
- Details
- By Robert Brokenmouth
- Hits: 119
Boris and Merzbow. Artist supplied.
Just quickly, do you like Pulp? Jarvis Cocker do it for you? Lovely. Pulp will be playing for free at Elder Park, as part of the Adelaide Festival (AF), and those with the 1990s in their souls will, I'm sure, be in attendance. Many, of course, will simply go because it's a big gig, it's free, and they're curious.
If you were going to see Pulp out of curiosity, might I suggest you spend money and choose a more interesting and likely worthwhile bunch of gigs?
The Adelaide Festival runs from 27 February to 15 March and, as a rule, there's very little for most folks. Why? Well, partly it's that not everyone is into culture and investigating same. Yes, it's down to taste generally, and there's only a few things you can do about that.
I mean, the sporty sorts have to be catered for, of course, but they have it all their own way for months, what with cricket, tennis and Olympic stuff cluttering up the telly (which, of course, I no longer watch).
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- By Robert Brokenmouth
- Hits: 260

So many of us rock'n'roll fans buy into the mythology of it all. But I have often wondered, at the top tiers, apart from the music, the idolisation of the audiences and the implied streams of sex and drugs, what else is left at the end of the day?
Well, there are a number of options. Drug addiction, decay, tragedy (or tragicomedy) and an early death; perhaps a few flops and a crawl back to the mansion and sodden reminiscences (perhaps followed by a reunion/final tour which is critically acclaimed by folk who were never there at the start, but which critically disappoints everyone who was, and everyone who was a fan until those appalling limp todgers flipped from between the flies).
Or perhaps extravagant, opulent mansions, models and bimbos and more drugs. And, perhaps, trainsets.
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- By Robert Brokenmouth
- Hits: 978
You recall the Monty Python sketch about the poor sod who goes on telly to promote his book and discovers to his horror that the TV presenter is only interested in his lame nickname, “Arthur ‘Two Sheds’ Jackson”?
Books are damned difficult to start, maintain and complete; any author should be proud of their achievement in completing a book, never mind getting the sod published. However, Jackson's long hours and hard work are worth precisely zilch in the eyes of the TV presenter and his bosses: all they care about is the ratings scored by making far more of Jackson's pathetic nick-name than it deserves.
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- By Robert Brokenmouth
- Hits: 4838

The column's title is not a phrase that scans too easily, I admit. However, it seems obvious from where I sit that 'rock'n'roll' has well and truly been eclipsed by a similarly oikish pack of breadheads.
Certainly, the famous phrase that Ian Dury popularised has resonated down the years. However, back when Dury wrote the song, “sex'n'drugs'n'rock'n'roll” was once a way of life for millions, whether they be journos, execs, stars, musicians, musos, and grubby proles.
What's different today? Market forces, basically. In 1977, one person could still buy a house, car and put a kid through school on one wage. Today that's a laughable concept. People have less spare time and cash, for one thing; and when they do have the cash, they have other life-distractions.
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- By Robert Brokenmouth
- Hits: 6907
When is a cover band not a cover band?
“Doing The Fall songs can often feel a bit like driving a juggernaut with no brakes, or falling down some stairs, pissed...” according to Ben Toft - one of the singers in The Fall tribute band, The Look Back Bores.
So, no. It's not as easy as you think.
The Animals(and Friends) have just finished an encore tour of Australia with 83-year-old John Steel behind the kit and a well-seasoned group of younger English musicians, all steeped in r'n'b, boogie and so on. The band provides high quality entertainment, doing justice to a time and place that the participants can only remember but hazily.
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- By Robert Brokenmouth
- Hits: 7292
Catipalism: Where cats become dissatisfied with its lot they are unable to rise up in revolt clutching scythes, axes and burning brands (for all sorts of reasons) and decapitate their 'owner', so whenever able, they head to nearby houses in search of better pats, better food and some peace and quiet.
This happened with my first cat Doody who, after shimmying through the side door, zipped off and simply never came back. A street crowded with houses with small yards, and a main road nearby ... I was desolate, until a few weeks later I spotted the little bugger on a wall nearby. He knew me, sniffed my hand, turned his bumhole on me and sodded off.
I'd fed the little bugger for 18 months and helped him whereever I could. Of course, I'd also had him desexed, for which he might not have forgiven me. And he managed to burn his whiskers once, before I could get to him. So, gratitude might not have been high on his list of priorities.
