I'm not sure whether it was Jens Lekman, Andy Bull, Sean Lennon or Liam Finn who identified the songwriting principle: in simple terms, the most compelling pop songs often pair sad words with happy melodies (and vice versa). The principle (much like the citation) is vague, but I like it. I like that idea of incongruence, that lyrical meaning can be sufficiently disguised by sound. That, and it's intriguing to think that the expression of melancholy can somehow lead to the most fun and liberating of pop anthems. They are the kinds of songs that make you shriek, grab your friends and run to the dancefloor.

This songwriting principle can be identified in many, if not most musical genres. Arguably, that incongruence is at its most compelling in Powerpop, those one-off 7" singles from the early 1980s. The genre is dominated by teenage boys, begging for a place in your heart (as per Protex) or else, one more chance (as per The VIPs). They express jealousy (Jilted John), loneliness (The Letters) and confusion (The Buzzcocks). Adolescent anxiety is relatively commonplace, but it's surprising to hear such visceral expressions of vulnerability paired with frantic drums, jangly Rickenbackers and upbeat, catchy vocals. It's all terribly heartbreaking, but due to its shiny sheen, you need never realise it.

When you do listen closely, you wonder how the adolescent anxiety resolved itself. Their stories of hope and loss remain untapped and unfinished: they will exist as lovelorn seventeen-year-olds forever. You listen to the scenarios they describe and you hope, thirty years on, that it all worked out somehow. For me, I hope that the writing of such songs brought about some sense of clarity. I hope that when it all went down in the suburbs of London and Los Angeles, it was vindicating to have strangers dancing at gigs, singing along and relating intimately to every word.

I don't want to be alive when I'm 25...

It's that very idea, the idea of a crowd singing along and relating to these lyrics which eases that disparity between the so-called happy music and sad lyrics. No matter what the lyrical content, whether it be heartbreak, grief or sadness, there is is a unique happiness associated with finding something which carries a high degree of personal resonance. There is a certain glory associated with singing those relevant words. Singing it out loud provides an implicit kind of solace, that no matter what the hardship, there is always that capacity to connect and recover.

Cassettes & Chocolate Milk: Powerpop Podcast #48
Protex - A Place in Your Heart
The Romantics - What I Like About You
The VIPs - One More Chance
The Times - I Helped Patrick McGoohan Escape
The Really 3rds - Everyday, Everyway
Direct Hits - From the Underworld
Mood Six - What Have You Ever Done?
The Rubinoos - I Wanna Be Your Boyfriend
The Bureaucrats - Feel the Pain
The Numbers - 77 Sunset Strip

Download (49.2 MB)

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)

Download (56.6MB)

It was fitting that I was in a vintage clothes shop when the thought crossed my mind. It was a wry thought, an admittedly sarcastic thought about old things: If only people were slightly more sentimental, every home would be a vintage clothes shop. All this naff peculiar stuff wouldn't be so strange and expensive. It would be stockpiled in your cupboard, waiting, free, along with all your other weird miscellaneous tat. Only then the vintage clothes shops of this town wouldn't have a monopoly upon your thoroughly unique postmodern aesthetic.

Anyone coming to our house for the first time would be overwhelmed by the amount of "stuff" we have. Shelves and shelves of books and records, VHS tapes and DVDs, computers and antiquated appliances. Our interests vary from opera scores to Amigas, guitars to Petit Tom books, violins to cassettes, girls annuals and blazers. We collect, compare, research and rejoice whenever one of us would make a stifling discovery. But, whatever the artifact, no matter how precious, it always seems to be relegated to our pile of "stuff".

There is a tremendous desire to store and access the past. Our love of memory tends to manifest itself in different ways. Andrew likes to organise his photos on Picasa while I record every passing thought and memory in any number of half-empty notebooks. There is a kind of grim sentimentality attached to such behaviour, a kind of sickly unease that we don't tend to share. Perhaps I am the only one who feels it, that no one can ever really value the past, at least, not as it ought to be valued.


Picpus est inquiet
There have been times where I have seen a duplicate object, often in passing in a vintage emporium on Smith St or else a science museum in Oxford: It's our bread bin! It's our slide rule! But even behind glass, it all seems so worthless when stripped from its context. If you could even call context "a drawer full of crap". Yet it is that decontextualisation which makes these objects so romantic to others. It is weird and unique and consequently, obscenely expensive. I feel uncomfortable with the newfound value of these objects, my objects, any objects. No one should unduly profiteer from our attachment to "stuff". It is a cruel thing to prey upon, our desire to share, laugh and collect the things we love. What makes it even more cruel is that all stuff is really quite useless. We really don't need anything at all.

Cassettes & Chocolate Milk: Electro Podcast #29
Keane - Spiralling
Annuals - LOXTEP
Reverend & The Makers - Sundown on the Empire
Music for Animals - If Looks Could Kill
The Virgins - Teen Lovers
Games - Strawberry Skies (feat. Lauren Halo)
Howard Jones - Like to Get to Know You Well
The Human League - Sound of the Crowd

Download (45MB)

I deleted your number the other day. It is stupid, really, because I know it off by heart. I had this soul-destroying tendency to sporadically contact you. I would refer you to things that I know you would love. I mean, really love. I don't know if your new lady would indulge you with such referrals, she probably does. Maybe you like something far more pretentious than what you did before.. even though that was never really possible, was it?

When I write to you, I completely omit any tendency to write verbose things. I don't write meaningful things. I give myself a sentence to impart exactly what you need. Sometimes I don't even do that, I just give a link. I don't even write my name. In my heart of hearts, I can't imagine that you would even know my name. That sort of thing is shrouded in sheets of irrational indifference. I can't imagine that you have any perception of me, any impression of what I have become, any idea of what I have done to myself.

I write all this here because this is exactly how I feel about radio. When I speak, it feels like moments collapsing under my feet. Every utterance is made to a phantom, indifferent listener who just doesn't give a damn. That's why every moment is rushed. The meaning and significance of every song is left unexplored. The content of all this is so awkward and sparse. It is because I only give myself a moment to impart exactly what you want. I only give myself a moment because I honestly believe it is all you could really ever tolerate.


La Colère
Cassettes & Chocolate Milk: Britpop Podcast #6
The Go! Team - Milk Crisis
Apartment - Fall Into Place
Biff Bang Pow! - A Girl Called Destruction
New Rhodes - A Different Time
The Charlatans - Then
Spiritualized - Anyway That You Want Me
Supergrass - Grace

Download (26.1 MB)

I feel as if I have forgotten every feeling prior to this moment. Happiness, lust, yearning, ambition, hope. It has all drained from my heart. I doubt I will ever feel these things again. I can't remember anything.

For many months now, I've lacked the courage to write this piece. The piece where I explain why I have decided to give up one of the most meaningful passions of my life so far. Even now, I don't really understand why I have decided to give up radio. When it is mentioned in conversation, I manage to dismiss the topic so easily, so casually. I think this is because that nobody, not even myself takes the threat seriously. After all, how can you rationally let go of something that fills you with such love and fulfillment? That empowers you, that gives you so much joy and confidence? How can you ever let go of the possibility that you could be the person you always wanted to be?

When I think of the kind of radio that fills you with so much joy and confidence, I think of my long-defunct university radio station, SUB FM. I think about the mixing desk that was stripped from a music studio. The desk appeared to be held together by gaffa tape. The phone didn’t work and the microphone that gave your voice such a beautiful, warm tone. Most of all, I think about my musical freedom. The fact that I could wash away my personal insecurities and pretend to be someone who was so beautifully unapologetic, passionate and insightful.

On air, I acted as if I was directly talking to the very person who would never think to belittle my taste as a teenager. I relish each moment that I would talk to him, as we rarely got a chance to speak. I really loved him. He always feigned fascination with whatever I had to say.

After five and a half years of radio, I am a broken person. I had foolishly believed that I had something worthwhile to offer to my listeners. My Programming Manager had me believe that I hadn't earned my right to talk about music authoritatively. He made me believe that I knew nothing, that I am nothing. He filled me with such new-found feelings of self-loathing that I just can’t do this anymore. I have nothing more to say.

There used to be a tremendous amount of romance associated with "the young struggling artist". The term tends to slightly reminiscent of a period drama. You know, where the gifted auteur would (with ink-stained writing hand) feverishly write his manuscripts by candlelight. The struggling artist would desperately struggle for his art. He would struggle for patronage, recognition and fame. Needless to say, "the young struggling artist" still exists in a contemporary context. However, instead of feverishly refining their art, they would have to refine their networking skills. The modern day struggling artist would have to be prepared to grasp every third rate opportunity.. and be prepared to be treated like a third rate imbecile if they wish to succeed.

The modern-day paradigm of the struggling artist has managed to legitimate the exploitation of the young and educated. This is echoed in the existence and wild popularity of "volunteer positions" and "internship programs" within almost every creative and non-creative industry. It is widely understood that those who accept these positions will be either overlooked, mistreated or at best, humiliated. They will be asked to do meaningless tasks, such as reorganising 500 CDs into alphabetical order. They will also be asked to do physically taxing tasks, such as cleaning, counting and restacking a basement filled with tens of thousands of CDs. They will be asked to be stupid tasks, such as attempting to return a six-month old stamp to a shop, without a receipt.

The struggling artist would foolishly believe that the performance of these tasks would demonstrate their dedication and strength of character. Instead, such willingness to perform these tasks illustrate a grim reality. A reality where it is acceptable that employers dangle the promise of future employment among the skilled, young and hopeful - all in exchange for free labour.

Approximately seven days ago, I committed Facebook suicide. Honestly, it wasn't a decision I had considered lightly because it really wasn't a decision I hadn't considered at all. It was only until I was wandering through the Frequently Asked Questions section of the website that I discovered that if I were to delete myself, I could undelete myself just as easily. If the withdrawals became so bad, I could just log in – and all my profile would be there. My goofy stencil profile picture, my stupidly long list of incongruent musical artists, my LOLCAT application – all waiting for my return. So with that in mind, I clicked on the "deactivate" option and opted for a spell of anonymity.

While I've been away, I've been contemplating why this site has become so attractive and addictive for so many. I've been contemplating how I became caught up in it all.. and more to the point, why I felt it appropriate to cut off contact to 200 friends. I've recognised the appeal of Facebook had shifted significantly from the ye olde Geocities personal web page model. Our antiquated Digital Media Cultures class taught us that the aesthetics of a personal web page were intended to visually consolidate our personal identity. A recognisable example such as the treatment of an eye-burning fuchsia background and irritating Curlz MT typography would adequately reflect the identity (and inept webdesigning skills) of a young teenybopper. Following on from the personal web page model, the highly-customised Myspace profile perpetuates this idea that the underlying attraction of these sites is our ability to develop a highly-visual cohesive identity.

Moving away from the personal webpage model, the attraction of Facebook is its ability to affirm and constantly reaffirm ideas of mutual friendship. The fact that the logged-in home page of Facebook is an RSS feed of your friends' feelings and off-and-online activities clearly indicates that the site is centred upon an exaggerated sense of close friendship. My feeling is that this feature draws upon the ever-existing adolescent anxiety that we're not "in the loop" as such, but we are truly outsiders, excluded from the social circle.

In a superficial sense, the existence of variety of applications act as social proof that we really do mean something to our friends. The existence of an application such as the "Friend Wheel" allow us to create a colourful friendship wheel, illustrating how you and all your friends are connected. Other applications are slightly more blatant in the manner in which an individual is situated among their friends. The "Compare People" application allows an individual to find out how their friends rank their appearance, intelligence, sex appeal, fashion sense, popularity and laugh. All these things highlight an underlying desire to figure out where we honestly stand with the 200 people who claim to be our friends.

Applications aside, I feel that the true addictive nature of Facebook lies in the glorification of friendship. As much as it lies in the affectionate private joke on your friend's wall, it also lies in the envious review of the glamourous lives and photographs of your scenester acquaintances. So in response to those who ask why I decided to delete my account so suddenly and without explanation, I'm sorry I cannot afford you a more coherent response. But I know that I am now at the stage where I don't have the energy to glorify past friendships anymore.. and in the light of everything, it seems hopelessly inappropriate to assume that there was as great a kinship as I thought there was. I was just reading too much into it.

It would appear that there is a neverending cavalcade of my old musical loves, making their way through Melbourne town. As hoardes of people rush out to purchase tickets to see bands like Bloc Party, Lily Allen, Patrick Wolf, Maximo Park, the Long Blondes, Arctic Monkeys (&c &c &c), I feel so disillusioned about these bands I loved so long ago. At the same time, I feel a bit sick that I identify with that incredibly crass indie cliché. You know, that jaded music lover who claims she "knew the band before they were famous". But I can't help but think that these feelings run deeper than mere territorial glory-mongering.

I guess the truth is that that music represents a time when I had so much more than I have now. For one thing, I had a regular radio show. I had opportunities to talk to these artists. They were tenacious and nervous unknown music lovers, just like me. They were sensitive about their work but also, they longed for exposure. I miss loving these bands with my old friends too. I miss talking about these artists for hours and hours with them. I miss that personal and musical inspiration of two years ago, when we found ourselves at the forefront of a musical era, alone and happy.

Every time I see one of those Radar bands splattered across Melbourne street-press, it reminds me of how I lost it all. But as much as I feel anger for the hype and excessive exposure of these bands, I don't feel that I can harbour any true resentment for any of them. I don't think I can have the capacity to hate them. They remind me of my vicarious British existence.. and a time when all was right with the world.


In the days when you were hopelessly poor, I just liked you more...

I hate not being able to talk to people from your past. Not those superficial people. But those truly important people who know you better than you know yourself. Those people who spend a great deal of their time and effort, trying to convince you that you can go to the moon if you really want to. I am sad that these restrictions mean that I can never have access to my past, creativity and former self.

Nothing will ever ease this frustration. What is even more pointless about this post is that there is nothing that I particularly want to say. Ever, really. Except that I'm disappointed that these truly important people cannot muster a bare ounce of civility. At least I'm now aware that when you think of me, you do not think of milk, synthesizers and cats. You think of someone you'd rather forget.

Happy New Year, everybody. With any luck, 2007 will be as delightfully unpredictable as the years preceeding it. I spent my new year doing a dizzying array of activities that I can hardly recall at this very moment at time. Come back to me later, though.

But the reason I write this is because I have just opened up my resolution letter. Basically it is an extended diary entry detailing the year that has just passed and wishes for things in the future. This year's entry was written on 28th December 2005 (detailing the activites of 2005 and wishes for 2006). It's a very cathartic and spiritual thing.. and it's very odd to see three years in such an intimate context.

Needless to say, I am very reluctant to share the contents of this.. but I found this one paragraph that was so recklessly beautiful that I felt I had to share it. Because of the ego.

London was all about love. The place had been all I've wanted for the past 15 years. It represented Freddie. Burnham. Erasure. Adam. Gordy. I love that city because its thought, memory and significance has shaped me. It's motivated me. When I was reacquainted with scenes, scents and fragmented memories, I realised my sentimentality paled in contrast to that of Andrew's. I remember returning to King's Cross after the first time we went to Burnham. Andrew said it was like completing a circle. I can't believe it happened.


Kids, desperate for a piece of Morrissey's shirt/heart
So, here's to 2007. I can't see that anything worthwhile is going to occur in it but I suppose it's a necessity if you want to get to the years after it. Cheers.

Don't worry. I haven't abandoned C&CM. Despite the lack of posts, it's been something that's been at the forefront of my mind for months now.. particularly moreso since my prospects of a law career eventuating has become more improbable. Radio isn't something that I could seriously rely on as a career but it's something that I will always want to do, paid or unpaid. I can't imagine a time when I'm not preparing for it, either by doing interviews or research or editing.. or basically killing myself that I'm not good enough as I should be. The fact is that I love it and I miss it.

I suppose student and community radio can provide a sense of comfort in that there are few people perceiving you. It allows you to build confidence in your content, presentation style and ultimately yourself. Luckily this is afforded by the fact that the people who do listen most likely know you on a personal basis. In this way, I am overly grateful that my friends do listen to me and they, in turn, provide me so much support in my moments of doubt. However, because there is this lack of truly critical, professional advice. I obsess about what the hell I can do to improve. Not what I can do "to get on a particular station", but how I can properly refine my style and project the confidence I had on such projects such as Radar and Counterfeit.

This brings me to what happened to spur this ridiculous entry. For about a week, I've been attempting to record the second of my summer podcasts and I found I couldn't do it. This inability to record anything of remotely acceptable quality is somewhat ironic, in light of criticisms such as "you can't even string a sentence together" and "you say um". Although I used to be able to argue until I was blue in the face that I never actually "say um" on the radio (in the same way that I never dot my i's), I have suddenly become crippled. I can't do what I love.

I see this as a long time coming. As much as radio was a self-indulgent and extremely passionate distraction, it has become an excuse to believe the hype and consequently shred my self-confidence. I even see this in the progression of C&CM as well. In the 8th and final semester of the show, I did refrain from making this a personal entity. I don't retell personal stories or anecdotes, neither do I share any profound details on the blog. It could be because all my stories have to do with ex-boyfriends who have run over my heart in their car.. or else it could be because people just want to hear the music. People don't necessarily care about what I have to say.

I am aware that anyone's presentation style need not be perfect. I use to teach kidlets that it's important to be enthusiastic, passionate, open and confident. Slick presentation manner aside, it's most important to be engaging. It's how so many listeners developed a rapport with icons such as Peely.. and as much as I would dream of commanding such a faithful listenership, I just want to be on air again, anywhere.

I apologise for the awkward self-indulgent rant. Hopefully many of you have skimmed over it and rushed for that Morrissey b-side further down the page. For those of you who have been unfortunate as to read it, I hope you take something away from it. With any luck, someone suffering from the same neuroses will read this and recognise how stupid it is to dwell on such things. Then they will promptly get over themselves and consequently achieve great things. That's the idea, avoid my example.

So, since I haven't got a podcast to present, I decided to upload an unedited (this means I “say um”) interview that I've never released before. I recorded this a few days before I left for the UK in mid 2005. This interview is with Peter Freestone, famously known within the Queen community as Phoebe, Freddie Mercury's personal assistant. I never had grand intentions to air the interview as it bore such a great deal of personal significance. It was my opportunity to become better acquainted with the person who started all of this, the musician who I still claim to know everything about. To me, it was so fascinating to have my misconceptions clarified. It was an interview where I did gain a proper, realistic insight about the character and motivation of a person who has inspired me so greatly. But this is all retrospective though. The interview itself sounds like two teen girls gushing about a crush. But that can only be expected, right?

Interview with Peter Freestone (mp3, 17mb) (linkie updated)

Yesterday, myself and many others received this email from Simon Knight, my station manager of four years:

I'm sorry to have to tell you all that SUB FM will be closing at the end of this semester. The University has not included us in their services to be funded next year and subsequently I am (and many others) are to be made redundant. The station will continue as normal til the end of semester...

This is why.
It's difficult to express how I feel about this. I've lost something so important to me. This was my little stage, my platform where I first consolidated thoughts about my music and all the ridiculous things associated with it. It was the place I could talk so freely and carelessly with people I missed so much. SUB was the place where I found my confidence. SUB was the place I found my passion.


Julian Casablancas: Things, they have changed in such a permanent way
Personal associations aside, the bulk of my disappointment lies in the fact that no future students will have this chance again. No one at Latrobe will have the opportunity to stumble upon their passion on air. In saying that it's ironic to mention that I started radio simply because Latrobe shut down its music department 12 years ago. Regardless, I am so grateful I've been given this chance in the first place. I'm very much indebted to my station manager Simon after all these years of support. I toast my milk to you, sir.

Playlist for August 7th 2006
New Order - Face Up
INXS - Black & White (Extended Mix)
The Strokes - Alone, Together
Suede - Rent
Ratcat - That Ain't Bad (Live at Sydney's Metro)
Basement Jaxx - Romeo (Acoustic)
The Shins - Caring is Creepy
Maximo Park - Shiver (Acoustic Cover)
Blackbox Recorder - Kidnapping an Heiress
Ivy League - London Bridge
The Whitlams - Make the World Safe
Moloko - Familiar Feelings
Peter Gabriel - Digging in the Dirt
Montell Jordan - This is how we do it
Le Tigre - I'm so Excited
Pet Shop Boys - Try It (Peel Session)
Style Council - Long Hot Summer (El's Lust-Induced-Coma Mix)
Depeche Mode - Leave in Silence
Piney Gir - Boston

Don't forget to download the first 78 minutes of this week's show, if you happened to miss it, that is (44mb, decent quality, considering).