I never wanted to post about things I’m actually up to on here. In fact, all my travel related stuff was meant to stay within a select email group, give or take the odd person here and there. But this post has outgrown the modest box of email and STILL isn’t finished. So, whatevs, its going to be a work in progress. One of those. Yes. 

But first, to bring you smack bang up to date - here’s Calvin, the dog I’m currently living with. He is in the top three cutest dogs of all time. Look at him.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eRlfwYXLFjg&feature=youtu.be

Travels Part One

It’s pretty easy to get swept up in time’s blurry, frantic fog. It’s been around three months since my last email and it only seems like a couple of weeks. Time doesn’t just fly, it uses wormholes to contract itself. 

So what has happened between the months of March and June? The reason for a lack of communication for a while was the lack of real news. Strawberry picking is not the most enthralling activity, especially for weaving tales. There was far more to tell about our hostel adventures in Huonville – hazy memories of freshly caught and barbecued oysters, the worst hangover of my life thanks to the destructive powers of Australia’s notorious cheap four litre box of wine (repeat it in your head forever, in scarlet red, as a warning to stay away: GOON GOON GOON), my proudest moment ever as I began a drunken YES! YES! YES! chant in the pizza annex of our hostel complex, moving out briefly into the adjacent house on the surprisingly comfortable floor, movie nights, Jeeveston pie shop and plenty of other fragments – but I’m keen to move forward. With my 88 days signed off, I’m now pretty much ready to apply for my second working holiday visa. As the last 20 days of my current visa begin to count down, it’s nice to feel I’ve done all I need to earn that extra year. UPDATE: I HAVE MY VISA GUYS!

With little planning, and a growing urge to begin wandering, five of us – Owain, Loïc, Michelle, Andrea, and myself – hired a rental car, packed bags, bought camping and food supplies, and set off along the east coast of Tasmania. 

I should note here that I’ve never driven an automatic car before. So, even the start of the journey was refreshing and new. Getting into the car, I realised immediately I wouldn’t know how to drive the car. I was on my own when I picked it up from the airport, having got a lift with one of the hostel owner’s sons. Very nice of him to drop me off. So, I ended up doing what I felt had to be done; I found some instructions on the internet. All automatic cars have slightly different gearstick layouts. Some allow you to touch it only for parking, neutral, and reverse. This one required you to push it into the next gear, by basically flicking it up or down. It’s much easier than a manual of course. And then there’s the ‘ghost pedal’. Putting my left foot down, I realised, was going to be a constant problem. It’s an automatic thing whenever you want to change gear or brake. So, the first few minutes of trying to get out of the car park in this HUGE tank of a thing must’ve looked hilarious. Especially when I put on the brake for the first time. Pressing down like my life depended on stopping, I lurched forward as the car stopped on the imaginary dime. It was ridiculous. I couldn’t help laughing at myself. It turns out you should use one leg for the two pedals, as your right foot has muscle memory of long-travel pedals. These pedals are like stepping stones made of thin ice. They’re not delicate though, just sudden and precise. 

Our first stop was upon Mount Wellington, close to Tasmania’s capital, Hobart. A huge rocky expanse, with wind speeds and chilling temperatures above what is strictly comfortable, it afforded as a view – the first of many – which was as breathtaking as those wintery gusts. We could outline our journey by tracing the shoreline in the distance with our fingers. After a few hours of driving – including along interminably long unsealed roads which we were not insured to drive upon – in the rapidly encroaching darkness, we reached a camping spot. Among the trees, whispers of Blair Witch in our ears, and with our sight (and very lives) guided by head lamps and extremely cheap, dying hand-torches, we couldn’t do much but set up our tents, gather wood for a fire, and begin boiling water for our delicious first meal of ready-made beef tortellini and Woolworths (supermarket) tomato and basil sauce. There was no sense of foreboding, but the darkness was absolute so our environment was alien to us. As the fire began to build in intensity, our food ready, we ate ravenously as the cold began to set in. Chatting amiably, our pots and plates discarded, we were satisfied with our first evening in the wild. We could hear water lapping at a shore not far away, and the occasional rustle of nearby bushes, but otherwise everything was far from ominous. Until the scrape of claw upon metal. It was too near. Way too near. “What the-” We turn, almost in unison for our eyes to greet whatever might be waiting for us, sharpening its natural weapons in preparation for…well, we daren’t speculate in those split seconds. POSSUM! Cheeky possum nabbing our bloody food! Well, what was left of it. The residual sauce congealed on the side of the pot proved too much of a draw for this little possum, who was as tame as you like. He stuck his whole head inside the pot, much to our amusement. We allowed him to lick our plates too, for the mutual exchange of food for cute photo opportunities. Humans: ever the exploiters. We mentally noted the need to wash plates properly later. 

When we awoke that morning, we watched the sun rise from the sea. The glade we had come across was a beautiful natural spot with soft green grass, sparse trees and a short drop off to a small beach. It was enough to just stand and contemplate our recent escape from fruit picking servitude – freedom tasted of salty air, and looked like an infinite reflected glow on an impossibly distant horizon. Returning to our camp site, we were greeted by another native to these strange lands. The Wallaby was far more timid than Mr Possum, but food brings out the confidence of any animal. The fun continued when, as we threw precious bread in small chunks on the floor, a horde of ridiculously confident birds grabbed the bread before Wallaby could get them. He got angry and chased some of the birds away. It was amazing.

Satisfied with our nature-as-puppets playground, we got back on the road. Our next destination was Freycinet National Park, the site of the world-famous Wineglass Bay (Google image search now everyone!). We stopped at a different national park for lunch and to buy our day pass ($24) for 24 hours of national park access. We took a walk through the woods along another beach to reach a shipwreck – a rusted skeleton of a boat that was yet another unfortunate victim of the Bass Straits. It was an arrestingly creepy sight, but we needed to get back on the road. We eventually reached Freycinet as dark fell, meaning the next stage of our journey would be treacherous and tiring. With a 40 minute hike, with bags and camping gear, in the pitch black, both up and down a mountain pathway, it was a real test of endurance and patience. Initial good humoured jibes turned to silent contemplation and conservation of energy. Unlike the previous night, which eventually blossomed in lunar light as the moon rose, clouds obscured any moonlight, making even the trek across Wineglass Bay’s famed beach difficult. Eventually deciding to camp at the far end of the beach, we settled down to a surprisingly satisfying meal of noodles with a few cups of goon. We were joined by beach possums too, the little scroungers. The night was the kind where you toss and turn and pray your shelter holds up – the wind and rain pounding upon the plastic, the only thing between you and the elements consistently trying to get at you. The morning was worth it. As the cold continued to insidiously creep into our bones, the bay looked both ominous and beautiful under the billowing black clouds.

We decided to walk a short distance to the Hazards, an incredible (and on this day, particularly breezy) beach on the other side of Wineglass Bay. If we whisper it we may be able to reveal that actually Hazard Bay is nicer than Wineglass Bay..shock, horror! So, with sand blowing in our eyes, and walls of gales trying to prevent us from pushing on, we trekked up the beach to continue the 8km walk through scrub, the bush, and even along rocky outcrops. At one point the view was particularly breathtaking. Arriving at the car, we found a couple of tame wallabies, who insisted on hanging around – immune to shooeing off – until they were fed by some gullible, rule-breaking tourists (ie. Not us). The next stage of our journey was a long drive towards the Bay of Fires, a long stretch of the east coast so called because of the rusty-coloured lichen and moss upon the coastal rocks. Or at least, that’s what I’ve been led to believe. 

Because the drive between places in Australia are generally lengthier than necessary, most of the next day was spent on the road. Now, where and when the next incident occurred is unclear in my head, though I definitely have it written down on paper somewhere in the wastepaper basket that is my ruck sack. Nevertheless, what happened was a simple speeding incident. As most of you will know though, there’s nothing like the cold sweat breaking out on your neck and forehead as you realise you’ve been caught red handed. If you’ve been caught by a cop doing stuff, then your body reacts even more severely, shaking, chattering of teeth, perhaps even involuntary swearing. I was going, I think, 112 in a 100 zone. I thought the speed limit was 110 because, well, each state has its own limit and Tasmania’s is 110. But, it seems you have to be even more careful than in the UK. Anyway, the police officer was fairly nice. He checked my licence. He seemed to like that I’d been in Tasmania for three months. He let me off with a mere warning, which is probably the nicest thing that could’ve happened from being caught going over the national speed limit on a busy road, and being a silly English backpacker, with some silly French, German, Welsh, and another English backpacker in your rented vehicle. 

Sometime in the afternoon we decided we needed four walls to enclose us for the night, as camping conditions had become distinctly unfriendly. We’d been told by a Tasmanian tour guide turned farmer’s daughter (ummm…) that a very pleasant – and cheap – place to stay is a very secretive semi-hippy commune called Lily Cottage. We’ve been sworn to secrecy as far as publishing on the net goes, but if anyone ever wants to find it, I’ll try and remember where it was. It was a combination of determination and a fear of being left out in the cold again that enabled us to combine our efforts of satellite photographic topography identification and real-life signposts, and bloody well find this fabled place. As it turns out, it was unattended and all we got was a glimpse through the windows into a multi-coloured dream palace as rendered in poverty blankets and with the slightly-stoned and vegan love of a deluded but lovable family of misfits. Or something. So, we decided to drive on to a town which would enable us to rest our heads without the fear of being tangled up in dreamcatchers. We ended up in a place that allowed us – all five of us – to sleep in one small dorm room, separate from the larger dorm. Nothing too exciting I know, but it felt a bit like that trick where loads of clowns fit into a VW Beetle. 

Following a nice-enough breakfast in a wonderful glass room, with the sun streaming through and highlighting our wonderful faces, we headed towards a north-easterly point on the Tasmanian map. We ended up in front of an extensive rack of boulders, all adorned with that wonderful autumnal moss, emerging from the sea. As we climbed over the hill and began, gleefully, to clamber over these natural playground obstacles like the children we so obviously still are, a canine bounded over the horizon. Seemingly emerging from nowhere – like a devil dog from the gates of hell, except looking cuddly and sent from some kindly old man up in the sky instead – this lovely labrador decided we looked good enough to be guided around his territory in exchange for a bit of attention. His name was Buckley and he immediately became a firm companion while we leaped over rivulets from the ocean, and grappled with smooth, rounded rock surfaces. Unfortunately we had to leave Buckley to his absent family, and he gave us the sorry sad eyes as we all jumped in the car and drove off. He followed for a while, but realising – in a heartbreaking role reversal - that we were the Littlest Hobos to his human child friend, he broke off and returned home to, we hope, his loving, caring family. Backtracking and then continuing north, we arrived at another secret location – a beach whose name we never actually figured out. It might’ve been Deep Creek, but we’re not sure. Anyway, it’s a semi-private strip of sheer whiteness meeting the clear blue of a remarkably calm sea. It had us mesmerised, and there wasn’t a one of us not wishing it were warmer. It would look and feel a lot like paradise. I’m not even a beach person, but there’s no denying its allure.   

The next section of the journey is a little hazy, but I remember we drove a fair way towards Launceston – a sprawling mini-city full of aggressive drivers and an infinite loop of a road that constantly thwarted attemps to navigate out of the city. It turned out to be a rapidly closing fist of some hellspawn. We escape though, because we rule all. We ended up stopping in a tiny little town whose main feature seemed to be mini roundabouts (I think there were six). Think a midget Milton Keynes but with far more charm. The highlight of the journey, by far, was a sudden and unexpected mountain road, that seemed to take over an hour to chicane through. With 180 degree bends, and a rapid ascension, we were soon all staring across a vast expanse of leafy green plunging into a depth best not explored in any free falling way. This might’ve been my favourite part of me driving. Mountain roads never cease to amaze me and my little, over-awed brain. We stayed at our first hostel with an actual fire, and met an English couple who insisted on telling us two important facts: 1) our destination – Cradle Mountain – had had its roads closed due to severe weather: snow. 2) that fascinating drink of the dogs, goon, could well possibly be mixed with the interesting and utterly repulsive ingrediant of rat blood, as they creep in during the grape crushing process. Mmmmm. We already knew it was filtered through fish embryo for clarity purposes. Fun facts for all. The next day, we set out with the express intention of reaching Cradle Mountain, trekking around for half the day and settling in one of their lovely cabins. Nature, as ever, had other ideas. As our trusty vehicle – that could’ve been armour-plated if it wanted to be – clawed its bulk up another sprawling mountain road only for me to anchor the brakes as I spotted an unexpected sight up ahead. Yeah, lots of unexpectation on this trip. It looked as if a tree had decided to give up and take a nap across the road, and, indeed, it had. What was our reaction? Why, ito run immediately up tot he tree, climb on top of it and pose for photos. Damn the consequences of our trip now being curtailed by fickle trees being lazy, we wanted to raise our arms as if victorious over this mammoth but helpless tree. MAN CONQUERS WOODEN GIANT! We quickly realised moving the thing wasn’t an option and, with no phone signal between us to alert anyone, we left. We took another route, reflecting on the possibility that someone had tried to stop us doing our long Cradle Mountain trek. We needn’t have been stopped, as the mountain snow would’ve prevented our reckless trudge through the elements. It turned out to below freezing (IN AUSTRALIA!), spread with snow (IN AUSTRALIA!), and very windy (ON A MOUNTAIN!). A proposed 2 hour walk around the giant lake within the craterous confines of Cradle Mountain turned into a three minute shiver, shake, and abandonment. It was just too cold and we were too happy not to worry about getting miserable from the wet and cold. Still, it was very pretty and my first sighting of snow since January 2011.

That night we stayed at an old mining village, in the shadow of some more snow-capped mountains. Though the mess hall and corridors were very cold, we did have a TV room in an adjacent building which had a wonderful log fire. Consumption of rum led to many incidents of sleeping in front of the fire like old people. The result of that were accusatory photos of said incidents, and stubborn refusal to accept the evidence of such behvaiour.

At this point, we were running out of time. But we did two of my favourite things last. The first was a wildlife park which promised the visceral treat of a Tasmanian Devil packl’s feeding time. Yussss. What we didn’t expect was cuddle time with a wombat. Wombats are…well just go look them up. Go on. I’ll wait here. Seen em? Aren’t they adorable? Well, they are. This one was docile and cuddly and furry and soft and content. There’s a few pics of my arms becoming a hammock for her bedtime. Apparently they have an invincible bone back, which they use to plug up the entrance to their burrows, and if attacked, they don’t feel any pain on that part of them. Then, they allow entry by crouching down before standing back up and crushing the intruder to death with its invincible bone back. Yeah, they’re cute, but don’t try and break and enter. 

Next was Tasmanian Devil feeding time. Now, these little tykes divided us. I think the general opinion were that they were ugly and stupid. Actually, I happen to think they’re pretty cute but quite uncompromising and aggressive. Just like our beloved Looney Toons creaton, Taz. They snap at each other, bite each other, are covered in scars from various social scuffles, and when they get given a carcass to dissect, go at it in huge groups. However, they have impeccable table manners. They don’t fight or curse or spit when eating. They share and use the power of each other to pull the meat apart, crunch the bones and even eat the coat of fur. It’s disconcerting and fascinating to say the least. The thing is though, is that they are half blind. Take that carcass away and they will sniff around trying to find it for AGES. They’re to be pitied, these poor, inbred creatures. We also got time to use the feedbags we were given at the entrance to feed kangeroos and wallabies. Baby ones, bigg’uns, lazy and active ones. Our first contact with these native Tasmanian kangeroos was addictive. We didn’t leave them until the feedbags were almost gone. We also saw crippled eagles, whose impressive wingspan was diminished by the fact that they only had one wing each. We left the place satiated of our desire to meet some native wildlife. It was a great place to visit, and defintiely one to take the kids to.

Even shorter on time, we decided to check out the Mole Creek caves – definitely worth the time. These limestone cavverns stretched underground splitting its reaching fingers into bizarre shapes, its very rocky flesh mutating into shapes that resembled palm trees, pipe organs, and the traditional stalagmites and stalgtites. In a section called The Cathedral, an expansive, church-like cave with the organ as a centrepiece, the guide informed us a couple who had met on the cave tour actually got married under these leaking formations. But the best part of the surprise was the unlikely volunteering of a group of lads who offered to sing for us, in order to show off the exquisite acoustics of the cave. So, the rest of us walked down the etched steps and waitd at the bottom for a caterwauling rendition of a popular footoe chant (Australian footie at that), or perhaps the latest Pitball chart-topper. It turns out that, instead, we were in the presence of a bunch of Christian choir singers. Sounding like monks in the grips of some transendent humming, it was a truly beautiful sound. It totally wasn’t a setup at all. Oh no. Actually, we were assured it wasn’t. 

We decided to drive as far as we could back south. Itturned out that this five hour drive got us to Hobart, where we stayed for the night. We missed the vast expanse of lakes in the dark on our journey, but it was enough to be safely within The Pickled Frog’s familiar surrounds for me. We ended the night playing drinking card games, which included the legendary combination of forfeits for losing a hand. In this order 1) shout in your loudest falsetto “THIS IS MY VOICE!” similar to the theme tune of that popular TV show, The Voice. 2) bleet like a dolphin 3) put your eye socket on the person to your left’s shoulder – affectionately known as the eye socket lean 4) put your finger across your upper lip and drink. Believe me when I say, you haven’t lived until this exact order of stipulations has been exacted upon you. 

We can skip the return of the rental car, the flight, the waiting for the bus at Melbourne Airport. We can even skip out Melbourne entirely really, as it is merely a very good city. Still, highlights include the view from Melbourne’s best positioned skyscraper, my first – and probably only – live AFL game at Melbourne Cricket Ground, the schnitzel burger at that game, which was the best schnitzel I’ve had in Australia (and its practically Australian cuisine as it is served in every pub and restaurant, seemingly), our afternoon at the rooftop cider bar, which included PROPER pints of PROPER scrumpy, and the wonderful talents of a shy female busker. It’s a fine city with some fine bars and some great art spaces and music venues. But you all knew that anyway.

Rental car narrowly picked up – with a few minutes to spare before Hertz closed for the day – we began driving into the night. The dark, dark night. Oooooooooooohhhhhh. The intention was to reach the beginning of the Great Ocean Road and to start the trip proper the next day. Unfortunately, some idiots decided to have a massive sporting event which closed one of the main roads out of the city. So, we had to backtrack A LOT, circumnavigating the one way system, and then reaching the flyover which allowed as an exit from the city. Finally on our way, it didn’t take long before we went through Geelong and reached xxxxxx. Here we ended up at another cosy hostel which was actually a really nice little house. There were a bunch of drinkers there, but after dinner and tea, we ended up talking to several people on the table. This descended into yet another drinking card game. How it then collapsed into the indescribable hilarity it did is unknown. But somewhere along the line, an older Australian guy named – almost incredulously – Spez (NEVER Spaz) joined us, already half-cut, already a liability to intelligent people everywhere. With his apparent inability to grasp the simplicity of our fast-paced game, he reduced us all to gibbering, stomach-clenching idiots. It hurt to laugh, but it hurt to try and stop laughing. A resounding cry of “…and there’s no FUCKING spoons” rendered us ineffectual, unable to offer a defence against this repeated battering of laughter. It was a good night. 

It set us up well for a very well paced and weather-lucky drive along the valued and beautiful Great Ocean Road. Described as the world’s largest war memorial – a working tribute to both the heroism of Australian troops, and the devotion of the then government to their wellbeing by providing them with well-paid and vital infrastructure work – it’s simply a 500km stretch of curvy tarmac that outlines a micro-section of Australia’s vast southern coastline. Along the way there are plenty of sights, the most significant of which is the legendary twelve apostles. They’re not actual apostles, alas, but bits of eroded, outlying rock. They don’t sound glamorous, but they are still fascinating icons of land once there, now merged into the raging seas below. Along the way you see beaches, and surfers, and high cliffs, and plenty of insane waves. While its hard to trace the entire journey, there’s no doubt that the sudden bunching up of rock miracles means good timing is necessary to get the best out of the journey. Go too early and you may be swamped with tourists, go too late and you may miss some of it to the darkness. Of course sunrise or sunset would be the best time to try and catch one of the Ocean Road offshoots. Oh and clear days with no rain. We managed to time this extremely well, reaching the apostles at a decent time and the final sight, Martyr’s Bay, as the sun was disappearing into the horizon. The layers of sediment are beautiful on each strangely and savagely chopped rock, and the shapes range from towering points to long razor spines, to resembling a falling London Bridge. With only one arch left in the sea, its partner collapsed into the ocean sometime in 2004 – stranding some poor buggers on the arch further out to sea – the London Bridge is less impressive, thought the surging water careening around it is nothing short of awe inspiring. The Grotto is perhaps the most laid back of all the rock formations. A solitary archway punched into the rock, entry is blocked by simple waist height wall. There’s no doubt the sea crashes into the grotto at points – hence the huge rock pools stagnating within – but a brave soul (me) decided to wander inside anyway. It’s probably the closest you want to be to a sea like this. It’s continual, slow work at stripping the land away from us all is a frightening process and it doesn’t take much imagination to envisage you standing up and looking over the edge for one of those rogue waves to snatch you from your safe outcrop and pull you onto the jagged rocks below and out to sea goes your ragdoll body. It’s exhilarating, if a little frightening. You can actually FEEL the power of the sea below. The sound rushes into your ears like the waves filling the caves it has made. For those of you with Facebook, my current cover picture is me standing next to the entrance to the Grotto, standing on the ocean side.

During our time along the Great Ocean Road, we spent a night in Apollo Bay. Apollo Bay is a place you would live. Right by the sea with a great, long strip of beach, lovely restaurants, shops, and houses, hospitable people, and an ancient rainforest only a few miles up the road – as well as those wonderful and eerie rock formations – it is probably the best place I’ve seen for an idyllic existence between cities. You’re fairly close to Melbourne though quite a few hours from Adelaide (probably around nine). But you’d always rather be further away from Adelaide than other cities if you can be (sorry Adelaide). Befitting such a place, we stayed in my favourite backpackers of the trip – a homely place called Surfside Backpackers. Here we were offered a cheaper rate than usual by a brilliant elder woman who wouldn’t stop talking, but who was never boring. The place was formed of old hospital buildings, wooden nurses stations, and a sea view from the front of the house. It was comfortable, with heaters, a functional kitchen, and a ridiculous vinyl collection spanning classical to Greek Traditional Party Songs Vol. 20. 

Following our stay there, we headed away from the Great Ocean Road towards Adelaide. We stopped by a national park to visit a dormant volcano and its magnificent crater. Here, we were accosted by wild kangaroos. They didn’t slash us open with their clawed feet, or attempt to couple with our heads or anything. But they were pretty large and ever-so-slightly intimidating. I mean, what kind of creatures live within the crater of a dormant volcano? Well, packs of kangaroos apparently. How brilliant are kangaroos?

We hit a dilemma due to the limited time of car hire. Did you know that if you are five minutes late with your rental car, they report it stolen to the police? Well, that’s what the literature says, but I have a feeling they’re a lot more laid back about you being late. Anyway, we had to make a decision about where to drive and where we could stay. As fortune would have it, we ended up stopping at Mount Gambier. At first, we thought it an industrial wilderness, but there was one saviour. The jail. We spent a night in jail, and paid for the privilege. Not something many people can say they’ve ever done. 

Duh duh duuuuuuuuuuuuuunn! To be continued (probably in about six years). 

TO BE READ AFTER A HEALTHY DOSE OF ‘TAKE SHELTER’, WHICH I CAN RECOMMEND HIGHLY.

Those who saw Take Shelter understood that it was about a man’s colossal struggle with frightening visions he didn’t understand and how close those visions were to reality. Not to everyone’s reality, but his own. The outstanding performances from Michael Shannon, and his on-screen wife, Jessica Chastain, helped sculpt the character’s transformation from caring but proud family man to semi-paranoid, fearful failure. You can see his struggle to protect his family from not only what he fears is really coming, but also from himself. His self-diagnosis, based upon a history of family mental illness - expressed explicitly by the introduction of his mother - didn’t stop him preparing for the oncoming storm. As he eliminates the threats around him, the one he refuses to let go of is his wife. Why? Because he doesn’t believe enough to eliminate his family from his life to save himself because he wants to save them as well.  

Now, this slow-burning, tumultuous emotional rollercoaster of a film was well paced, incredibly acted, and expertly drawn into a huge build up of tension and foreboding. The opening of the storm shutters is blessed relief, quickly brought into dissonance by the realisation that though a breakthrough has been made, it’s going to be a slow repair for the family. It may take years.

The relief - and terror - boils over in the final scene.

Now, it seems all these viewers, these movie buffs, these internet warriors, are keen to destroy the vision of every director they disagree with. I’ve found that, despite near universal praise from ‘professional’ critics, the majority of comments feel the end of the film ruined the rest of the film. If you truly feel that an ending spoils what is an otherwise immaculately crafted film, you’ve got film watching wrong. Truly, there aren’t many satisfying endings in any medium - film, literature, videogames, theatre. Resolution is a tough thing to reach, especially if you’ve poured over every element of your creation. So, does the ending really matter as much as you want it to? 

Some directors have made a mountain out of concluding their films in a special way. Twists! Oh how twists have spoilt the real point of storytelling. Characters and situations guided by illogic just to reach a surprise that the audience will gasp over. I’ll be quick to point out Take Shelter does not have a twist ending. Unless you weren’t paying attention, the tension never truly leaves us. We know there’s something amiss. If you’d been paying attention to the hints and clues throughout, you’d know that mental illness wasn’t enough to explain the pain and suffering the family had to go through. You didn’t have enough faith in Curtis’ strength of character. He was simultaneously preparing for the worst in both eventualities; psychologically and biblically.

As for those that prefer ambiguity - go watch Inception. That’s true ambiguity. Make up your own mind. Here, it’s obvious there’s no dream sequence. The family have indeed embraced the idea that Curtis will never be the same. But that’s because their whole world will never be the same. Of course there’s a metaphor here. But it’s also frighteningly real. And how the hell did the idiots who thought the family are sharing in Curtis’ delusion work that out? That makes the least sense of any interpretation.

I’m kind of tired of people spouting Act I, II, and III rhetoric like they’re art’s most knowledgeable patrons. How do you explain Pulp Fiction? Where’s Act II in that particular film? I love discussing films, and I love geeking out to intricate plot details, references to other works, even religious analogy (which is in around 70-80% of anything I’ve ever read or watched). I really do. I’ve done this with Prometheus and The Cabin In The Woods, most recently. And I always explore, trawl, dig into the internet’s murky depths for opinion and discussion on almost any film I watch. I knew Take Shelter would be talked about, but - and yes I did this to myself - I knew it would be for the wrong reasons. The Cabin In The Woods had an excellent ending, but as a horror fan, I felt there was something lacking for me within the meat of the film itself. I ruined it for myself by being too expectant of what I wanted. I accept that, and won’t complain about the film as a result. I’ll tell people what I thought, but I’ll listen to and enjoy everyone’s interpretations. Hell, I’m still thinking about the film so it’s probably actually a lot better than I realised. I guess I didn’t like Joss Whedon fans wetting themselves over things that weren’t remotely funny, or applauding like it’ll heal their hernias over a film that didn’t deserve such applause (the only film I can honestly say deserved such a rapturous reaction that I’ve seen in the cinema is probably Saving Private Ryan - which coincidentally actually ended in pin-drop silence - and I’ve seen some of my favourite films at the cinema). 

Essentially, I can’t stand it when the obvious is missed for rabid over-analysis. Please let these people entertain and captivate you first and foremost, and accept what you’ve just seen. Don’t suddenly get up and yell because you didn’t want the story to end like that and then expect everyone to tow your convoluted explanation for what the director really meant or should’ve done. For reality to be told, you have to buy into all aspects of it. If you miss the point, expect to be disappointed between the dramatic epilogue and the end credits. 

Of course, Prometheus is another matter entirely. Please, self-proclaimed critics, go absolutely nuts on that one…

The immediate reaction to Nintendo’s control methods these days are laughable, generally. 

“It’s a gimmick!”, “It’s the size of a fridge!”, “It’s just a Fisher Price TV remote!”, “It looks uncomfortable!”. 

Now the only one of these I take issue with is the “uncomfortable” one. When was the last time a Nintendo controller could be fairly described as uncomfortable. 

Well, the NES pad had corners on it:

and, after prolonged play, that became quite uncomfortable. But it was a pioneering controller. It gave us the D-Pad, the simplicity of two face buttons and now graces t-shirts because of it’s iconic aesthetic. 

What about this piece of utter perfection?:

Curved, so no more corners. It introduced us to a couple more face buttons and the ingenious shoulder buttons. Much copied, hardly ever bettered. 

Now anyone who looks at a picture or a video of someone using the Wii U controller and immediately remarks that it’ll be uncomfortable should try and put themselves in the shoes of the people who saw THIS for the first time. 

“It’s a spaceship!”, “It looks clunky and horrible!”, “it’s like a Fisher Price Tie Fighter!”, “It looks really uncomfortable!”.

I mean, what the hell, they’ve jammed a joystick on it. Why? 

But anyone who has ever actually used one knows why. Because, despite appearances, it remains a really comfortable piece of machinery to use. The analogue stick, later to be copied by Sony and, yes, pretty much every console make afterwards, revolutionised 3D gaming movement. Suddenly, games were being made around a control method, meaning a much fuller immersive experience, natch. Appearances are not only deceiving, they’re occasionally discouraging. But everyone who played Goldeneye 64, Super Mario 64 and The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina Of Time knew. 

How about this one then? Weird button layout, MASSIVE clicky shoulder buttons, a hidden Z button (yeah that was badly placed, admittedly), back triggers and very curvy and colourful. Ergonomics played a part in making it the most comfortable pad I’ve ever used. The trigger buttons were ace. There’s nothing particularly amazing about this one, though the two analogue sticks were perfectly positioned and the shoulder-placed pressure pads were excellently thought out, and is probably the most conventional controller of the lot for the time. Certainly better than the PS2’s dead-zone addled analogue sticks ported from the Playstation Dual Shock controller and the Dreamcast apeing Xbox controller, which was so hard to use for the Japanese market that they had to shrink them. 

And then of course, this: 

Jeered at for being gimmicky and too much like a tv remote, I have nothing but praise for the control method. Perfectly comfortable, not at all awkward to use and really intuitive, it’s the perfect future controller. It’s so far removed from the button-addled, mis-shapen controllers of yore that anyone felt at ease picking it up. The fact that it felt like a tv remote meant mums, dads, grans, grandads and children all felt at home simply picking it up and joining in with the fun. It moved consoles from family-orientated entertainment for parents and children to family-orientated entertainment for anyone who had ever used a TV and moved their arms, fingers and thumbs. Ace. 

So, how do you feel about the Wii U’s tablet controller now?

First of all, anyone who has either used a tablet for a PC, seen an iPad, used a DS or even picked up a portable gaming device will instantly know how to use the thing. It seems unwieldly on first appearance, the size of it perhaps seeming intimidating for some, but based on previous output I’m quietly confident that Nintendo have designed this with comfort and portability in mind. They have been doing this for a while you see. The ideas already shown are promising and lest we get carried away with talking about untested ground, remember the Gameboy Advance and Gamecube linkup? Similar idea right? Only this time, you don’t need to buy a bunch of Gameboy Advances to play a handful of games. 

Basically, everyone needs to chill out. It’s starting to annoy me that people are happy to cry tears of happiness at Microsoft’s version of the Eyetoy, and praise Sony’s decision to up the ante in touchscreen world with not just one but TWO touchscreens for their next portable. Stealing other people’s ideas are well and good, but unless they are implemented well there’s no point. Regardless of your thoughts about third party support for Nintendo’s consoles, there’s no doubt that they have a record for embracing their own control methods and, as a result, have done some sensational, gameplay changing things. NES: Super Mario Bros. SNES: The Legend of Zelda: A Link To The Past (and also, bloody Streetfighter II of course) N64: Super Mario 64 (and Goldeneye). Gamecube: Metroid Prime. Wii: Wii Sports. 

I can get quite angry thinking that even after hitting up the HD parade and showcasing graphics on par with what’s out there now, they’re getting criticised for the one thing they’ve done better than anyone else ever. I haven’t even mentioned their genius handhelds, with the DS’s initial outcries of touchscreen doubt being kicked out by turning into one of the best selling consoles of all time. Seriously, if Nintendo think the future is in imitating the design of the rather successful iPad, then I think they know what they’re doing. It seems a shame that they’ve clearly seen the future in another company entirely - possibly the first time they’ve felt the need to do that - but they’re out to make gaming fun and to push boundaries for those who enjoy such things. They’ve always done it. Sure, they’ve made mistakes - many of them pretty high profile - but I can’t see this being one of them. The home is already sold on the Wii concept. Now so-called gamers need to stop whining about playing the same old games, while still playing the same old games, and encourage Nintendo in their efforts to help break new ground.  

Also, the stock market continues to be a good indicator of why they’re a bad indicator of true success. Apparently Nintendo’s stock fell 5% to levels before the announcement of the Wii. Ye have little faith. It’s not trying to compete with tablet computers, it’s a fucking games console and it’s going to be affordable and not a lifestyle tool for tools. 

The potential is there and it will be realised by a few. As a really discerning gamer, that’s true of all the consoles. Few really exciting gaming prospects, and a barrage of half-decent, mediocre or appalling rehashes. This is fine. I’m used to this. I’ve grown up with gaming and I expect to find it harder to be impressed. Just like film, literature and music. But I think Wii U has the most potential to make me lose myself in wonderment as I did as a kid and a teenager. 

One tug. Two tugs. Three tugs. Four- The blind ricochets upwards into it’s tight little cylinder. The sun insists on beaming directly into my corneas as if wanting to burrow into my cerebral cortex. Which it promptly does. Squinting against the sudden shock of nuclear fusion thrumming into my face I look out. Through the gap between buildings, where the road lays its tarmac load like a varicose vein on the skin of the planet, I can see water. Not just any old water, and certainly not the churning grey brown sludge of the Thames either. It’s blue. Azure blue. There are boats going along on it and it seems to have a buoyant life of its own. Just to the left I see the famous coathanger stretching across the big blue. It’s a hard life.

What is that? Is that a human baby gargling? Yelling for its mum? Why no. It’s some fucked up bird. The birds here in Sydney are pretty weird. They seem more…human in their movements. Certainly their cries and mating calls are akin to alcohol sodden Brighton town centre on a bank holiday weekend. It’s uncanny. But that’s uncharitable. The birds are far more pleasant than that rabble.

Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow. Into infinity. What the absolute fuck? It’s the cat again. That tubby globule of ginger fur. The one who’s tail I pulled to stop him running upstairs and who now follows me around if I talk to it. There is a benefit to being Dr Doolittle, in that he’ll gladly go outside because of my kind words and gestures instead of adding eau de catpiss to the ambience of our landing. But no doubt the hilarious (read: fucking not ever hilarious) drunks and gamblers from the Blues Point Hotel – key point, almost all bars, pubs and venues are called ‘something Hotel’ here – will wait a few minutes and delightedly allow the car passage back into the block to begin meowing uselessly again. This is especially fun at midnight when I’m nude and half-asleep and the owners have decided to pretend not to hear their bloody cat. Then things hot up when Victoria lets him run in and, because of her alleged allergies – yeah right, you just hate cats, I’M ON TO YOU – I’m forced to pull on a pair of skimpy – not to mention alluring - pants under the covers of my makeshift sofa bed (now that I think about this a bit more, that’s a decent rouse to get to see me in the next-to-nothing, good work) to grab the surprisingly comfortable cat – mmmm soft orange fur - and toss him back outside. Our neighbourly relations took a dip that night, with Victoria’s sleepy reverie smashed to pieces by annoying ginger cat. Her monosyllables conveyed not much more than disdain. It was justified though.

Stepping outside in the daytime, the sun is warm, the shops and restaurants are pretty and the men and women cater for the elite. Sorry, I may have got them confused. Actually…probably not.

McMahon’s Point is pretty lovely, like a Crouch End-on-sea or something. In my time here I walked across Sydney Harbour Bridge almost every day, and almost got mowed down by superhuman joggers just on their fifth circuit of the continent and looking like they’ve just been laying on a lilo all day. The physical prowess of men and women here is intimidating. I’d imagine my dainty little half-pace would not only be reviled but held up as an example of how not to be a man in Australia.

But no, the enthusiasm for health and fitness – at least in this part of the city – is inspiring. It doesn’t seem forced or half-hearted; it just seems natural and easily slips into everyone’s day. Just across the Harbour bridge is the oldest part of the city – The Rocks. At night it’s alive with the sound of hundreds of cover bands, all of varying quality. During the day, it’s filled with the lively conversation of the coffee and pastry fiends gorging on the produce of the European continent. There’s a French patisserie that’s especially good. There is also, for the beer swilling amongst us, the Lowenbrau – whose moniker is far from a comment on the political culture here – which is actually a Bavarian beerhouse. There’s an exquisite Dunkel bier (or as I insist on calling it, Schwarzbier) here that is something ridiculous like $12 for half a litre. It’s cheaper for about three hours in the evening though. Anyway, it’s beautiful, tastes of chocolate and caramel and gets you drunk faster than you think. I love it. For someone whose experience in East Germany was probably up there with one of the most depressing of his life, I will fondly remember this place whenever I think back to Sydney. Isn’t that contrast just toally bizarre?

There’s plenty more to talk about, and I’m aware a month is a long time not to have written here, but I have to stop at some point. The next updates will be more frequent I hope.

Next we’ll be talking about my new neighbourhood (I wrote a bit of a song about it today – it goes “Kensington, you’re all Asian restaurants and petrol stations”), the entertainment in Sydney so far (good and bad comedy, some Shoreditchy experimental music nights, some proper gigs), the rather scrubber like mainstream Queensland music festival I attended and what it feels like to watch the Eurozone fall apart from afar. Toodles!

Mica Levi is one of the most inspiring people I’ve met. Though fairly reserved, her mind seems filled with conflicting ideas, all fighting to break out through whatever means she decides is suitable for them. Here’s my second interview with her from earlier this year. It’s been published in Playmusic Magazine’s 100th issue, and can be viewed in that edited format here. Following Collapse Board’s reminder of how amazing the song Everything from Chopped & Screwed is, I thought I’d post this up for anyone interested. It’s hampered slightly by the word limits of course. I could probably go deeper into the whole interview, trying to figure out why she’s so negative about this challenging work, but sometimes it’s just best to listen in wonderment instead.

Mis-Shapes, Mistakes & Misfits

Micachu is quite happy taking a break from music after two years touring her debut album. Nevertheless, she’s still challenging herself with avant-garde orchestral performances, album mixtapes done in a day and generally keeping her glorious, wildfire brain occupied.

Before the interview, I’m sitting at a corner booth in the Dalston Superstore cafe, reading the latest issue of a free music newspaper and shaking my head at the state of music journalism; particularly the review of Micachu’s challenging live classical album Chopped & Screwed. I understand it’s a tough work to get your head around, especially if you’re particularly unaware of the breadth of Mica Levi’s genre-hopping, but without the proper preparation – an open mind - you haven’t a chance of interpreting it for yourself.

Representing the first time she’s had the opportunity to work with the London Sinfonietta, it turns out the performance - recorded at King’s Place, London in May 2010 – was as much a challenge for her and her band The Shapes as it is for potential listeners.

“I don’t know how we did it really. The whole thing was so stressful. You know how you have to remove certain memories? It just felt like we weren’t ready to do something that was quite scary to do,” says Mica, taking off her oversized glasses and rubbing her eyes in agitation.

The story goes that the composition was written partially on the road while in America and because of that pesky Icelandic menace, Eyjafjallajökull, they were stranded there as time ticked away before the date of the set performance; no time to rehearse, no time to smooth out any structural problems. Nevertheless, Mica salvages some good from the situation, despite her visible reluctance to reminisce about it.

“It was great. They’re (London Sinfonietta) really great players and really experienced, they can basically do anything,” she says, wide-eyed. “With the lack of our scoring and organisation, it was kind of quite good in the end because it meant everyone had something to worry about. So we were learning some new (homemade) instruments and we’re not as good instrumentally as them, so we were trying to be good at getting our bit right. They (only) had cells of information to work with. I think for that reasoning, they had something that was on the edge security wise, so that kind of made it even or whatever. Everyone was just shitting themselves, I think! That’s how I feel anyway.” This balance of nerves seems to bring an uncomfortable tension to what is already a piece fraught with discordance and unconventional musicality. “I guess so. Seriously, awww man,” Mica says, blowing air from her cheeks. “When we finished the concert we were like, ‘no one’s gonna clap! This has been awful!’. We just winged it I reckon.”

The acerbic, slithering wind instruments, the warped phasing reminiscent of Steve Reich versus In Utero-era Nirvana, the descending discordant chaos of Stravinsky, the minimal spaciousness of Sibellius – these are not usual Playmusic references. Nevertheless, shot through with Mica’s natural speech, occasionally singing the most understated but wonderful melodic ideas (as on Everything, which contains the revealing lyrics “I don’t agree with anything/I dispute everything”), sometimes droning as if one of the instruments, it’s the kind of piece that feathers the nests of bands like Sonic Youth, or the avant garde tendencies of newer bands like Colourmusic, Abe Vigoda or HEALTH. But already this work has been discarded, much like Micachu’s excellent debut Jewellery, which contained a sound which seems now to have been abandoned.

“When you make something you love, then it’s great, but then that’s over,” she says with a hint of mercenary attitude. “When you find a song that you like; the amount of times you listen to it when you rinse it, if you (then) write your own one, you’re also inside of that thing, you’ve got a really narrow perspective of it so it gets even more rinsed and boring. Also, there’s a lot of different types of music that I love so if you’re not in the mood for what you generally do, you just think its lame.” So the electronically-knitted, inventive instrumentals and pop-leaning melodies of Jewellery have been put out to pasture then?

“Yeah I guess so. Yeah. I think it’s pretty healthy to move on or away or whatever. I feel lucky to have put out a record and to have it…well to be honest I didn’t expect anything from it and any comment about it was great. But I haven’t listened to it since we did it, apart from playing it every night on the road for like two years which is totally insane,” she says gazing distantly.

Of course live they would interpret the songs differently, further making Micachu’s astounding – though modestly presented – live shows something never to miss. Coming from most bands, the promise of changing their sound is usually hollow but the indication is that Mica is someone who moves onto new ideas as fast as possible. A perfect example is the downloadable ‘screwed’ mixtape that accompanies the album, hosted by MC Brotha May, with the beats and music recorded by her.

“That’s using exclusively samples from the record and the hip-hop kit from MIDI default. It’s pretty simple. I really enjoyed making that and May’s a really old friend of mine so it was really nice to hook up with him again. We just went into his kitchen and banged it out. We put the tracks in a line, told him a bit about each track and the subject matter then he just did some stuff. For him to do that..it was 20 minutes. He did it live. He was in the zone. He was freestylin’ but what was impressive I found…it was sometimes freestylin’ like normal but he managed to bring some of the subject matter at the same time. Usually you have some stuff you can just reel off, things you know will rhyme, when you talk about your self you have more things to say but the way he was incorporating was pretty good. Yeah he was in the zone, it was great! The whole thing was a really quick process. I wanted to get him to host it, not write to it, so it was live kinda like the record in a way. The beats were made really quickly as well. I made samplers of each track and the drum kit and it was all the same speed and it was really good because I just bashed it out and I think that’s probably how I work best. The whole process of getting it together took a day I guess.”

Here Mica seems more excited about something that took her and her friend a mere day to do than anything else she’s done up to this point. Elements of the album are barely recognisable. It’s a completely different approach to her own music, yet something she’s done before with other artists’ work with a variety of grime mixtapes.

Throughout the interview Mica seems elusive, but never impolite and never less than enthusiastic once she’s engaged. She seems excited by NOT doing music, getting on with life in the gap between touring and the interview taking place. She mentions sport and friends. She mentions the relationship between her and the band, Marc Pell and Raisa Khan, being “obnoxiously sweet”. And then, there are moments when she offers some insight into the swirling, fascinating creative ideas in her brain – both sensitive and intelligent, hidden by modesty, anxiety and self-criticism.

“The real challenge with this record, some of the things I was thinking about, was the two performances. A band is quite carried on the personalities of the people in it, how they look and what they say and a classical orchestra is an army and is there to interpret someone else’s piece. Essentially the piece exists without a personality performing it and that’s a really different thing.” She knows exactly how Micachu and the Shapes comes across, but it seems she may feel as if being a band could be getting in the way of the music. Or perhaps it’s just open to interpretation. 

* I make no defence or excuse for using ‘yacht’ as a verb. Take your angry silence and keep it quiet.

What I never intended was to make this an impromptu travel blog. But hence the use of the word impromptu, that makes a mockery of the ideas of intentions. So here we are. 

In almost bewilderingly silly fashion, I will start with the most recent experience and work backwards because, frankly, I need to spit this out in all it’s glory. 

Sydney Harbour is awash with sails. These dorsal fins of cloth bend alarmingly against a breeze that we can barely feel. What fresh voodoo is this, nature? The gloves I’m tentatively wearing are made for workers hands, and not my diminutive artists hands (you can call them girly if you want, but if you do be prepared to be lectured on the finesse of these slender fingers and the elegant action of these springboard wrists). This is a fact pointed out a few times by various crew members and my fellow traveller Ms Hall. I have been transformed into a hobbit in her eyes. First I argued against Biblo because he’s eleventy one and I’m not nearly that old. Then she pegged herself as Samwise before realising that the semi-homoeroticism between Frodo and Gamgee makes the comparison an uncomfortable one. She goes for the princess we can’t remember the name of. It suits her. 

Meanwhile the crew are dangling their legs upon the sides while we keep our legs firmly on the deck of this 40 odd foot yacht. Yes. Yacht. I want no arguments about this: yachting is awesome and not at all elitist, snobby or any of your pauper, communist rubbish. Why is it awesome? Well, let’s just rush straight into it.

First. Collisions. With approximately 130 vessels of varying sizes and a limited stretch of water it’s like the aviation industry’s worst nightmares but on water. Within a few minutes of setting out on the race proper, we collide with another boat - and yes it was their bloody fault, right - which meant our spinnaker pole got damaged, rendered useless. However, that was not gonna stop the rum and coke and beer (or tea as it is innocuously referred to by the crew) swilling team piloting this ship to certain last place (and certainly not from lack of trying). So after some excellent and endearing Aussie swearing, it’s quickly forgotten and we’re suddenly off with all manner of ships passing us. We get to spy the other seafarers, we get to laugh at those struggling with their mainsail, and we get to run across the short deck from one side to the other, which is called a ‘jive’.

Essentially ‘jiving’ is using bodies for the express purpose of turning the boat or keeping it on course against a stronger wind using their weight. It’s really, really fun scrabbling on hands and knees, scraping scalp against the swinging mainsail and sitting down and soaking the seat of your jeans on the side of the boat that seconds previously skirted the waters. It actually is, though. I’ve not grinned so much in anticipation of something in ages. It must be said though that the first time you realise the deck is at a 70 degree angle to the waves, you cling for dear life, afraid that we all might be pitched into the blackness (well, actually, the very pleasant clear blue, but still). How this aerodynamic piece of fibreglass stays afloat is probably easily explained by science, but to someone willing to remain a little ignorant and childlike about such things, it can only be explained by magic or sorcery. The thrill of things going disastrously soon fades after a while as you come to accept that the impressive human effort of skipper and deck hands is more than enough to tame this giant surfboard, especially on such calm waters. It’s still thrilling though. 

Speaking of which, the most primal pleasures are often the most liberating. Which means abandoning ones civilised façade for a little while, trying to pretend the embarrassment of one’s companion is nothing but pure prudery and accept that when nature calls, you do what everyone else does. We were introduced to “the bucket” at the outset of our watery adventures, a source of much mirth between the crew as me and Ms Hall clearly looked at each other in a way that suggests we may have been pegged as naive and fair sport for a joke. As it turns out, when not jiving all over the place, the best place to relieve one’s self - after a couple of cans of beer and a rum and coke - is over the back of the boat into the water like a fleshy water feature. A surprising exhibitionist when it comes to a small amount of nudity, this came as easily and pleasurably to me as stripping off for bedtime. But enough about me and my disgusting, shameless display. Just trust me that the wind in your hair and standing with legs astride is a posture of utter pride and world-winning enjoyment, especially when your bladder is sighing with relief.

The most remarkable thing for me was the calm of ones thoughts rattling through my head. Not much talking was necessary, or desired, on the three to four hours on the vessel and the combination of the glorious diamonds of sunlight flickering on the water’s surface to the rocky outcrops that run along the shores of Manly meant thinking time was embraced lovingly. Actually, I couldn’t keep a repeating phrase from Bon Iver’s latest album out of my head. So my thoughts would settle upon this musical passage like birds on razor wire, only to be sliced to pieces as the full bloom of the song bellowed in me. But that was kind of pleasant too, if not for the poor thoughts.

When I decided to write this, I really wanted to portray the crew satirically - as alcohol swigging, caution-to-the-wind, wreckless types. But they were self-deprecating enough - “If you want to learn how to sail, this is how not to do it” - and too good natured to lampoon so awkwardly. There was no trappings of wealth. There was no “ra ra ra hooray henry” attitude. This is Australia and here new money is not a term of contempt because, frankly, they’ve worked fucking hard for it. And there was no old money really. I digress. The way we were made to feel welcome - of course by some gentle ribbing and piss-taking - meant we were both extremely pleased and not a little humbled.  

The thing that really impressed itself on me though was the fact that two prominent males in my life have always loved sailing, and have always talked to me about it and I’ve shown not a scrap of real interest, though I always listen intently. Now, I will join them in their eager hobbies. I will expressly enjoy that time with them and I will personally internally slap myself for ever thinking I am somehow not capable of lapping up such an activity. I extend thanks to the ever wonderful Ms Hall, the entire crew of the Enigma, especially Darren and skipper Michael (whose own story is utterly incredible but I’ll leave you with the honest truth that he sounds like the most altruistic and lovely man against a backdrop of unbearably harsh reality).

So I’ve seen the Sydney Harbour in the winter sunshine in a fashion I never would’ve thought I’d have the chance to. That’s a tough one to beat, life. But do your best will you.

DISCLAIMER: I may have mis-heard terms used in boating. I apologise and will correct them if need be, but can I just plead tinnitus please? Thanks everyone. 

To celebrate Frank’s fourth album being available to buy in the UK - and his launch party at the Barfly - I’ve decided to repost the excellent transcripted goings on between Chris T-T and Frank from my archives. NB: Chris sings on Frank’s new album England Keep My Bones - on the excellent song Rivers - while his own album Love Is Not Rescue, and the recently released Words Fail Me EP, is similarly great. 

A while ago - in fact, not long before Frank’s sold out Scala gig in 2008 (I think) - I sat genius Brighton-based singer-songwriter Chris T-T and his good friend Frank Turner down opposite each other and got them to fire questions at each other. One, because I knew they both loved to tease each other over their opposing politics and also because whatever came out was always going to be interesting, insightful and, above all, entertaining. Which it was. I published the article on here back when it was a blogspot, so I feel justified in delivering the entire transcription, but with this disclaimer. I’ve taken the slightly painful decision to lever out the slightly slanderous or libellous stuff as I can’t really justify anyone getting in trouble - even over a joke - for our entertainment. Nevertheless, here it is. Chris and Frank dishing out questions for each other. Fun.

Frank and Chris

F We should do scissor paper stone to see who starts, say 123 and THEN go.

(Frank starts)

F: I’ll start with one of my serious questions. How important is place and I guess to a lesser extent culture and nationality in songwriting to you in reference to, on the one hand Bruce Springsteen and, the other hand, you writing about England.

C: It’s almost everything. I think that one of the things that I’m not able to do is write without that there like I just couldn’t write a song about a physical place I’ve never been unless it’s a totally crazy story. For me, it’s not so much that one writes ‘here’s a palce and I’m gonna write about it’. It’s that every single song, whatever it’s about, has a place in the back of it for me. I’m really trying hard right now to make a bunch of songs that aren’t about anything and aren’t about a place but that doesn’t work. Each song has a sense of place.

F: So being English is important to you?

C: Oh, massively important. I would always call myself English. But that’s the opposite of being tied to a right wing thing because I definitely believe in open borders and the free movement of people. The Maggie Holland songs about England, A Place Called England, a proper gardener, are the ones where it’s Englishness to do with the land, which you do really well on stuff like Nashville Tennessee and To Take You Home, and it’s that that’s where we’re from and yet there’s this massive cultural weight on us as pop musicians to almost try to pretend to be something else. It’s really important that we don’t.

F: I’m satisfied with your answer.

C: You come from a much more punk/alternative background than me. Do you feel, given that your music is now very tuneful and in some places soft, do you miss the punk thing and do you still think that you’re, two words, wither a punk or an anarchist?

F: Good question. Punk infuses everything I do because I learnt how to play music along with that style and it’s the bedrock of my…it was my doorway into music, both listening and playing basically so I’m never gonna stop thinking about it. When I think about heavier sounds I think of them in a punk way, and when I think about melody… It’s just the bedrock of it and that will never cease to be and I don’t want it to cease to be. I think that it’s a great scene and ethos and something that I’m proud to have put a lot of my life int. Particularly more musically. I guess there are days when I miss the pure rage and aggression but the problem is there’s nothing worse than fake rage and aggression which is kinda why bad hardcore bands are worse than bad bands of any other genre because they’re so awful. So to be in a band like that and make it worthwhile and good you have to be pissed off in the right way, 300 days a year. I just can’t.

C: Something that happened on this tour that I hadn’t seen on previous tour that Iw as part of is that you at the end ditched the guitar and went back into the crowd and I think a lot of fans are really overwhelmed by that being, in a way, being back to Million Dead days but also it’s much more uplifting than it would’ve been a few years ago. It’s like a totally joyous moment.

F: I think that’s true. In Million Dead we were to a certain extent trying to fight the audience. Now I’m just trying to hug them! But punk is vastly important to me and also the other thing is people always ask what punk and folk have in common and I think one of the things they have in common is that they describe both an ethos and a sound and that the two aren’t necessarily linked all the time and I think I incorporate elements of all four into what I do. So you know, I have a bit of punk in my sound and a bit of folk in my sound but I have quite a lot of punk in my ethos and folk in my ethos as well. Would I call myself a punk? It depends on who I’m talking to. If I’m talking to the kind of person who wants me to be a singer-songwriter: yes. If I’m talking to the kind of person who’s a punk scenester warrior writing a ‘zine then: no fucking way. I think the point of punk was that it had a degree of contrarianism in it anyway. So I’d call myself a corporate singer songwriter punk rocker. As for anarchist – I know what you’re fishing for and I’ve got my next question lined up – I’m not sure I would describe myself as an anarchist anymore. What I would say is that my essential first principles that got me thinking about the realm of politics, which was an essential distrust of power and human beings organised into hierarchies aimed at hurting other human beings, those things are STILL my first principles. The difference is that I’ve decided I’m more interested in practicality and pragmatism than in high falutin’ – with no G – idealism. So yeah it’ll be wonderful if we could overthrow the state and have non-heirarchical systems and organisations. It’s not gonna happen. I’ll state this as a simple fact: any attempt to try and make it happen will end in pain and death for lots of normal, innocent, ordinary people. What I think we should do instead is concentrate on ways of minimizing the impact on ordinary people’s lives and allow them to get on with their lives and not be bothered by the state. Then you’ve suddenly got a range of things to talk about that ARE achievable. Like everything from not having ID cards and trying to dismantle the surveillance system we’ve put together in this country on the one hand, trying to remove government from peoples lives, social services. Letting people be freer, health and safety, whatever it might be. To me liberty is the highest intellectual achievement of the humnan race. So, no I’m not an anarchist.

C: It’s a great answer.

F It’s my go now. This question was going to be, ‘why are you such a dirty communist?’ But that’s a joke.

C: That could be your question!

F: My real question is this: this both about music and about politics generally. When people say protest, everybody immediately thinks left wing which to me represents a number of things not least an inherent defeatism in the left. You see what I mean? If all your politics amount to protest…whenever anybody thinks of a political singer, they immediately think they’re left wing. Do you think that political music has to be left wing, do you think leftism has to be a protesting form of politics?

C: I think that protest singing is a traditionally left wing form because the 20^th century was dominated by right wing governmental power, in the west at least. The communist regimes in the east, the far east and South America were actually, regardless of whatever media spin was put on it, they were very well contained. The Soviet Union was very contained and popular music as a western artform came out of the United States and slaves coming up from Africa to America and the mixing of European chamber music, blues, country and all that stuff. As such the dominant power at those times, during the development of rock and roll, was right wing so if you had a problem with the power, you were more likely to be left wing. That’s why I think protest singing, particularly out of the 60s folk movement, came up as a left wing rather than a right wing, but to answer your question: protest singing can be in anything. Quite a lot of protest songs that are happening now, particularly the younger generation of songwriters influenced by you, are not left wing remotely. The number of times you hear protest songs about the smoking ban or not being allowed to take cocaine, for instance. Also, before that, in the nineties, Ian Hunter did a brilliant protest album called Rat which is a right-wing protest single. It’s a whole album of too much tax in Britain, I don’t live in Britain any more coz there’s to much tax and there’s too much crime (SNIP! edited despite being humourous). He did that and it was brilliant. But obviously inherently if you’re right wing and a rock musician your music is, by its nature going, to be more within the establishment and you don’t have so much to protest about EXCEPT that now politics itself has all changed. One of the things I’m interested in at the moment is that culture as a whole through the 20^th century tended towards the liberal or the left wing and I don’t think that’s true now and I don’t think the people at the very top of culture – the bosses of culture – have realised yet that the predominant youth culture is now far more where you would place yourself – and I don’t wanna put words in your mouth – socially very libertarian, which is thought of as a left-wing thing but isn’t really, and fiscally quite right of centre and I think that the predominant culture moves from all sorts of music, theatre, comedy. The days of the hard left 80s anti-Thatch thing has just gone.

F: Can I just come back on you on that? I think certainly in America a lot of the things you’re saying holds water but one of my problems, and this is a much broader comment, it’s become crystallised in most peoples mind that when they say right wing they mean establishment and when they say left wing they mean anti-establishment which, actually, has nothing to do with what the terms left and right mean. Right wing means in favour of the individual, left wing means in favour of the collective and on that level I think it’s difficult to argue that the world and the establishment was particularly right wing, particularly in the 50s and 60s. Britain for the Welfare State, Britain verging on becoming a socialist country. America you’ve totally got a point. Certainly in Britain, arguably between 1945 and 1979, our govt is quite left wing. Certainly, economically, Keynesian is a left wing idealogy. I’m not putting any value judgements on it but this kinda goes back to the original thing where I always feel like people on the left relegate themselves to being protest and similarly, this is the thing, people have forgotten what the terms left and right mean. Like I say leftism basically, as far as I understand it, means kind of the collective and the state is an agent of good in life an d society whereas right wing means in favour of the individual and against the influence of the state. I think that people, instead of seeing that and sort of seeing where they fall, sort of see if they’re in favour of the government and then paint themselves as left or right accordingly, which is nonsense. I don’t know…this isn’t my question.

C: It’s interesting though. You’re probably right about British govenments although in terms of time there were more Conservative governments, but left wing governments put in changes that were then impossible…once you’ve built the National Health Service there was no way the next Tory government could have torn it down because the people just wouldn’t have allowed it but I don’t disagree on any of that really. My key problem with the right wing idealogy of individualism is that this world is not ruled by all powerful governments who control people’s lives now, this world is ruled by all-powerful international corporations run by small groups of individuals who rule people’s lives to a far greater extent than governments and have none of the checks and balances.

That is a product of right-wing thinking entirely. So what we have; you are very suspicious of the government, rightfully so, you hate ID cards, rightfully so. One of the things that both excites me and frightens me about Frank is that if Frank turned around and said: “Actually I’m openly for Cameron” (Frank laughs) the amount of authenticity, and I know you’re not a massive star yet but you’re on your way, and you look at that and tie it to what is the single fastest growing youth movement in the country - it’s Conservative Future, the group for young Conservatives and one of the reasons that that is is that they’ve been able to detach themselves from social oppression, from moral bigotry of the old school Tory so they are very socially liberal, they’re into their drugs, drink and shagging each other and they don’t quite mind so much if you’re gay - as long as you’re quiet about it - and they like a few black people - here and there - but at the same time, essentially, the problem with the right wing ideology now is that we’re letting the corporations off scot free. That’s the only problem I have with it. You know I agree with you on ID cards and I agree with you a lot about small power although essentially what happens when you start limiting the welfare state is that people at the bottom drop off because they’re failures and they lose their rights. If you start looking at where we’re at now, we’ve got massive poverty around the world - which we don’t mind because it’s foreigners. In fact, the infrastructure in the United States is dangerously close to collapse, and they’ve all got guns. I don’t even think it matters who becomes President. I wrote a little thing yesterday. I think whoever is president in six days time might be the last president of the united states as we see it. I really think we’re really close – four or eight years from now, the United States could easily be in a state of collapse, with individual states seceding and people shooting each other left right and centre.

F: They’re doing that already.

C: It’s beginning and it’s terrifying. I’m not even really answering your question coz I can’t remember what it is.

F: It’s your go.

C: I was gonna ask a musical thing, but I’ll try and stick on the politics thing. You speak a lot about the anti-govt stuff in a a very powerful, moving way. You’re probably gonna be one of the big spokespeople for the no ID thing if it hits us, though it probably won’t now. If it hits, you’ll be there at the frontline. Do you have the same suspicions and negative feelings about private corporations or do you think the concept of a limited company, limited liability, board of directors, profit motive are all things that build into capitalism. Do you think it’s essentially a benign idea?

F: I wouldn’t go so far to say it’s a benign idea but I’d say that to me the profit motive is something I’m more comfortable with than the power motive and that’s the problem I think. Coz basically what we’re talking about here is the balance between control of the private sector or control of the government. Because the only way to limit the power of private corporations is to increase govt. control and it’s, to a certain extent, within the share of what power is, …the questions is: yes corporations do terrible things but the thing about corporations is their aim for the most part, and I’m not disagreeing with you, corporations do terrible, terrible things that as a society we need to address but if you conside that their aim is to make money - that’s not particularly nice or pleasant aim - but first of all I do think that human beings have the tendency to do that kind of thing and I’d rather attempt to kind of like control and deal with people who just want to get rich than people who specifically want to be in control of other people directly. So for that reason I find Gordon Brown infinitely more terrifying as a human being than the head of Barclays bank. I don’t like the head of Barclays bank very much, I’m not gonna invite him to my birthday party, but his aim is to make money for himself and his shareholders which I am not against.

C: That’s legally what his aim has to be. He hasn’t got any flexibility.

F Right he’s not out to legislate us on whether or not I can smoke in a bar. I seriously doubt he gives a shit and I’d rather deal with that than Gordon Brown who I think is an absolutely terrifying human being because he doesn’t seem to be able to get it into his head that some things aren’t his fucking business.

C: I a hundred percent agree with that.

F: One thing I’m very big on is the concept of liberty and freedom and in a a peculiarly English way, I like the way the English conception of freedom is almost based around people minding their own business and I like that, I think that’s a good way.

C: It’s a very polite freedom.

F Yeah it’s like: You know what I do my shit, you do your shit and lets just fucking forget about it. Something that you were saying earlier, one of the things that’s mystified me both in this country, but more strongly in the US, is this historical alliance between social authoritarians and economic libertarians because its complete madness. If your entire economic philosophy is based on people doing whatever they want and leaving people free, why do you care where people put their dicks? So I don’t like the Conservative party under Cameron any more than under anything else because it’s a political party and I don’t like political parties generally anyway but one of the few positives I’d definitely say about it is that they’re a lot less bothered about social authoritarianism in the new conservative party than they were before. And here’s a completely off the cuff remark. I want politicians who have taken drugs making drugs poicy coz otherwise it’s fucking charlatanism. 

F: Coz it’s like Ann Widdecombe trying to make policies on anything to do with the family when she’s never had sex. Bollocks. It be like me trying to make up laws for families tax breaks for people have children when I don’t have kids.

C: I totally agree.

F: I want politicians who are skagheads! (LAUGHS) Ex-skagheads.

C: One of the traditions of politicians is that they’re alcoholics but they don’t mention it so maybe as the new era comes through we’ll get a generation of drug takers.

F: I want Castlereigh back. He was great. Worked really, really hard then cut his own head off in 10 Downing Street. If only Gordon Brown would do the same thing.

F: It’s my go. I think we should talk about music more. The music that we make, both of us, let’s be blunt about this, is both quite middle class and quite white and probably predominantly male. I remember when I was younger at a particular phase of my development wishing, hoping, I was gay because that would mean I would be part of a minority.

(laughs)

I just really wanted to be gay and it just didn’t work. Personally, at this point of my life, I’ve reached a state of karmic calmness about the fact that I make white boy guitar rock and I don’t give a shit and I’m not bothered about it. Are you bothered about it?

C: No I’ve never ever been bothered about it at all. Sometimes when I’m having a row with my wife one of the things she calls me is middle class. It just really makes me laugh. My parentage on my mum’s side is really working class but my parentage on my dad’s side is really middle class. It makes a whole mockery of the whole thing really. No it doesn’t bother me at all. I don’t think about it so much as you’ve put it into words.

F: Not just the politics but in terms of influences. All my influences are all white boys with guitars. I like listening to Public Enemy, but it has nothing to do with the music I make.

C: My influences are far more pop- not even influences, music I love I go a lot more into the cheesy mainstream than you do and you’ve still maintained a lot of the hardcore stuff, which I love but definitely aren’t my roots.

F: You know Matt our new keyboard player had never heard of Fugazi? I nearly cried. Emily Barker (then tour support) had never heard of Dinosaur Jr.

Really?

F: Yeah I know. I’m starting to hang around with proper…

C: …folk people.

F: They don’t shower and they drink too much.

C: Don’t let them near the cider. It causes problems. I was gonna ask you about songwriting. You said something interesting the other day about lyrics. You definitely, to a greater extent than me, separate lyrics and music in the compositional process. So is it that you write all the lyrics first then go and turn them into songs?

F: No, music always comes first.

C: So you’ve got musical ideas and then..

F: I have phrases that come up and I jot down and I have things I want to write about. One of the funny things is that quite often when I’m coming up with a melody I end up singing something random but that I quite like and I don’t think what on Earth that could possibly relate to in singer-songwriting. I’ve got a new one which is “he cast no shadow in the morning sun” and that’s just how my brain spewed out that melody. (NB: fans will notice this was later tweaked slightly and used in Pass It Along)

C: There’s a new song you introduced last night quite late in the tour that you’ve been soundchecking. You had the music right at the beginning which sounded amazing, but you didn’t have any words. Is that right?

F: Well you see the thing is I had a couple of the lines here and there, anchors. It’s called Live Fast Die Old although my band have started calling it Die Hard With A Vengeance now. It’s definitely a case of lyrics I spend forever on and I kick cases, and tenses and pronouns around ad infinitum.

C: You write almost always about you and very truthfully, I think. Do you ever try writing stories about other things that don’t include you and, if so, do you find that it compromises your truthfulness?

F: I’ll start this by saying you do a lot more of the storytelling which I love and I love it when Springsteen does it and I love that approach to songwriting because I think it’s perfectly possible to tell an emotional and artistic truth through the medium of fiction, I’m just no good at it. I’ve tried and it always turns out a bit shit and, you know, I’m still fucking trying and I’m just not very good. I always feel a bit of a fool singing about stuff that hasn’t really happened. I’m gonna write a concept album sooner or later. I’m gonna write a concept album about me and you.

C: You’ve been a vegetarian for a long time and you’ve recently given up being a vegetarian and gone back to meat. Now that you’ve remembered how great meat is, do you now have a gap of meat you could’ve eaten?

F: No, for a number of reasons. First of all coz I think regrets…look, people say you haven’t got any regrets because you don’t self-examine enough but I’m not gonna waste time wishing I’d done things differently. I’m just gonna change the way I do things now. I think that’s the only sensible way of living life really. Also, I sincerely believed in what I believed at the time. I think one of the things that annoys me in this society is that people aren’t allowed to change their mind especially if they’re any kind of public figure. Not saying I’m a massive public figure but people are still pulling me up on the politics in songs we wrote in Million Dead when I was 19. I’m fucking 26. If you don’t change what you think between 19 and 26 I’d question your higher intelligence. You know what I mean? Fuck, seven years of growing up in the world of course I’m gonna change the way I think about things. In a way I feel quite sorry for Bill Bragg because I think he’s probably sort of slightly hamstring by some shit he said when he was younger as well.

F: My last question for you is a slightly conceptual question which is as statement with a question mark on the end. Sex, drugs and rock and roll?

C: Yes, very much so…please? All three to a very unhealthy degree.

F: Do folk singers have more fun?

C: Folk singers have more fun, because they travel light, they gig more, they play smaller crowds, they do their own merch so they meet everyone after the gig and they often don’t have anywhere to stay. That’s the truth isn’t it, the real trad folk scene that we are kind of a bit suss of is totally full of rabid drug-addled swingers who literally fuck each other at any possible opportunity. I’ve met them I’ve toured with Belllowhead I’m friends with John Bone I know that crowd a little bit from the outside, been a massive fan of real folk music for fifteen years but you just learn that those people aren’t to be messed with. They’re also super-corporate. A folk band of your size Frank, would most definitely have a mobile credit card machine on tour and three merch people or the whole band would come and do merch afterwards coz they know they sell a greater proportion of their stuff on the road than in shops compared with us.

F: I was kinda including us in that description.

C: It’s really interesting, me and you sitting here, coz there are things we can’t say

(laughs)

I’ve only been shit-faced with Frank maybe two or three times in a big way but they’ve always been absolutely awesome. One time, even before we got shit-faced, we saw a moonbow. A genuine moonbow and hardly anyone’s seen one of them. It’s a rainbow on the light of the moon. That’s how inspiring it is to get wasted with Frank.