine or recall this miraculous moment in their own lives.

Just as the hope of a good cup of coffee is reason enough to rise each morning, so this moment of two people feeling and recognizing true love at the same time and place is reason enough to be grateful for birth. The rest of the story means nothing, the details can be made up, pure fiction, all else is a vague preamble to the one moment that makes sense of the rest of our lives.

A romance of lies and one moment of truth, a universal story.

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

Studio single, Drum, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites. 

Giving The Falling Tree Privacy.

A crash on the highway, the debris is pushed off the road yet the traffic slows. Everyone who passes must take a look, one road slows to the point that it blocks another, an accident between two cars becomes an event to be reported from a helicopter.

The people leering through their car windows are watching television, the worse the accident the better the show. They feel for the people involved, probably crave people to empathise with, but can't imagine actually stopping and helping, all that action is taking place somewhere else, through a screen.

For those who are the cause or the victim of what we call an accident, the slowing cars, the curious faces are comforting. Without them the crash would be a tree falling in the forest. Possibly the most dramatic event of their day, week, month, life, they would feel bereft if those passing didn't pay their modern respects by staring.

The world has become television, we must watch or be watched. If you look away from a car crash, offer privacy to the victims, you clearly aren't watching enough television.

Some trees want to fall in the forest, alone, unwitnessed.

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

"One of the few good things about modern times: If you die horribly on television, you will not have died in vain. You will have entertained us."


Kurt Vonnegut.

'Round Midnight.

The tenor saxophonist steps out of the shade, under a convenient street light, gold reflection as he constructs his partner in crime, his metal yang. Without the tradition of breaking a champagne bottle he launches the ocean going liner that is Monk's 'Round Midnight.

His playing is ugly enough to be beautiful, cold enough to burn, massive Kundinsky blocks of colour that turn the city into a backdrop. In the quiet sections the keys of his old horn clatter, a typewriter reporting nothing but the facts. Stray notes escape down lanes and alleys, each a blues truth that carries the whole melody in itself, each displaying every facet of the tenorman's industrial diamond soul.

In the bridge he questions life itself, a whimsical game of to be or not to be, then the affirming last verse, the last note still resonating through every witness to this testification of faith in music as he packs his horn away.

It's a farewell performance, the saxophone player and his instrument are leaving, goodbye to a city that never heard them until they said goodbye. I swear I can hear Kerouac shouting, "blow, blow" as they walk away.

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

The Hangover Lie.

My friend was a sober fellow, just that one night he took on a large bottle of bourbon and won. With two hours sleep and a hangover like one thousand screaming bastards he had to call his work and explain why he wasn't coming in. His foggy mind was aware it faced a dilemma. Would it be more respectful to tell the boss the truth or to offer her a lie? She probably wouldn't believe the lie but would feel he'd gone to the trouble of making it up. Saying he was just hungover may sound flippant, like he couldn't even be bothered inventing a gastro lie.

Modern humans are so very sophisticated that lying has become more respectful than telling the truth. My friend was a sober fellow and honest. Our boss claimed she appreciated his honesty but from that day she clouded the atmosphere at work until my friend gave notice and moved on.

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

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

The Organ Grinder's Metrosexual.

Because male humans evolved to be brutal the species survived and flourished. Passion, ferocity, lust for knowledge, exploration and power, these things can't be evolved out of a man in just a few thousand years of civilization, they were selectively bred into us for tens of millions of years. It will certainly take more than a couple of generations to make us genuinely interested in soft furnishings.

When men pretend they are metrosexual they look like an organ grinder's monkey, dancing like a fool, wearing cute clothes to attract the small change of approval.

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

Life Is An Allergy, And Coffee.

"Sometimes life is merely a matter of coffee and whatever intimacy a cup of coffee affords."

Richard Brautigan.

I recently wrote about love being like an allergy, the smallest amount of whatever triggers an allergy will set you off, the same with love. After finding this quote from Richard Brautigan I've realized this doesn't just apply to love, it applies to all of life.

An allergy occurs inside us, an external stimulus is required but the real action occurs internally. So it is with every emotion. A cup of coffee is just a cup of coffee, delightful as it is most of what coffee brings us is in atmosphere, in our internal reaction to the act of taking time out to enjoy a coffee. It is associated with past experiences and cultural beliefs, it is a trigger for an emotional response.

Real life happens inside our own minds, the world around us is nothing more than stimulus. If I believe a cup of coffee will make me happy it will. If I believe another stimulus will make me unhappy it will. My choice is to surround myself with stimulus that I believe will make me happy or to concentrate on programming my mind to accept all stimulus as a trigger for happiness.

Right now I'm going for a cup of coffee.

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

"There is no value in life except what you choose to place upon it and no happiness in any place except what you bring to it yourself." 

Henry David Thoreau.

I'm Fine, Thanks For Asking.

No, I haven't been answering my phone all day. Yes I spent half the day in bed. No I haven't eaten yet. No, I don't care. Yes I'm watching crap television and wasting my life.

Any more questions?

What I'm doing appears to be nothing.

I'm not smoking.

And I'm fine.

Now get out of my way before I break you in half.

If I had the money I'd buy a carton of cigarettes every week and give them away, just so the government who are trying to socially engineer me by taxing the hell out of my pleasures couldn't quote statistics claiming I'd given up because of their policy.

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

She Was Paris.

It's an orange colour, I can never remember if it's called burnt orange or burned orange, maybe both apply, I guess it's not important. It is important to know that the colour of the scarf wasn't Fanta orange or traffic light orange, it was burnt, or burned orange. It's essential that you understand the particular shade of orange was just right.

She wrapped herself in her scarf, the orange one, like she was wrapping herself in a lover's arms. Her eyes were the same colour as her faded denim jacket, at the same time they were darker blue, both colours at once. With curly yellow blonde hair everything just worked, she beamed at me, her eyes, her scarf, everything just beamed at me, then she said the magic words, "let's go."

All night she'd allowed the belief that I'd chosen her, that I'd lead the conversation, she'd arranged some confusion over the bar tab so the drinks I'd gallantly bought her went on her account, knowing I was travelling on meagre musician's savings. I had never encountered class and style like that, she made me feel like I had some of both just being around her.

I was a bum musician doing the Paris jaunt. She was an heiress, she knew which particular orange coloured scarf worked for her, burnt or burned orange, she knew how to make me feel like a romantic.

She was Paris.

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

A Pilgrimage, Willi's Wine Bar.

I've been staring at prints of  the wine related art that are the Willi's Wine Bar posters for years, time to check out the original works. It's my last night in Paris, I've a pocket full of francs that need to be spent. I amble the few blocks from hotel to bar, early enough to check out the walls before the place fills up.

It's the year 2000, the euro is just around the corner and the franc is nervous and cheap against my dollar, I can afford to drink wine that I may never be able to afford again. I start out with one of those light reds that Parisian bars serve with food, a nicoise salad, watch the shopfront bistro fill up around me.

An enthusiastic American is thrilled that I'll be going home to a country that is hosting the Olympics. I'm less thrilled but enjoy his company. He really just wants a cold beer but his wife wants to tick Willi's off her Paris list. By now I'm guzzling first crus Bordeaux, the glasses hold about a third of a bottle, I'm enjoying everybody's company.

An Arsenal fan sits beside me, breaking all the stereotypes of the travelling English football hooligan. She is gorgeous. Her boyfriend less so. She has travelled all of Europe to watch her team, an excuse to travel alone I believe. The boyfriend has never left the U.K., only came to Paris for her. She is now wishing he hadn't. A beans and toast man he isn't having any part of this wine and food business, all a bit continental and limp wristed to him. He goes to the bathroom, looking back anxiously, like he knows she is thinking about ditching him and running. Instead she clicks glasses with me, looks me in the eye, smiles, I know what she means.

The waiter, my gorgeous hooligan friend and I debate the menu, it seems some herbs have different names in different countries. He runs off to the kitchen, comes back with samples of the two we can't work out. He loves real food, loves that we love it too. I order a cheese plate, watch him arrange it behind the bar, two knives cutting and placing large slabs of four cheeses without touching them, doing everything with the simple honesty that is style. I am wallowing in food and wine and Frenchness.

Willi's is a bar, a bistro, a gallery of original works, a temple in honour of wine, a beacon holding aloft the flame of a culture. It isn't a last night booze up, it's a pilgrimage.


Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

I Went In A Boy, Came Out A Man.

I guess I was about eight years old, lucky enough to attend the grand final of the Australian Rules Football for the first time. Staged at the Melbourne Cricket Ground, a grand edifice that stands alone in vast parklands just minutes walk from the heart of the city. My little heart was pounding from the moment my father and I alighted the tram and walked in until the end of the game.

My team lost by a fair margin but I was young enough to take disappointment lightly. At the end of the game I had to brave the men's toilet. I waded through a sea of beer cans on the terraces, as deep as my knees at some points, like steel autumn leaves I joyously kicked my way though them. With so much beer consumed the toilets were in demand, there was an in door and an out door, a method of keeping the flow flowing. The signs were too high for me to see, quickly picked up the idea and joined the line at the in door. My turn came up, I stepped up to the urinal, extricated my little cock from it's white Y fronts and started pissing, not daring to look around. It was surprisingly like the urinal at school but everyone was three feet taller than me and some made deep grunting noises.

The bloke beside me supported the winning team.

"Your team played well, it was a great match mate."

"Yeah, we'll be back next year."

A few of the guys around me laughed, I must have said the right thing, shown a bit of balls even though mine were not even developed fully yet.

"Good on yer' mate, See you next year 'cos we'll be here too."

I zipped up and pushed my way out, not bothering to wash my hands because none of my new mates were. Back through the Fosters Ocean, found Dad, unable to explain that taking a piss had been the highlight of the day.

I went in a boy and came out a man. 

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

The Next Leap Forward.

When the plague came it was mostly the working class who died. The working class lived much more intimately with their own shit than the ruling class. In an age when everything was made by human hand a scarcity of the commodity of labour increased it's price, a middle class who could afford to educate their children was born.

With every baby step mankind evolves, under pressure mankind takes giant leaps. War is the father married to the mother of invention. Right now in Libya there is a civil war between those who want to maintain a culture and those who want that culture to evolve. Even if they lose on the field the evolutionists will prevail, the war itself will create a new culture. One day we will evolve beyond this need for crisis, but we're not there yet.

When was the last time you evolved, reinvented yourself? Was it when everything was running smoothly or when everything was all fucked up?  The real events of our lives inform our evolution, not subtle hints in astrology or pop songs. I'd avoid the plague if you can manage it, but taking chances that might result in crisis isn't always foolish, it can be the catalyst for the next leap forward.

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

The Gutter As The Road Less Travelled.

Milan Kundera wrote a scene involving a woman stepping off a crowded pavement, walking in the gutter, staring at a flower she is holding in front of her. The flower is the only beauty she can find in an aggressive city. The people call her insane. The obvious inference is that she is the only sane one, that the pedestrian parade is the real insanity.

The gutter is sometimes the road less travelled. Sometimes the only beauty is a flower plucked from one's mind, a memory, the smell of a coffee, the taste of a lover, the feel of water, the sound of Coltrane, the sight of a flower. A life filled with beautiful moments will be full of beautiful memories. Stepping off the pavement and into the gutter is the tradition of the bohemian and a fine tradition it is.

There is beauty in every step we take, every step chosen with a spirit of beauty.

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

Real Life Used To Happen On The Street.

"Farewell Discovery."

And so the Space Age ended.

I was born many years after Sputnik circled our planet, two years before the first man walked on our moon. Exploration outside our atmosphere has been a reality all my life, so much so that I never thought about it coming to an end. As a teenager I saw the space shuttles as the next logical step towards man colonizing space, a craft that could take off and land again and again, bound to evolve like every other technology.

I never suspected the Internet Age would take humans out of the adventure. We now explore space using telescopes and robots, analyse sound and light in all it's forms, discover all we need to know at a distance, recover samples not experiences.  Dogs and monkeys, then humans felt the new life of leaving the envelope of our atmosphere, now we will only see it on our screens.

Real life on earth used to happen on the street, real humans and all their physicality used to meet and greet and interact as a matter of course. Now real life happens online, we buy and sell and work in cyberspace, hand more and more physical tasks to machines.

The new way is no better or worse than the old, just different. The change is worth noting but not mourning. Feeling disconcerted by the dawn of a new age is normal, we've always done it, as children are born in this age they will find it normal, experience their own change.

I still like life on the street.

Farewell Discovery.

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

Andre Rieu And Me.

So it's a balmy late summer Sydney night, I'm seated at a pavement table at a gorgeous Japanese restaurant, a delightful woman is shouting me dinner, does it get any better than this?

Apparently it can get better, the exquisite Japanese waitress oh so politely requests that I have a photograph taken with some other diners, apparently they know me and want a souvenir. Anything musically noteworthy that I've achieved happened over ten years ago so I've no idea how these young French dudes can possibly know me but I'm happy to oblige. For a Japanese waitress this pretty I'd taste test the potentially poisonous fish.

I'm seated on a chair, suddenly cheek to cheek and continental with far too many men for my liking. Between the first shot and the second there is a moment of complete horror, I suddenly realize they are calling me Andre Rieu. I can't tell if they actually think I'm him, or if they think I just look like him. We both have big ludicrous hair but from there I can't see it.

For those who don't know him, Andre Rieu is the Julio Iglasias of the classical musical world. He is a passable violinist, a showman, a ladies man, a fop, a wanker. He is everything that shits me about the music business. He is all soulless sizzle, no heartfelt steak. He is a sacharine snakeoil salesman.

I quietly extricate myself from this cluster of humiliation, a little more irritated than I'm letting on to my dinner companion. She is sweet and doesn't need to be infected with my bitterness. I'm trying to assess why a foolish misunderstanding, even a harmless joke is pissing me off so much. I realize that it's because whenever I lose track of why I play music, when I forget the tao of vibrating air and the love therein, when I wander off my true path I become very much like Mr. Rieu.  I start selling a musical act that pays the rent, not creating music.

From being mistaken for a wanker to actually being a wanker is a long stretch, but not that long. I have made that leap in the past. A trifling embarrassment in front of a lovely woman is a small price to pay for such a reminder.

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

Solo, improvised flute track, Warm Up, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.

Here's To Life.

Here's to life, every hair pulling, back arching moment of it.

Here's to the fears, phobias, addictions and depressions that we all take so seriously, always knowing that when the moment comes we can stand on them like ants. Here's to the cigar chewing triumphs, the scary highs that we know are fleeting and therefore glorious.

A toast to the days of laziness and industry, the days of pain, the days of love making. Cheers to losing on points but lasting all fifteen rounds, chug down your beverage of choice for the fights we walk away from.

Take another sip for the nights we spend alone, for the nauseating, life affirming fear of death, for the bruises in the dark. Sing ho for the light that illuminates every staged second we play for an audience who don't care.

Here's to life, to hope, to dreams and despair, here's to every gut wrenching orgasmic moment.

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

Model Food.

So the brand new shiny steak house has papered the room with miserable looking shiny model types to make the joint appear glamorous. As I walk past I find my self wishing they'd filled it with chubby happy people who'd stuff oversized napkins into their collars to catch the drool and attack that steak like it meant something akin to life and death. The model types are pushing their food around, thin lipped and queazy. I wish they'd open a real restaurant for models, serving model food. They could present a Japanese inspired plate, that's the actual plate, it has to be art, and on it could be a lettuce leaf from the heart of a young lettuce that is so exotic nobody but the gay waiter can pronounce it's name. It could be dressed with a combination of lemon juice, cold presssed extra virgin olive oil and crushed laxative. Tastefully laid beside this salad could be a cigarette, and a tab of speed served on the side.

I scoff at this nonsense and walk past, down to The Piccolo Bar for a bowl of pasta the size of my head.

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

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

Every Day Was Cake.

The share house door was only ever shut against the weather, never people. It was never locked. Not so much a philosophy as an acceptance that there was nothing worth stealing. Day and night there were so many people around that sneaking in would have been impossible.

All a smart burglar would have had to do was dress down and hang around for a few days, then just walk out with a bunch of stuff as if he were moving out, no one would have known if he'd lived there or not.

The day I bought an expensive flute and needed to lock a door my commune days were over. I had to trade one form of peace for another. In the share house every day was cake, but I can't see a way of owning my own piece of cake and living in it with a bunch of like minded lunatics too.

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

Studio single, Drum, available for download at iTunes and all the other sites.

Television Siesta.

He forgot to turn off the television before he settled in for a nap. He can't be bothered getting up again, and besides, he kind of likes  the gentle background murmur, it takes him back.

He has been sent to bed a few minutes early, his folks favourite cop show is on, it starts exactly on the half hour so his bedtime has become a chore that needs to be squared away. He understands that his siblings are allowed to stay up later than him, that the cop show is just a little too tough and gritty for his age.  He also understands that he wheeled the old black and white portable set into his room in the afternoon under the pretence of watching the cricket. He understands that he plugged the set in with an extension cord, to the plug right beside his bed, so he can flick it off in a second. he also understands that his little transistor radio can be tuned to audio from the television station the cop show is on. The cop show is tougher and grittier in black and white, especially with the sound crackling through one earphone, the other ear on sentry for approaching parents.

He turns everything off, hears the shuffle of siblings saying goodnight, once then twice, pretends to be asleep when the door opens a crack, smiles triumphantly to himself, determined to sit up all night watching television, but he is already asleep.

He has worked late the night before, been woken early to put out a fire, actually put out a literal fire. He is the only one in the share house who doesn't attend the nearby university and therefore the guy who is called on, even woken up, to put out fires. The laundry is an old washing machine under a lean to in the back yard. It seems the crazy old lady next door has stuffed something on fire through the fence, a protest against the smell of the slurry that comes out of that machine and into the communal drain. He throws it back over the fence, goes back to bed.

As he dozes off he can hear his favourite Herbie Hancock record being scratched to death, the kids have borrowed some audio visual equipment from school, are arranging a soundtrack. It suddenly comes to him that the fire was a subterfuge, the crazy old lady had nothing to do with it, the student maniacs just wanted to scavenger hunt his most valued possession. He'd apologise to the crazy lady, buy himself a new record, maybe one for her, when he woke up later in the day. He is glad they've finally learned to dig Herbie, and sleeps the sleep of the vindicated.

She is in the living room. She is cranky, very cranky. He'd come home late, very late. He'd come home drunk, very drunk. The fabulous Frenchman had come to his gig last night. Every time he'd attempted to leave the bar the Frenchman had snuck up on him, "ze flutist, ze flutist, you must be thirsty after all that beautiful flute playing".Fine wine, then at the next bar, cold beer had been thrust into his willing hand all night. He'd had a great time. He wasn't really sorry. By the afternoon he is so exhausted by her anger that he crawls back into bed. She sits stoically staring at the television, knows she'll eventually crawl into bed after him. He is trying to stay awake long enough to greet her.

The television in the other room takes him back. There is nobody else in the apartment. He sleeps happily, peaceful with his own company.

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

Food Is Love, from www.parkstreetcafeblog.blogspot.com

Friday, February 12, 2010


Food Is Love.

The young folks at the next table at a cafe this afternoon were undertaking a party post mortem.

"When I was piggybacking you around the balcony you grabbed a handful of Smarties and were throwing them at the people below."

The girl who'd been the party hostess said,"how can anyone use food to hurt people?"

They all laughed, but the hostess was serious. "Food is love, not hate", she said.

I wanted to go over and hug her.

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

How Others See Me.

So outside my apartment building lies a brick paved mall, I'm walking through it towards the main street, up three broad stairs, wide enough for three men. Coming toward me are two men, big hair, black jeans, black T shirts, black suit jackets, they nod at me, as if they know me, like brothers in arms. I wonder what these crazy old rockers want, did I play with them back when I was a drunk and don't remember?

So I pass a shiny shop window, see myself, big hair, black jeans, black T shirt, black suit jacket. I needed two hairy old rockers to see me before I could see myself.

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

Solo, acoustic, Red Brown Dust, available for downloa at iTunes, all the other sites.

I'm Thinking Of Becoming A Monk.

I'm thinking of becoming a monk. I'm not a member of any religion but I dig the robes and it's the only way I can see to hide from the world and decide what really is worth fearing and what is worth desiring. Just the process of deciding what I couldn't give up has been instructional. Could I give up blogging? Could I give up my flute? Would I have to give these things up? Could I give these things up?

There are many things worth fearing. There are many things worth desiring. Just one year of peace without distraction to work out which of those things are for me, one year to become real and whole, to forget the word "should", one year to listen to my own soul singing and learn my own song.

Taoists often talk of the "ten thousand things", the constant stream of distractions that prevent us feeling in tune with the natural world. If I don't become a monk finding a way to ignore the ten thousand things may be the other answer.

The only time I feel in tune this way is when I'm travelling with just one bag and one instrument, and a device to write on.  The world turns and I turn around it, all I need is a monk's robe and I can start my own exclusive order. The Order of Wandering Flute Playing Solitude, but with the benefits of being able to go out for coffee.

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

Solo, improvised flute track, Warm Up, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.

There Was This Moment.

On a coach trip between Adelaide and Melbourne there was this moment.

We didn't sleep much the night before, the room was icy cold, but there was this moment.

We had to get up too early, skip breakfast to make the departure time, then the bus was held up by half an hour, but, you see, there was this moment.

Just when we thought we were out of range of the city radio station the driver twiddled his dial and found the country syndication, ensuring three more hours of talk radio hate, but you have to understand, there was this moment.

At the green plastic inflatable roadhouse the coach spewed us into the only flavour on the plate was salt and I put the salt there, but do you see, none of it mattered? Because there was this moment.

Heading east, eventually the sun set behind us. At a small town bypass we turned north for a while, the sunset was in panorama through my window. I was debating waking her up to show her, the light hitting her eyelids woke her anyway. She looked at me, smiled, then gazed at the glorious horizon show. The red and yellow light showed off every colour in her eyes, every shade in her skin, every tint in her hair. The coach turned back to the shortest possible route, she looked back at me, realized I'd been staring at her the whole time. She snuggled back into sleep, she was small enough to sleep in those seats, if she lay on top of me too. I couldn't see her face but I could see she was smiling.

Finally we alighted in Melbourne, tired, cranky, hungry smelly. A twenty minute tram ride home, dump bags, kettle on, check answering machine. Tea and cigarettes on oversized cushions on the floor, she leaned forward, clicked the button on the crappy old radiator heater on the wall. As it warmed up it glowed red, reflected on her face.

That was the moment.

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

Studio single, Drum, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.

An Accurate Response To Being Alive.

I'm keeping good company, I'm here with many prawns and no other humans. If eating half a kilogram of fresh prawns on my own isn't a sin it probably should be, it feels so good. Tossed in lemon juice, salt and pepper, two drops of white wine vinegar, I'm in hedonist heaven.

I'm on my balcony, a perfect late summer's day, a cooling breeze, yachts are racing or dallying on the harbour, humans are scurrying about eleven floors below like innocent prawns, schooling, feeding, mating, doing what humans do. The prawns were swimming about yeaterday doing the same things, they are young and succulent and pop from their skins as I bite them.

Right now I feel like the guy on top of the species that is on top of the food chain.

Some days eating fresh prawns is the only accurate response to being alive.

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

Studio single, Drum, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.

Cafe Promiscuity.

I'm usually a one cafe kind of guy. I see one cafe at a time, every day the same homely, confortable place.

Well, that's not strictly true, I do sneak out to see a late night cafe most nights, the day time cafe is closed by then and doesn't need to know anything about this dalliance. It's the same rendezvous each evening, a little risque but not beyond the bounds of social ettiquette.

Recently I've broken out and started seeing some different cafes. Some have been introduced by friends, others have been complete strangers, one coffee affairs where neither party bothered remembering a name. Each new venue has had it's charms, free wi fi, cute waitress, excellent heart warming coffee. They have all been attractive, refreshing, sexy, life affirming.

I've even been having a brief affair with a late night venue, we've spent the last three nights together. The cool evening breeze as I sit beside my new fling has cleared my head, helped me to see clearly that my old regular may not be the cafe for me.

Feelings will be hurt, my old cafe may even hold a grudge, but sometimes a man sees better options and has to move on.

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

Solo, improvised flute track, Warm Up, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.

Wherever I Lay My Hat.

His old man always said he didn't like the cat, yet when the cat went missing there was his old man at the front door at dusk, mustering the sweetest voice he could to call the cat's name, "Woody Woody Woody, here Woody."

He always said he didn't love his girlfriend, yet when she went missing there he was in the corner of the bar, drinking heavily and mumbling her name.

He always said that wherever he laid his hat would serve as home. When he went travelling, went missing, he discovered that it was true, he never looked back.

Sometimes there is no pattern.

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

Stepford Suburbs.

I've twice fallen in love with an inner city suburb, twice had my heart broken.

It wasn't that those places changed, everything must change, it was that when the last of the beautiful old departed it was replaced with the soulless new. The fruit and vegetable store known as The Fruitologist was replaced with a shoe shop, the cafe that served my artist ancestors closed it's doors after sixty years, that history can't be maintained by whatever business moves into the shell.

It's like a spouse has lost their essence, become a Stepford wife, like a husband has become a eunuch.

I'm mourning the loss of a place I've lived and loved with, looking over the horizon for a new home.

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

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

Easy Like A Sunday Morning.

The raging joy of everyday life has spurred me to inactivity.
The rattling crank of routine has inspired me to idleness.
The thunping pump of the daily grind has jump started laziness.
The spell of inanity, banality has evoked a bout of languidity.

So it goes.

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