static and distance

What would be a good, clichéd book to read while traveling? If you said Kerouac’s On the Road, you were close but no cee-gar. No, I have opted for the following:

If it’s OK by Zimmy it’s OK by me. Dang the first page is enough to get you thinking bout the tracks, a hastily construed knapsack and stirring yer whiskey with a nail…

This train don’t carry no gamblers,
Liars, thieves, nor big shot ramblers,
This train is bound for glory,
this train!

Planning on getting a bit of train travel in, from New York to Boston and possibly Berlin to Paris. It ain’t the cheapest or fastest way around but I’ve always dug trains and the opportunity for reflection and introspection they provide. Plus, of course, the chance to view a whole lotta gorgeous country side. I saw a certain movie a couple of weeks ago that furthered my keenness for train travel. You may know of it…

That song has very much sound tracked my last few weeks and will continue to score my departure, I’d suggest. Clever boys, those Davies brothers. And that Anderson character. The themes of fraternity in The Darjeeling Ltd resounded heavily in my chest and had me missing my own siblings. There I said it. I’d like to think one day the four of us will ride a train across India or Argentina or pilot a submarine to the center of the earth, but for now I’m gonna have to settle on meeting brother Tom in Turkey real soon. He is taking me here:

Whoah! If I see any Jawas around I’ll be sure to sit down to a cup of mulberry tea with them and have them reveal what it was like working with Neil Young.

In five days I will be in San Francisco. This is exciting but still does not seem real. The bulging bag in the corner of my room makes it more tangible, as does my flawed melon gazing at me from my passport upon my desk. My next post will be from the US of A, perhaps it will feel real then. Right now I am off to meet an old friend at the Retreat for a few jars of black and a bit of reminiscing, a bit of nonsense talk and a bit of discussion of what’s further on down the tracks, just around the bend. A fitting final night in my Melbourne.

“One’s destination is never a place, but a new way of seeing things.” – Henry Miller

Three weeks can seem like a long time when you think about it too much. “The more you think, the more you stink”. So said David Briggs, Neil Young’s record producer. Less is more and all that. My preparations for the trip are almost complete though the mind continues to race unabated. This thing’s rolling at me big and fast and strong now and I’m getting a little anxious about jumping on the back of the big sunuvabitch. I’ve got accommodation and transport organised for just about everywhere…bout the only thing still to do is book a hostel for a night in LA upon arrival. Looking at Venice Beach-oh man I might be able to check out where they shot White Men Can’t Jump. Gotta organise train trips from New York to Boston and from Berlin to Paris but will do that once there. The net and a bantam weight credit card (’twas once a heavy weight sob) makes all this preparation so easy. How in the dang hell did people organise such adventures back in the day? Stow away on the nearest ocean liner and just hope you’d wake up in California and not Antarctica? Such flying-seats-pants style of adventure still appeals to some (thompsoninflight.com) but I’d prefer to have the bare bones in place, thanks all the same. I continue to eye events that are on in certain cities, with New York offering the Dali exhibition at the Museum of Modern Art and a gig by good ol’ boys The Gourds in Brooklyn. I don’t want to plan too much, wanna keep it a bit loose, but being largely organised sure beats having to sleep in a park and waking up with a hole in yer back where yer kidneys used to be. Dunno when I decided to become an organised human…somewhere between the age of 0-27 I think. When I was 21 I couldn’t coordinate a trip to the shops without ending up on an eight day bender and reporting myself missing. And still forgetting to get the milk. One tires of that shit.

Back here in my fair old Melbourne town I struggle with keeping a low profile and high bank balance, such are the myriad of temptations on offer. A trip to the Art Deco exhibition @ NGV with Mother Dearest on Saturday was inspiring, utterly enhtralling and well worth it. It’s a little easier with the chilly weather to stay indoors at night and the free shows coming my way courtesy of my aforementioned reviewing gig keep the door cover costs down. Sunday saw me up at the East Brunswick Club to review Mark Kozelek and I’ll be reviewing the Breeders gig next week. Also off to Band of Horses this Sunday night, though shall not be reviewing that one-just enjoying it amidst the company of some local lasses and a cuppla dangerous dudes from the hometown. A lid will have to be kept on things with the trip in mind but these friends of mine seem to be taking a shine to this town and are eager to sample as many saloons as I can throw at ‘em. Who am I to deny them this pleasure?

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Excited about the Band of Horses gig, their first album Everything All the Time is a favourite of the past few years though recent album Cease To Begin left me indifferent. Still, songs like this could make it a very special gig indeed:

Minus five weeks today and I’ll be in LA. It’s hard to fathom for someone who’s never been overseas just what this experience will be like. America obviously resonates throughout our entire culture and I’m no different than most Australians in that it has long figured prominently in my day to day existence. To actually experience America, breath it in and soak it in…that’s something that’s hard to comprehend. New York holds particular intrigue to me. My impressions of this city are mostly shaped by popular media-TV (Letterman not Sex in The City), film (Ghostbusters not Sleepless in Seattle) and literature (Catcher in The Rye…not exactly modern). Then there’s everything that’s happened since 2001. I see it as a helluva tough place with tremendous resolve, a place where the greatest things and most terrible things can and do happen. A grimey, regal city with a heap of class and a heap of depravity. The most fascinating of juxtapositions. The musical lineage of the town has created a certain character in my mind too…Greenwich Village, the Velvets, Television, Talking Heads, The Strokes…hopefully I can take a good strong scoop of what’s happening, really happening, these days in my brief encroachment of the city walls. I get the feeling it’s gonna leave a mark on me. In many ways it already has.

Before I signed up for this voyage, I took up the offer to scribe a few reviews of local gigs. Here’s my review of Miss Dawn Landes at the Nortchote Social Club last Thursday night. Gawd I fell pretty hard for her, tried to stay professional and on the right side of love struck goon. Move over, Chan, yer time is up. On Saturday I was back @ the NSC, mainly for Wagons who once again put on a sensational heehawin’ sharpshootin’ shitstorm. Slayed ‘em, in short. At one point Henry said: “It’s great to be back in Melbourne, back at the Social Club. We’ve been on tour for a while. We don’t like anywhere else…”

Wellsir, neither do I really. But I’m open to being persauded.

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Here’s a clip of Ms Landes, gosh so dang pretty (the song)(she’s ok too) :