LES VIEILLES CHARRUES FESTIVAL – CARHAIX, FRANCE
It's Day 4 of 4, and even though the sun is struggling plenty to crack through the ominous clouds overhead, there's a sense of anticipation in the humid air. Any music festival will be showing a crack or two on its final day, and after showcasing Bruce Springsteen, the Killers, Birdy Nam Nam, and, um, Lenny Kravitz over the past 3 nights, Les Vieilles Charrues is showing its. There's rain, lax security, drunken Frenchmen stumbling by in the early afternoon, and that garbage smell that somehow finds its way into every fibre in every tent camped around the grounds. But hey, who gives a shit, right? It's a music festival!
Around 9:30pm Jules de Martino, one half of British duo the Ting Tings, struts out on stage. With trademark sunglasses on (strange, considering by now it's pissing down rain), he get sampling on guitar, keys & drums. We Walk is the opening track, with singer/instrumentalist Katie White immediately whipping the crowd into a frenzy. Despite the obvious language barrier, everyone has a great time as the duo pull out a surprising amount of familiar tunes. Great DJ, Shut Up and Let Me Go and audience favourite That's Not My Name all get a good going over, and de Martino's sampling of Aerosmith, Queen, and the Ghostbusters Theme Song give the briefest taster of what's to come for the next band.
2MANYDJS. Ghent, Belgium has a lot to answer for. Not only have these guys, under the moniker Soulwax, produced some pulse-bending albums over the past decade, but brothers Stephen & David Dewaele show tonight that they can truly shed some vinyl. The duo, dressed immaculately in tuxedos that 007 would be proud of, work up something of a sweat as they pound their way through 90 minutes of soul-shaking tunes. Everything record they touch, from Bowie (Rebel Rebel) to Beethoven (5th Symphony), the Gossip (Standing in the Way of Control) to Guns'n'Roses (Welcome to the Jungle), has the kids in front of the Kerouac stage busting moves not yet experienced by us mortals in the southern hemisphere.
The loudest cheer of the night, however, was for Michael Jackson, and Don't Stop til You Get Enough & Billie Jean. Which says a lot for the stature of the recently departed, considering the quality of the set's outro, featuring Sgt Pepper, Fire Starter and last but not least, Smells Like Teen Spirit. The French know good DJ's, but it seems the Belgians have it better.
Headlining the final day is none other than the bald dance legend that is Moby. Backed by a six-piece band featuring soul sensation Joy Malcolm on vocals, Moby himself rocks out on a Black SG Gibson, with unsurprising enthusiasm. Pulling tracks from his entire back catalogue, especially 1999's hit-riddled Play, his entire set rocks from start to finish. With a light show to support the most sonic of sounds, it's a true festival set filled with little new stuff, and a real emphasis on the tunes that Moby's fans want to hear. He throws in Lou Reed's Walk on the Wild Side as the penultimate song of the encore, and to hear 20,000 French people sing the “do duh doo's” that Reed immortalised in 1972 fills the soul with more warmth than the constant rain can dampen.
No matter where in the world you are – from the heat of a 36 degree Big Day Out dustbowl to a rain-sodden patch of ground in western France – music takes no prisoners. And there is no greater example of this than a festival where everyone has a great time. No cares, no inhibitions, no showering. Just amazing bands, sensational DJ's, and a bitching good time.
- Dylan Stewart
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Cardiff. July. Ashes. 8 Men. 1 Town. Brilliant... (DAY 1)
Day 1
of the first Ashes test started early, with a French wakeup call designed to wake us up in France. The call was successful, and we arose at some ridiculous hour before most sparrow's had begun to fart.
The lovely Tash stumbled out of bed to drive us (Dan & I) to the train station, where we arrived by 6:30am, Australian flag in tow and toenails on our toes. Handy start. Of a footy start, it's quite irrelevant. We both drifted in and out of consciousness while we rocketed towards Paris in our overgrown bullet of a train. We followed our toe-riddled feet through the Parisian metro system, morning peak hour on a Wednesday. Still running on adrenalin, it wasn't until we threw back a couple of coffees at Gare du Nord along with a butter croissant. In hindsight, this may have been the healthiest meal for the next 5 days.
Kronenbourg and cards, conversations with a family from Epping, a lot of shit-talking and 2 hours later, we were in London. The initial destination was Temple Walkabout, and after some Northern/District Line love, we walked in the door with the Poms batting. Poorly. Alistair Cook (AKA Alistair Cock) was already gone, Ben “Hirsute” Hilfenhaus had been picked over Stuart Clark, but more importantly, Dan's mate was working behind the bar. 1 quid beers, cheap burgers, and the day got slowly whittled away. Before we got on our bus to Cardiff, we met up with up Liam at a pub near Victoria, and had a Guinness and a Peter Siddle (piddle) before jumping on.
The bus trip was unremarkable. I sat next to a fat man and was squashed. When I went for a Siddle, that was the most exciting part. 'Nuff said.
By the time we wandered into Nomad Hostel – cash for comments? - it was ten'o'clock. And the original quartet was completed. Sam was waiting for us, as he had been all day. Lucky bastard scored a seat for Day 1 of the Test, and more impressive than that, he managed to refrain from getting rip-roaring drunk in the process. Having not eaten since sometime earlier that day, Liam was hungry, so before we had time to think, we were back out the door and hotfooting it towards the pub. Of course, by this time we were too late to get a meal, but a wise man once said that Guinness, like milk, is digested as a solid, so we ate a couple of those instead.
Exploring the Cardiff nightlife is a risky proposition. On one hand, you have some belting bars and clubs, that only locals know of. On the other hand, you can sample some of Britain's most boring chain pubs (think Wetherspoon's, O'Neill's, etc). And on the third hand, you have FLARES. Now growing up in country Australia, I've sampled some pretty rubbish establishments to enjoy a tipple. But never in my life have I been so offended by the patrons of a bar. Fat old women were publicly mauling disgusting, drunk middle-aged men, and even with drinks at lower prices than that granny's cleavage, we were out after one very quick drink.
Now well after midnight and sated with a dirty chicken burger and fries, we were ready to call it a night. But the best turns of a night out are unexpected... None of us will ever know the name of the club, but the music was great, the drinks were decently priced, and the dancing Pakistanis went down a storm. Flashing lights and crappy breakdancing (by us – despite the fact that we're full-on homeboys) saw us pass four hours in what felt like 20 minutes, and we finally hit the pillows around 5am.
STAY TUNED FOR DAYS 2-5...
of the first Ashes test started early, with a French wakeup call designed to wake us up in France. The call was successful, and we arose at some ridiculous hour before most sparrow's had begun to fart.
The lovely Tash stumbled out of bed to drive us (Dan & I) to the train station, where we arrived by 6:30am, Australian flag in tow and toenails on our toes. Handy start. Of a footy start, it's quite irrelevant. We both drifted in and out of consciousness while we rocketed towards Paris in our overgrown bullet of a train. We followed our toe-riddled feet through the Parisian metro system, morning peak hour on a Wednesday. Still running on adrenalin, it wasn't until we threw back a couple of coffees at Gare du Nord along with a butter croissant. In hindsight, this may have been the healthiest meal for the next 5 days.
Kronenbourg and cards, conversations with a family from Epping, a lot of shit-talking and 2 hours later, we were in London. The initial destination was Temple Walkabout, and after some Northern/District Line love, we walked in the door with the Poms batting. Poorly. Alistair Cook (AKA Alistair Cock) was already gone, Ben “Hirsute” Hilfenhaus had been picked over Stuart Clark, but more importantly, Dan's mate was working behind the bar. 1 quid beers, cheap burgers, and the day got slowly whittled away. Before we got on our bus to Cardiff, we met up with up Liam at a pub near Victoria, and had a Guinness and a Peter Siddle (piddle) before jumping on.
The bus trip was unremarkable. I sat next to a fat man and was squashed. When I went for a Siddle, that was the most exciting part. 'Nuff said.
By the time we wandered into Nomad Hostel – cash for comments? - it was ten'o'clock. And the original quartet was completed. Sam was waiting for us, as he had been all day. Lucky bastard scored a seat for Day 1 of the Test, and more impressive than that, he managed to refrain from getting rip-roaring drunk in the process. Having not eaten since sometime earlier that day, Liam was hungry, so before we had time to think, we were back out the door and hotfooting it towards the pub. Of course, by this time we were too late to get a meal, but a wise man once said that Guinness, like milk, is digested as a solid, so we ate a couple of those instead.
Exploring the Cardiff nightlife is a risky proposition. On one hand, you have some belting bars and clubs, that only locals know of. On the other hand, you can sample some of Britain's most boring chain pubs (think Wetherspoon's, O'Neill's, etc). And on the third hand, you have FLARES. Now growing up in country Australia, I've sampled some pretty rubbish establishments to enjoy a tipple. But never in my life have I been so offended by the patrons of a bar. Fat old women were publicly mauling disgusting, drunk middle-aged men, and even with drinks at lower prices than that granny's cleavage, we were out after one very quick drink.
Now well after midnight and sated with a dirty chicken burger and fries, we were ready to call it a night. But the best turns of a night out are unexpected... None of us will ever know the name of the club, but the music was great, the drinks were decently priced, and the dancing Pakistanis went down a storm. Flashing lights and crappy breakdancing (by us – despite the fact that we're full-on homeboys) saw us pass four hours in what felt like 20 minutes, and we finally hit the pillows around 5am.
STAY TUNED FOR DAYS 2-5...
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Justin Carter - Painting Pictures (album review)
Justin Carter – Painting Pictures (Medici Studios)
Appearing over the waves, guitar under one arm and harmonica under the other, Justin Carter is here to continue the surf-roots safari. Young, talented and driven, his second album Painting Pictures follows picks up where his 2007 debut Whatever Happened to Real Music left off. Music for dancing, for road tripping, and for late summer nights accompanied by a cool breeze, it's not difficult to come away from this record feeling content.
Hailing from Victoria's southwest via the Surf Coast, Carter wears his influences on his sleeve, melting 1970s Americana with a definite Australian coastal vibe. Comparisons with the Black Keys abound, although there's a laidback attitude present that brings Messrs Butler, Rudd & Grunwald to mind, especially on tracks like Sailing and Devil. While simple and lacklustre lyrics subtract from a couple of the tunes at times (“If I'm feeling down/You pick my off of the ground” - Smile), it is Carter's mastering of his various instruments that set him apart from his peers. Sucking on his harp with blistering violence at times, and showing a real appreciation of the sound his guitar makes, Carter and producer David Nicholas (the Whitlams, George, Diesel) have given each element of the recording the room & respect they deserve, with drummer Johnny Rollins keeping his end up and letting Carter shine.
Painting Pictures isn't going to make any best-sellers list for 2009, and Carter isn't about to become the king of Australian music with it. But as a taster for what this talented musician is capable of, look no further. If Whatever Happened to Real Music didn't announce his arrival, Painting Pictures does. And if you walk away from your stereo after closer Angels with anything less than a newfound respect for the world and your loved ones, then good luck to you.
- Dylan Stewart
Appearing over the waves, guitar under one arm and harmonica under the other, Justin Carter is here to continue the surf-roots safari. Young, talented and driven, his second album Painting Pictures follows picks up where his 2007 debut Whatever Happened to Real Music left off. Music for dancing, for road tripping, and for late summer nights accompanied by a cool breeze, it's not difficult to come away from this record feeling content.
Hailing from Victoria's southwest via the Surf Coast, Carter wears his influences on his sleeve, melting 1970s Americana with a definite Australian coastal vibe. Comparisons with the Black Keys abound, although there's a laidback attitude present that brings Messrs Butler, Rudd & Grunwald to mind, especially on tracks like Sailing and Devil. While simple and lacklustre lyrics subtract from a couple of the tunes at times (“If I'm feeling down/You pick my off of the ground” - Smile), it is Carter's mastering of his various instruments that set him apart from his peers. Sucking on his harp with blistering violence at times, and showing a real appreciation of the sound his guitar makes, Carter and producer David Nicholas (the Whitlams, George, Diesel) have given each element of the recording the room & respect they deserve, with drummer Johnny Rollins keeping his end up and letting Carter shine.
Painting Pictures isn't going to make any best-sellers list for 2009, and Carter isn't about to become the king of Australian music with it. But as a taster for what this talented musician is capable of, look no further. If Whatever Happened to Real Music didn't announce his arrival, Painting Pictures does. And if you walk away from your stereo after closer Angels with anything less than a newfound respect for the world and your loved ones, then good luck to you.
- Dylan Stewart
Monday, April 27, 2009
Sunday in Savonnieres
The sun rises over the Cher river. Blades of moist, green grass strain towards the thawing light as it appears in the east. The sky will fill with clouds as the day passes, a typical Sunday late in the month of April.
In these early hours, shop-keepers, relieved at the prospect of working a half day, open their doors to their local stores. Bakeries, cafes, butchers and grocers introduce their wares to the light that has shone upon the river every day for generations. And as the population of this small, rural French village emerge from their quaint, tired homes, the sense of small-town happiness drapes the sky like the clouds it mingles with.
A small, riverside road with tables and chairs arranged on one side and the cafe du sport on the other, sees locals approach in their small family cars from the direction of a local market, some ten kilomtres away. Cyclists dismount after hurtling themselves for hours along winding roads, through idyllic French landscapes and along the Cher. Passing through the green fields, accentuated by the fluorescent yellow of the rapeseed crops, a literal hunger grows in their bellies for fresh bread and pastries, a thirst to be quenched by a mid-morning coffee.
And crawling from the same direction, via long, narrow and eternally winding roads, two tourists in an old white van cough and splutter their way across the river. Unwashed and barely refreshed after a half-decent sleep in their van not far from here, they search the narrow street for somewhere to park. After mounting a curb or three and with much frustration, the driver finally makes it into a space built for a vehicle half his size.
Out of the car, they ignorantly lock the doors. At 11am on a Sunday, anyone with criminal tendencies is most likely sleeping off a hangover from the night before. After he orders coffee and she rushes to the bathroom, they sit out in the sun, next to the oyster seller, 12 euros for a dozen, on the street where he sells them every Sunday. She finds a free table and take a seat, while he stands nearby, outside the bakery. A line stretches out the door, but when he reaches the front he realises it's worth it. Spotless glass cases display dozens of cakes, croissants and chocolates, and in the back stand fresh baguettes, the .
He makes his selections, pays, and rejoins her at their table. Overlooking the river with their backs to the sun, they sit and enjoy their surroundings. The townspeople of Savonnieres go about their daily life, relaxing in the sun, drinking, eating, and in this tiny community, Sunday is truly a day for leisure.
In these early hours, shop-keepers, relieved at the prospect of working a half day, open their doors to their local stores. Bakeries, cafes, butchers and grocers introduce their wares to the light that has shone upon the river every day for generations. And as the population of this small, rural French village emerge from their quaint, tired homes, the sense of small-town happiness drapes the sky like the clouds it mingles with.
A small, riverside road with tables and chairs arranged on one side and the cafe du sport on the other, sees locals approach in their small family cars from the direction of a local market, some ten kilomtres away. Cyclists dismount after hurtling themselves for hours along winding roads, through idyllic French landscapes and along the Cher. Passing through the green fields, accentuated by the fluorescent yellow of the rapeseed crops, a literal hunger grows in their bellies for fresh bread and pastries, a thirst to be quenched by a mid-morning coffee.
And crawling from the same direction, via long, narrow and eternally winding roads, two tourists in an old white van cough and splutter their way across the river. Unwashed and barely refreshed after a half-decent sleep in their van not far from here, they search the narrow street for somewhere to park. After mounting a curb or three and with much frustration, the driver finally makes it into a space built for a vehicle half his size.
Out of the car, they ignorantly lock the doors. At 11am on a Sunday, anyone with criminal tendencies is most likely sleeping off a hangover from the night before. After he orders coffee and she rushes to the bathroom, they sit out in the sun, next to the oyster seller, 12 euros for a dozen, on the street where he sells them every Sunday. She finds a free table and take a seat, while he stands nearby, outside the bakery. A line stretches out the door, but when he reaches the front he realises it's worth it. Spotless glass cases display dozens of cakes, croissants and chocolates, and in the back stand fresh baguettes, the .
He makes his selections, pays, and rejoins her at their table. Overlooking the river with their backs to the sun, they sit and enjoy their surroundings. The townspeople of Savonnieres go about their daily life, relaxing in the sun, drinking, eating, and in this tiny community, Sunday is truly a day for leisure.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Death of the Newspaper
As a writer, I have tried to keep a look-out for articles in the press regarding the media industry both at home and abroad. So when I see that Mark Scott, head of the ABC and former Fairfax executive has indicated that in the future, there will only be enough room for one major newspaper in Melbourne, I take notice. Whether the last paper standing will be one of the two major current papers - The Age or Herald Sun - or a combination of the two, one can only wonder. Whatever the result, it'll mean bad news for those who would choose not to utilise the Internet for its news & media outlets. And with Telstra reaping the reward for supplying the Australian population with blanket broadband, the telecom company is placed to become the major player in the local media landscape.
New media, found not only on the Internet, but also through international television news channels found on satellite TV & radio, has put local publications on look out. For while the daily papers do everything in their power to inform & entertain their readership, for readers to gain an understanding and develop their own opinions on issues, they should - and do - look for as many sources as possible. This includes searching the web, and by doing so readers indeliberately point their much-loved daily newspapers in the direction of extinction.
Whether broadsheet or tabloid in nature, the day will come when newspaper becomes made redundant. When what is available on a physical page is easily accessible via the click of a mouse, it spells the decline of print media in one of its original forms. This is undeniably a formidable prospect for traditionalists, though economically the transfer from physical print media to new media may not be as devastating as it may seem on the surface. Without delving into numbers of statistics, writers will still find avenues to have their work published, and through websites, advertisers will still have space to flog their wares. Granted, printers and tree-loggers will suffer losses, however the preservation of environment is wholly a positive aspect of the scenario.
It will be a sad day when the newspaper falls by the wayside of our fast-paced future. And as someone who loves to spend a weekend on the couch with the paper, I do not wish it to occur any time soon. Realistically, it's not something that will probably occur in the next 50 years, but the signs are there. The priority is that people stay informed.
D.
New media, found not only on the Internet, but also through international television news channels found on satellite TV & radio, has put local publications on look out. For while the daily papers do everything in their power to inform & entertain their readership, for readers to gain an understanding and develop their own opinions on issues, they should - and do - look for as many sources as possible. This includes searching the web, and by doing so readers indeliberately point their much-loved daily newspapers in the direction of extinction.
Whether broadsheet or tabloid in nature, the day will come when newspaper becomes made redundant. When what is available on a physical page is easily accessible via the click of a mouse, it spells the decline of print media in one of its original forms. This is undeniably a formidable prospect for traditionalists, though economically the transfer from physical print media to new media may not be as devastating as it may seem on the surface. Without delving into numbers of statistics, writers will still find avenues to have their work published, and through websites, advertisers will still have space to flog their wares. Granted, printers and tree-loggers will suffer losses, however the preservation of environment is wholly a positive aspect of the scenario.
It will be a sad day when the newspaper falls by the wayside of our fast-paced future. And as someone who loves to spend a weekend on the couch with the paper, I do not wish it to occur any time soon. Realistically, it's not something that will probably occur in the next 50 years, but the signs are there. The priority is that people stay informed.
D.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Check it OUT!
Hi!
So this is an attempt for a blog. Whether it will survive the length and breadth of my creative potential, only time will tell. But as I sit here, in the basement of a chateau in the Loire Valley, France - our home for the next 6 months - there's nothing to suggest that I won't give it my all.
I'll get some photos up in the next couple of days, and keep y'all up-to-date with happenings, thoughts, opinions & other random words.
Who knows what will happen...
D.
So this is an attempt for a blog. Whether it will survive the length and breadth of my creative potential, only time will tell. But as I sit here, in the basement of a chateau in the Loire Valley, France - our home for the next 6 months - there's nothing to suggest that I won't give it my all.
I'll get some photos up in the next couple of days, and keep y'all up-to-date with happenings, thoughts, opinions & other random words.
Who knows what will happen...
D.
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