It was my kind friend, Adam of Pretending Life is Like a Song who suggested the proposition: "There's an argument that The Smiths' best song is Back to the Old House on Hatful of Hollow (1984) and their worst song is Back to the Old House on Louder than Bombs (1987)." I was more than willing to agree with him: Hatful of Hollow > Louder than Bombs. There is something remarkable about that acoustic interpretation, the resonance of Johnny's guitar, Morrissey's breathtaking vocal delivery, I'm sure many others would agree. Yet, it surprises me to admit that, because I heard the version on Louder than Bombs first.

You never knew how much I really liked you, because I never even told you - oh, but I meant to.
The realisation made me reflect upon that unspoken tendency to prefer the first version of a song we hear. The "first version" manages to become the more definitive interpretation with every repeated listening. This may occur even though the "first version" may, in actuality, be the more illegitimate. It may be a cover, demo or in the case of New Order's Brutal (2000), unduly sped up and distorted to shit. Familiarity with the "first version" may result in a difficulty to accept the qualities of another version. We come up with irrational pronouncements, like Mito's epic Italo anthem Droid (1982) cannot begin to compare with its cover by Hypnosis (1987): the cover is that much better.

A part of me thinks that musical familiarity has much to do with the subconscious. So often, I find myself inexplicably drawn to specific Italo tracks, only to discover I had heard them years before, included in DJ Zyron's Classic Italo Mix. I recognised Catcall's track, Swimming Pool (2010) during her support performance of CSS, not because I had heard the song on the radio, but because my sweet friend Louise of Eton Mess Life sang it in passing, well over a year before. I wouldn't be surprised to learn that there exists this subconscious desire to find a version, a "first version" in an attempt to obsessively revisit and ferociously defend.

Yet, it is somehow more vindicating to discover a "second version" which far surpasses the first. It obliterates the comfort that comes from musical familiarity, however conscious. Such a discovery suggests that there continues to be a process of engagement, a process of assessing a song on its merits. Sure, it may never be possible to emulate the dizzying high: that initial moment where an interpretation becomes the first and absolute definitive. But, in spite of all attachments, it may be possible to fall in love with a song, over and over again.

Cassettes & Chocolate Milk: Italo Disco Podcast #39
Big Ben Tribe - Tarzan Loves the Summer Nights
Michael Bedford - More Than a Kiss
Hysterical Fit - Come and Make Me High
Albert One - For Your Love (Another Version)
Buzzer - Complications (Moar Cowbell Mix)
Hot Cold - I Can Hear Your Voice
Mozzart - Malice and Vice
Ken Heaven - The Calling

Download (64.9MB)

I always wondered how she knew: "You haven't practiced this week..." It was never an accusation, as such. It was a statement of an undisclosed truth. Perhaps it was apparent that I struggled with unfamiliar fingering or else the passage sounded weak and uncertain. Perhaps it was both, I could never be sure. I only knew of the embarrassment I felt when I disappointed my violin teacher.

I started violin lessons with her when I was seven years old. I remember watching her walk down the front path before my first lesson. I had absolutely no understanding of what was to follow. I wish I had known, in the same way I wish I could have been a child prodigy, a three year old, naturally inclined to bang out Beethoven on the piano. But alas, it was never to be.

I still think of those early days with great affection. I was particularly fond of the rounded corn pad that was affixed to my bow, to ensure my right pinky finger was curved and in place. I also liked the yellow dots, splayed across the fingerboard in a seemingly random pattern. I struggled with some things. I was overjoyed when, after so much practice, I actually managed to pluck a string with my left pinky finger. Years later, I was dismayed to discover that this was a completely redundant skill.

I'm sure anyone who's been there knows there is too much to recall: Gussie G-String and Dora D-String, scales, arpeggios, double stops and harmonics. It would be the greatest thrill for her to affix a silver star at the top of the page, next to the title. It would be the greatest compliment for her to pencil a line across a tick, making a cross, indicating that I had mastered the piece and it was time to move on.

There was this definite sense of progression, being introduced to third position and trying to wobble my wrist in a feeble attempt to do vibrato. She'd cry out: "You're doing arm vibrato! That's so much harder to do than wrist vibrato!" I would later struggle with vibrato as a teenage violinist. As contemporaries could produce a heartfelt wobble on cue, I could only ever tense up and move my finger quickly in a small, uneven shake.

I couldn't help but feel guilty, as my teacher continued to investigate all different types of exercises and methods to help with my "vibrato problem". In all my years of playing, all my concerts, recitals, exams and lessons, I never managed to cure that glitch. Perhaps I never practised enough, perhaps my heart just wasn't in it?

But I must have loved it, didn't I? I did, I'm sure I must have. As I glean these recollections, I can't help but wish that my feelings were more resolute. That I absolutely loved everything associated with playing this instrument, that I was naturally inclined to play it and I was obsessed with it, as I am obsessed with analysing popular music. Everything could be conveniently sincere: the adoration of both instrument and teacher would be unequivocal.

When I convince myself that it was all to satisfy the whims of others, I think of Edward Elgar's Chanson de Nuit. It changed everything somehow, my phrasing, my tone, even my vibrato appeared to be more convincing. It took on the guise of being dark and isolated, much like the freedom and the loneliness that comes from staying up all night.


She insisted that everything came together with Chanson de Nuit, she declared that it was "my song". I had always hoped one song, any song would take on that dimension for me. I could never decipher the nature of my motivation to play, just as I could never determine the veracity of my affection for the instrument. Yet, I ultimately managed to pull off something that is far closer to me than any article I've written or any radio I've produced.

Cassettes & Chocolate Milk: Folk Podcast #38
The Anniversary - Sweet Marie
The Decemberists - Here I Dreamt I was an Architect
Okkervil River - Lost Coastlines
Brendan Benson - Emma J
Emma Pollock - If Silence Means That Much To You
Liam Finn - Better to Be
Wheat - I Met a Girl
The Smiths - Back to the Old House
The Raves-Ups - A Girl We All Know
Per Gessle - I Have a Party in My Head (And I Hope It Never Ends)

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I find it strange when a musician addresses the critics. I can't quite understand why I feel this way, after all, musicians, like artists, are sensitive folk. Surely if their music is unfairly assessed, if their performances are unduly slated or their business decisions duly dissed, surely the musician has a right of rebuttal. Yes? Maybe? I don't think so.

I refer to a time when there was scant information available online about Bloc Party. Of course, there was the stylish and minimal official site which reflected the artwork of their first EP. Typically enough, there were also angry music snobs saying unkind things about the band on Drowned in Sound.

It would be the first instance where I'd witness a band member defending their music. The bassist addressed the indifferent, he implored them to just give them a chance. I thought it a rather desperate move to make, but then as a fan and rather naive music listener, I harboured a belief that the music should be assessed on its own merits. Should it really have to come down to begging?

I was reminded of this instance when it was brought to my attention that Tim Rogers replied to a rather unfavourable live review in the Townsville Bulletin. The complaints were unsurprising: bad sound, sloppy stage show, the needless heckling and the jeers, "I'll be the one your girlfriend is thinking about later tonight!".

Although eloquent, Tim's response seemed pointless and self-satisfied. He assures the writer, Amanda Gray: "I need to make it clear to you my writing has nothing at all to do with whether you think our band is rubbish or that I am a complete tool." He goes on to defend his banter, to explain that his sexual bravado is something of an in-joke, that he finds bad language to be so "bewilderingly exciting".

Flecked throughout is his gratitude to be a professional musician, to have toured the world for twenty-two years, "with this humble self-satisfaction intact". Yet, all this carefully drafted posturing makes me wonder why, if Tim Rogers is so successful and self-assured, why does he feel compelled to even read the reviews of some small town paper? More to the point, what does he get out of addressing the grievances of this one unimpressed critic?

I understand that it is difficult to accept that universality: not everybody is going to like you. I suppose the point I am trying to make here is that you cannot convince someone to like you by obliterating them in an essay about how good you are. Tim, may I suggest that you take solace in the support of those who do appreciate your music and stagecraft. Although the lengthy rebuttals may amuse some, they ultimately come across as needy and insecure.

Cassettes & Chocolate Milk: Mod Podcast #37
The Kinks - All Day and All of the Night
The Drums - Book of Stories
The Pipettes - Because It's Not Love (But It's Still a Feeling)
Francoise Hardy - Il est tout pour moi
Gerry and the Pacemakers - It's Gonna Be Alright
The Beatles - All I've Got to Do
Wishful Thinking - Step By Step
The Jam - Happy Together
INXS - Wishy Washy
The Chords - Maybe Tomorrow
The Monochrome Set - Monochrome Set
The Coctails - Whoopsy Daisy

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I had lived with the frustration of not knowing the artist name or the song title. I had lived with the annoying possibility of not ever knowing. More often than not, such feelings attached themselves to anonymous reggae-pop dance hits of the early-to-mid 1990s. They were never particularly good songs, as such, but they contained a memorable quality which compelled me to seek them out. They sometimes featured on home-made mix tapes, dubbed from the radio. Occasionally, they lived on subconsciously, as thumping drum beats or neverending sustained notes. I only recently realised that I managed to conquer that impossible task: I had discovered the artist name and song title of every lost song, ever.

It was a grand and thoroughly challenging task, requiring hours of painstaking research online. It was sometimes stupidly impossible, having to google and regoogle lyrics which had no semblance of originality: Oh yeah, baby. Occasionally, the song title would feature a spelling mistake, à la Malcolm McLaren's Operaa House, or the song title would be entirely omitted from the lyrics altogether. There could be any number of reasons why these songs became lost. The fact is, we all have lost songs. Songs that haunt and taunt us, that compel us to sing to confused friends in Maths, in the hopes we might one day achieve that moment of clarity.

We thought it would be this way forever, as we would so frequently ask each other, "what was that videoclip where Stalin's face morphed into Thatcher's?" But as time went on and as more people contributed videos, lyrics, questions and answers online, the number of lost songs we were looking for diminished dramatically. Not only that, the application Shazam provided a hassle-free, almost instantaneous service to identify lost songs. Upon discovering my last lost song, Marcella Detroit's I Believe, I couldn't help but feel a little disappointed that there weren't more to be found. Inasmuch as it is intensely satisfying to be able to identify lost pop, there is nothing more exciting than knowing there is more left to be found.


Cassettes & Chocolate Milk: Early 90s Dance Podcast #36
Technotronic - Pump up the Jam
Milli Vanilli - Ma Baker
Snap! - Rhythm is a Dancer
KLF - Justified and Ancient (Stand by the Jams)
Jon Secada - Just Another Day
Janet Jackson - Love Will Never Do (Without You)
Elisa Fiorillo - On The Way Up
The Shamen - Ebeneezer Goode (Beat Edit)

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"You wouldn't believe this conversation I had with this dude tonight. He was trying to convince me that the Kooks were more indie than the Arctic Monkeys." As soon as he said it, I couldn't help but pull an expression of bemused disgust. It was a baffling thing to consider, the prospect of an actual scale of indieness where some artists rank higher than others. The worst part of it was that I felt compelled to construct a counter-argument, citing the significance of dancingmonkey.com in the early promotion of the Arctic Monkeys. It was a site with white background and black text, featuring a list of links to MP3 demos. It appealed to the idea that the music could speak for itself and the incredible interest generated was achieved independently of record company interference. The Kooks would later post their demos onto Megaupload in early 2006, yet irrespective of the charm of Lonely Cat, the distribution of their demos could hardly be described as a significant landmark in the history of indie music.

When I regained my composure, I asked him how the actual argument unfolded. What became apparent was this person had a completely different idea of what indie meant. Once, the term indie was short for independent, encompassing groups without an affiliation with a record company (or else, groups with an affiliation with an independent record company). However, for this person, the term indie simply meant better. For me, it seemed wildly inaccurate to associate such a loaded term with a single word (and a superlative at that). But then again, I had to consider that for many, the term indie is synonymous with credibility. It is suggestive of being a lone independent artist, creating in retaliation of commercial appeal. The discernible fan, too, is required to maintain a certain degree of credibility. Cultural commentators such as Pitchfork and Flavorwire establish their own credibility by dissecting the term ruthlessly and bemoaning the idea that fashion, cynicism and laziness are killing indie music in 2011.

There are times when a faithful adherence to indie culture can go terribly wrong. The infamous viral video of "I'm Amy and I'm an Indie", from BBC Switch's Are You One of Them? is cringeworthy, to say the least. She comes across as suffering a complete lack of discernment: although she would obsessively adhere to every code associated with indie culture, she would do so without any real understanding of its significance. She would still manage to make some blunders, indulging in music in direct conflict with the indie credos, namely Razorlight and ahem, Ronan Keating. Although she is a rather innocuous 17 year old girl, it is embarrassing to watch her identifying the silly customs of a highly pretentious and highly protective subculture. It is embarrassing to watch her, because her heightened awareness of every nuance of the subculture reveals how indie kids assimilate, silently and without question.


From time to time, I arrest my desire to examine the meaning and currency of this feckless term. I occasionally give up the inclination to argue about it with friends and strangers alike. I even block out the aggressive posturings of the knowledgeable cultural guardsmen. I let all notions of competition and credibility melt away: I listen, smile and dance alone, taking in every moment of breathtaking pop.

Cassettes & Chocolate Milk: Indiepop Podcast #35
Summer Camp - Better Off WIthout You
Serenades - Birds
Andy Bull - Dog (feat. Lisa Mitchell)
General Electriks - Raid the Radio
Asobi Seksu - Thursday
CSS - Hits Me Like a Rock
Body Language - Social Studies (Plastic Plates Remix)
The Mynabirds - Let the Record Go

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I've been getting swept up in Italo Disco, listening to mixes and compilations, reading forums and living on Discogs. Yet it seems no matter how many songs I listen to, there appears to be tens of thousands of songs to go. It is easy to be overwhelmed by the sheer number of songs produced in this musical era, inasmuch as it is easy to be confused as to why this genre has never been properly analysed or adequately documented. If you spend enough time with it, it's possible to garner an impression of the most significant dancefloor anthems, but much of the my personal enjoyment of this genre is predicated on taste. The act of actually listening to the songs, far removed from its original context, and finding that moment of perfect resonance.

For others, it is the act of collecting Italo records which is the most enjoyable thing. For any noob, detecting what is obscure in a genre full of obscurities is somewhat problematic. However, the knowledgeable Italo collector never seems to have any difficulty in that respect. I've known of their plight for a long time, the risks they take in pursuing vinyl obscurities. In their pursuit of the Holy Grail of Italo Records, the collector would sometimes part with hundreds of dollars in the hope that the record would arrive safe and intact in their letter box. However, the seller's account would duly disappear, along with the collector's money and any hope that the record ever existed in the first place. How I felt for them.

50 Works Project
My search for perfect Italo had largely taken form in MP3 format, so I never had to deal with unscrupulous dealers. However, as my obsession with these songs dramatically increased, I considered how cool it would be to have Dharma's Plastic Doll, Alexander Robotnick's Problèmes D'Amour or Jimmy & Susy's Come Back. No doubt my desire for these records coincided with my longing to hold a club night for the masses, where we would all dance to such songs (imagine, Rose's clip for Magic Carillion). Yet, still cautious and wary of the many horror stories of experienced Italo collectors, I only ever opted to click on the very cheapest records available. I didn't wish to be another casualty.

Ashamedly, my collection shows few signs that I've become so entrenched in this genre. There's a shamefully small handful of records; a Michael Bedford 7", a Den Harrow 7", a Laserdance 12", a Tom Hooker 12", a Fuzz Dance compilation, a ZYX boxset purchased from Stockholm. I still look on Discogs, not only to shop, but to research. For in a genre so free of narrative, it offers much insight into what is rare and valuable. When I have come across one of those records, 1 for sale from €800, I feel compelled to stake out that song and listen carefully. I attempt to assess its musical value and whether it correlates with market forces. It is a great relief to find the song is average at best and any chance of completely surrendering my bank account to this obsession can be laid to rest.

I present to you a podcast that will convert your bedroom into a darkened discotheque from the back alleys of Genova, circa 1986. I hope there, free of any external influence (ahem, aside from my own), you can fall in love with the sound of Italo and its unique pop immediacy.

Cassettes & Chocolate Milk: Italo Disco Podcast #34
Clio - Eyes
Mania - Shine Shine Shine
Mister Black - Monnalisa
Scotch - Pictures
93rd Superbowl - Forever and a Day
Joy Peters - Don't Loose Your Heart Tonight
Swan - Don't Talk About It
Ross - Coming Up

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The 1960s Yé Yé movement was a beautiful thing, with its gentle pop overtones, delicate orchestral arrangements and Parisian pretensions. The idea of Frenchness has since become so central to the Yé Yé sensibility, at least to its listeners who do not speak French. The greatest irony is that Yé Yé was initially perceived to be a parody of Anglo-American rock'n'roll. First coined by sociologist Edgar Morin in 1963, the term Yé Yé was seen to imitate the rock'n'roll catch-cry, "yeah yeah yeah!". The outsider influence can be observed in the astounding number of French-language covers produced throughout the Yé Yé era. It was as such that the singer Stella openly criticised the French obsession with American music. In an interview with Cha Cha Charming, she attested that the biggest casualty of the American rock'n'roll invasion was French music: "all traces of France's musical history had vanished once American pop influences infiltrated France". Yet, this purported lack of cultural patriotism seems lost on the modern day, English-speaking listener. Now that everything seems to be shrouded in an Anglo-American pop influence, that which is unique about Yé Yé is contained within the very sound of the French language.


Perhaps Yé Yé carries a greater appeal to those who do not understand French. A few recognisable words may float past, l'amour, le garçon, pourquooooi? However, the English-speaking listener develops an impression through the music itself, in its key, tempo, mood and delivery. If the listener is curious enough, they may be compelled to search and translate. If the listener is lucky enough, the lyrics (ou les paroles) may contain a poetic beauty, detectable in both French and English. France Gall's Faut-il que je t'aime (1966) contains one such moment: "C'était lui que je quittais mais c'était toi qui me manquais"; meaning, "It was him that I was leaving but it was you that I missed". At times, the song may completely lose its lyrical potency in translation. Such a discovery may lead you to believe that it was better to listen in ignorance, to learn and sing the song, happily, proudly and off by heart, not unlike a French poetry competition at school. Perhaps then, and only then, may you be at liberty to burst into song on L'Avenue de Gobelins and startle strangers with your bombastic rendition of Patricia Carli's Le Lion (1967). But I digress...

As always, I will now leave you with this week's podcast. I ask you to reflect upon what it is to have a musical impression, to have an understanding of a song that is thoroughly your own invention. Is it possible to create "meaning" from a song, without knowing what the lyrics are about? Is it possible to appreciate words that rhyme, in a language you don't understand? Moreover, is it ever possible to detach pop from the ideology of nationalism?

Cassettes & Chocolate Milk: Yé Yé Podcast #33
Stone - Le Jour, La Nuit
Delphine - A Bientôt Sans Doute
Patricia Carli - Le Lion
Jacqueline Taieb - La Fac de Lettres
Denise Brousseau - N'écoute Pas Les Idoles
Jany L - Herald Tribune
Petula Clark - L'Agent Secret
France Gall - Bébé Requin
Valerie Sarn - Quand Je
Tuesday Weld - Are you the boy
Nancy Holloway - Tu N'es Pas Venu
Les Fléchettes - Je Vends du Rêve

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If ever there was a pithy demonstration of what it is to be musically devoted, then surely waiting for hours in a non-moving queue would be just that. I'm well-acquainted with the pointlessness of such a venture, for only 24 hours ago, I stood outside St Kilda's Esplanade Hotel for an hour and a half in the hopes of seeing Icehouse perform live. The bouncer shouted at the queue, stretching back towards Victoria Street: "There's no chance any of you will be getting in tonight! It's full! The band are just about to start! Go home!" But in spite of his warnings, few punters relented. Andrew smirked at me, "I don't believe a thing that guy says."

The truth of it is that I can hardly claim the title of the world's most ardent Icehouse fan. My enthusiasm for their music derives from an attachment I have to a mythical 1980s Australia that only seems to exist on the old VHS tapes stored in our downstairs room. Icehouse also remind me of the brother(s) who influenced me immeasurably, who duly culled the Triple M canon and introduced me to Australian Crawl, Hunters & Collectors, Crowded House and INXS. I was grateful to Andrew for that reason and so I was prepared to stand for as long as he was prepared to stand.

I knew that my passion (and indeed, my knowledge) for the group would be tested by the devoted few who stood around us, shivering. Queue-mate Simon boasted that he managed to see Boom Crash Opera and Icehouse at the Venue, only a few metres down the street, some twenty-five years before. I offered a non-descript anecdote about how Hey Little Girl was recorded in fragments and was largely constructed in post-production. Andrew, however, managed to serve up an in-depth account of Icehouse's then-synthesizer of choice, the Prophet-5. His account impressed the queue-mates surrounding us and as a result, it managed to secure our rightful place within the queue, among the cold and fanatical.

There would be moments, in between the boasting and complaints where we would look at the Victorian bay window above us. We could only see blue and pink lights flicker across a roomful of silhouettes. Occasionally a member of the audience would turn to survey the queue below. It was hard to tell whether he was curious or sympathetic, we could not sustain his interest long.

We would all listen closely, "Hey, isn't that Walls?", one of us would say. We would bow our heads in concentration, tentatively singing along with the band and with each other. These moments would not last long though, the noise band in the bandroom downstairs would start up again just as we were getting into it. We weren't angry or upset or even that frustrated, really. We were actually kind of elated to be standing together in such a way. I don't ever wish to forget a queue-mate's story of how, in spite of her enthusiasm for Icehouse, she accidentally kept on singing Mental As Anything songs as she primed herself for the evening.

Approaching the front of the queue was perhaps the most irritating part of the whole venture. I stood there as quietly and patiently as I could manage it. I was forced to survey a steady stream of people walk out that venue, down those steps and out onto the street. There was no semblance of a "one-in, one-out" policy, indeed the bouncer seemed intent upon completely ignoring me. I looked back at the queue earnestly and I then realised that their entry became dependent upon my entry. Perhaps if I exploited something, a charm or a physical attribute, I could get in, we could all get in. Perhaps then, I could save my left hand from frost bite.

It was at 12.30am when the bouncer finally gave up. Still refusing to meet my gaze, he requested my driver's licence. Once permitted, we bound up the steps to hear the last half of Nothing Too Serious, their last song. You had to stand on tippy-toes to make out Iva Davies against a backdrop of LED lights. As the crowd bellowed for the band's return to the stage, our queue-mates chortled, "At least we got in!". Icehouse did come back to the stage, to play tight covers of the Easybeats' Sorry and David Bowie's Jean Genie.

During the encore, queue-mate Simon insisted Icehouse would play Don't Believe Anymore. With drunken enthusiasm, he said this over and over again, each time scrambling the name of the song. His mistakes triggered something within me, a part of me which demands that recollection of names, dates and releases be perfect and accurate. For a hasty and ironic moment, I quietly questioned his devotion to the band.

When the lights came up, we said goodbye to our new queue-mates. We laughed and exchanged cards and nudged our way towards the door. As we poured out of the venue, down those steps, past the smokers and belligerent bouncers, I thought about that question of devotion and the tests and meanings which fans construct. I wondered whether the queue could ever accurately display devotion, knowledge or enthusiasm. After all, we can all stand in line.


Cassettes & Chocolate Milk: Mod Podcast #32
Neon Hearts - Venus Eccentric!
Graham Parker & the Rumour - Stick to Me
The Donkeys - Don't Go
The Fans - You Don't Live Here
The Spectors - In Your Room
The Red Squares - All Over Town
The VIPs - Boys of the City
The Namelosers - Do-Ao
Sound Sandwich - Apothecary Dream
The Ramones - Do You Wanna Dance?

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I was randomly perusing Al's Music Rant when I came across an article published in June 2009, How To Lose Your Female Fanbase In 7 Easy Steps. In it, he apologised in advance for evaluating the physical appearance of a bunch of sexy musician-girls. The assessment could have been sexist, but he qualified the process by saying they were as attractive as they were talented. Such a qualification made me reflect upon my own wanton desire for a rather fetching, rather unstable Syd Barrett. Mick Rock's portraits of the kohl-smeared Barrett haunt me still, but I would be the first to admit that I care little for his music. Silly, lustful, shallow ol' me.

I thought of other musical crushes of yesteryear. John Lennon circa 1964, Freddie Mercury circa 1973, Morrissey circa 1986, Per Gessle circa 1991. It is perhaps odd to mention it, as I had once declared that my love of music was completely divorced from any notion of sexual attraction. At the time, I had been greatly influenced by Cheryl Cline's Essays from Bitch: The Rock Newsletter With Bite and I was keen to evolve into a pseudo-secure pop-feminist who engaged with music on a purely cerebral level. That meant relinquishing the gushing, the fanfic and even the very idea of a pop image. It only followed that my obsession with faceless, anonymous mod-revivalist groups meant that my engagement was solely based upon the music itself (and not upon the physical appearance of any musician involved).

Nowadays, I am far more likely to acknowledge the prevalence of sexuality in pop. I audibly applaud the grotesque contortions of Shakira. I feel great unease about the gender roles represented in Jessie's J's Like a Dude. I admit genuine concern when I insist that Ke$ha really needs a shower. It is far cry from the rueful swooning and blood-thumping obsession of a 16 year old girl, but I am compelled to speak frankly of the most profound of musical crushes past. Perhaps it is because I now accept that doing so will not diminish the sincerity of my relationship with music. It will not undermine my authority to speak about it, neither will it reinforce a stereotype that women cannot connect as men can: (cue stock footage of Beatle fangirls at Shea Stadium) they scream, cover their glowing cheeks, then faint...

Simon Day: Cautious
When I speak of the most profound of musical crushes past, I speak of the introductory moments of Ratcat's video for That Ain't Bad. At first, Simon Day's face is obscured by shiny black curls. When he tousles his loose curls from his face, it reveals a flawless, almost iridescent complexion. His cheek bones are sharp and his teeth are straight. I watch the clip again. He is too feminine to be masculine and yet too masculine to be feminine. Even as a 6 year old, I was mesmerised by his beauty. My attraction to him was only exacerbated by the arguably requited lyrics: "Ye-e-e-e-eah, I love you!"

The fascinating thing about That Ain't Bad is that Simon plays the role of the lovelorn. All his friends have warned him not to be with her, after all, she has a bad reputation. Unfortunately, Simon cannot heed to such warnings because he cannot see why she is so "bad". However, the imagery of the video would suggest that Simon is actually a "bad-boy" himself. He dons a leather jacket, manhandles a sizable tomato-soup-coloured Gretsch guitar and climbs through a wire fence with his mates in a dodgy part of town. Following this, I find it a little hard to believe that Simon would ever feel so vulnerable as to protect his heart from a callous femme fatale. Come to think of it, Simon is exactly the kind of boy our friends would warn us about... and much like Simon, I would duly ignore their every word of warning.

It is perhaps ironic that the most significant live recording of That Ain't Bad features not Simon singing, but a crowd of hysterical teenage girls singing over him at Melbourne's Metro. It makes absolute sense when they sing these words, you can hear them smile and shriek and carry on. You cannot help but smile too when you hear their yelps: OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! There is something wonderful about it. To me, it acts as an implicit pledge, en masse, to abandon all sense of caution, to ignore all sensible advice, to lust in vain. I long for a feeling like that again. I long to shriek mindlessly without qualm or qualification, along with a song and a man I really, really loved.

Cassettes & Chocolate Milk: Britpop Podcast #31
mclusky - To Hell With Good Intentions
LR Rockets - Renee Loves Losers
Carl Barat - Je Regrette, Je Regrette
The Good, The Bad and The Queen - History Song
The La's - Liberty Ship
Tim Tin Yen - Girl Number One
The Divine Comedy - The Pop Singer's Fear of the Pollen Count
Frankie & Heartstrings - Hunger
The Holloways - Reinvent Myself
The Vaccines - Wreckin Bar

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It was one curious afternoon, months before I cancelled my gym membership. I was half-heartedly ambling on a treadmill, listening to Paul Artrocker's radio show on my then-intact iRiver. I had made the habit of listening to Artrocker in places that were completely incongruent with the Artrocker credos. This music was clearly intended for the emaciated cool kids of Camden. I had visions of them in their dimly-lit squats, hungover and hungry, sniffling and sitting on green milk crates. I wanted a place to sniffle and sit with my own fold of Camden cool kids. Instead, I could only listen to songs and details of their antics, as I ambled alone with an alarmingly high heart rate, half a world away.

Quite aside from my desire for a milk crate, Paul Artrocker happened to indirectly touch upon a frustration which I felt so keenly, one that was so relevant to my own isolated listening practices. Paul was to report of all the goings-on for the week in London. He was to detail all the gigs, instore appearances, club nights and related musical antics, but alas there was nothing to report. Nothing was going on in London town. As he appealed to the good listeners of Resonance FM to email with their forthcoming events, I couldn't help but detect that hint of dissatisfaction in his tone. It made me wonder whether it was even possible that my favourite city could be completely bereft of musical activity. Perhaps Paul had grown weary and disenchanted with the scene? It made me wonder: what can we possibly do when we think we're over it?


The prospect of getting over music is commonly brought up by those who don't really care about anything. Occasionally the words getting over would be replaced with the words growing out of, almost to suggest that engagement with pop culture has something to do with being a hormonal adolescent. It is a fearful and offensive prospect, to imagine that something so central to our existence is merely a phase. After all, to those who really care about music, it dictates who we spend our time with, how we spend our time and how we spend our money. Perhaps even more obviously, it is a sign of heartfelt allegiance. It is an indication that we identify with a gang who shares our tastes and ideals. We can wear badges on our blazers, indicating that we're a mod or a punk or even an artrocker. We can protest that this allegiance will be forever, but there is a part of us that can never truthfully guarantee it will always be this way.

I admit now, as I have admitted on previous articles on C&CM that there have been genres I have grown weary of. There have been times where I have lost my direction and focus. I can see now that my loss of passion had nothing to do with the scene, as such, but my unwillingness to further explore the recommendations of others. I know, particularly from the construction this week's Italo Disco podcast, that a scene need not have local gigs or club nights. It may be a scene that could be accurately described as "extinct", but even still, the mere act of discovering undiscovered music can be one that is so exciting and so thoroughly stimulating. The prospect of discovering the undiscovered is one that we should hold onto, tightly and to our chests, when we ask that question: what can we possibly do when we think we're over it?

Cassettes & Chocolate Milk: Italo Disco Podcast #30
B.W.H. - Livin' Up
Hugh Bullen - Alisand
Barry Leitch - Lotus Turbo Challenge II
Grant Miller - California Train
Jimmy & Susy - Come Back
Savage - A Love Again
Rose - Magic Carillon
Esavu - Sia Siou (Breaking Up)

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