What happens when a young man first cooks for his mother? As Daniel Lewis discovers, the roles might be reversed, but you can't erase your childhood.
This is a year of firsts for me. I moved out of the bachelor pad and in with my girlfriend. Quit my job to pursue a new career. And for the first time in my life, I cooked dinner for my mother. The latter was the most nerve-wracking of all.
When I rang Mum to invite her over a couple of weeks back, she was thrilled. But I wasn’t convinced she knew the full story.
“I'm cooking,” I added.
There was a pause. Memories of me bringing home appalling concoctions from home economics class were no doubt swirling around her mind. Surely he couldn't reproduce that quiche from sixteen years ago?
“Okay, I look forward to it.”
The line went dead. Even within that soothingly familiar voice, those last words had a sinister undercurrent. Mum was worried. So was I.
I asked my girlfriend for help.
“You cook for me all the time,” she said. “You'll be fine.”
It was easy for her to be blasé. She hadn’t been the smart-ass kid who spent much of his childhood rating his mother’s meals.
Monday night, roast. Potatoes not up to usual standard. Seven and a half.
Wednesday, chicken stir-fry. Too much zucchini. Eight.
Friday, lasagna. Excellent, although a little bland. Some chili wouldn't have gone astray. Eight and a half.
There were never any tens, as that would mean there was nothing to look forward to, or for Mum to work towards. And, conversely, no fails. We still wanted to eat the next night.
Worse still, none of this was lost on my little brother, 13 years my junior, who continued the tradition long after I'd left home. Countless hours sweating over hotplates; another decade of narrowly missing that elusive ten. And it was all my fault. It was time for me to be the grown up, to face the music.
The big day beckoned. Footscray market was mobbed, the range of produce imposing. I just wanted tomatoes. Stall after stall, amid endless rows of vegetables, were variations of the trusty staple: Roma, gourmet, wild, beefsteak, heritage. All shapes and sizes. The little Italian grocer laughed heartily when I asked if cherry tomatoes were suitable for cooking a sauce from scratch. She pointed in the direction of the vine-ripened variety, gave a quick rundown on how best to cook them before waddling away with a shake of her head.
So, to the vine-ripened stand. Must admit, there is something aesthetically pleasing about those with the leaves still intact. I'd remembered an episode where Jamie Oliver baked some with herbs and oil before tossing them through pasta. It looked easy, and he even had time to entertain his guests while cooking, not to mention having them in fits of laughter afterwards. I threw half a dozen in the basket, added a few Romas for good measure. Then I stocked up on cooked prawns, herbs, bread, cheese and fresh pasta.
Back in the kitchen, I lathered the baking tray with olive oil, placed the tomatoes down, chopped the garlic and chili. A shake of salt and pepper. The juice of a lemon.
The doorbell rang during my chopping frenzy. I nudged the baking tray to a position on the bench where the tomatoes glistened in the late afternoon sun. I delayed the final preparations as my girlfriend showed Mum, my sisters and brother-in-law around the house. With Mum settled on a bench stool with a drink, I applied the finishing touches.
She sipped away, observing. Finally, she said: “Well, don't you look the part?”
My girlfriend ushered everyone to the courtyard dining table, where my brother-in-law’s jokes and Mum's laughter could be heard amid the clink of wine glasses and rapid conversation. Just like in Oliver's Twist.
In the kitchen, the tomatoes were blistered and cooking down. I tossed through the prawns. Added basil for flavour and colour. Everything was transferred into the pasta and tossed evenly. I wiped my brow and finished the beer I'd started an hour before. The sober chef.
I marched out with fresh bread and a bowl of freshly grated parmesan. A final drizzle of oil and out went the main. I served Mum first and waited for her reaction. If she was surprised, she hid it well.
“Restaurant standard,” she said, a look of genuine pleasure on her face. “Eight out of ten.”
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Getting on a bit
You know you're getting on a bit when you remember the baby in the photos of your little cousin's 21st invite. Conversely, you know you still have a ways to go when your first thoughts are: free booze, I'm there, I'm going to get hammered.
Fruit Tangle - A Ko Samui flashback
The banana lounges were sumptuous; we stretched out and let the Ko Samui sun coat our bodies. The sun kissed the aqua blue sea in front of us. Backing that was the feint outline of distant, overarching cliffs, the steam rising up from the water. My spine nestled into the cushion and my body drifted into something reaching relaxation. We'd been in the same spot for five days now. It was perfection, we saw no need to move. And that's when I saw movement in the distance. Somewhere under a wide straw hat was the face of our little Thai fruit vendor. He was severely hunched over as he walked, a long, thick bend of bamboo slung across his shoulder that hoisted a sizeable basket of tropical fruits on ice. He was cutting through an inlet of water, heading our way with each back-breaking step. I didn't want any fruit. My girlfriend didn't either. We were, for want of a better word, all fruited out. And still he edged closer, like a little black insect expanding. The ridges of the bamboo stick became visible. I could now hear his footsteps in the sand, could see the muscles in his thin legs bulging with the effort. He was humming a tune. I started to wave him away. I even put on that moronic Asian accent Westerners use as compensation for not knowing the local language. No, thanks. Not today. And now he was upon us, the sweat dripping off his dark, ageing face, his teeth pearly white and smiling. He lifted the huge weight off his shoulders and it hit the ground with a weighty thud just in front of us. On offer was the same chilled smorgasbord as the previous few days. It all looked fresh enough. I knew we were his livelihood, perhaps his only customers. But with the tang of pineapple still on my tongue the only word that kept presenting itself in my brain was NO. Flashing his whites, he pointed at the watermelon. No. Rockmelon? No. He picked up a wedge of pineapple and thrust it toward me. He knew I was a sucker for the stuff. But it was another shake of the head. Everything was a no. I employed the accent again. Maybe tomorrow? His smile remained, but I could see the disappointment in his eyes as he hauled the weight back over his slender shoulders, his raggy t-shirt tearing slightly with the force as shuffled off. There was an even more pronounced sag to his posture now. The sad music needed to kick in, but all I could hear was distant jungle beats. It wasn't until my girlfriend jabbed me that I came to my senses. I ran after the little bugger and handed him the equivalent of AUD$10. I'd buy the lot. He did somersaults in the sand. My girlfriend winked at me as I returned to my towel. A warm charge of self-justification rose in my chest. Then I let the ants at the fruit.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Flying
I hate flying. No, I'm not against Superman or birds or Gary Ablett Sr (remember him standing on Chris Langford's head back in, what was it, 1993?), but my aversion I speak of is being in an aircraft, in the air. It's something that has been bubbling under the surface since I first boarded a plane at the age of 20, when me and my best mate Waz boarded a 747 bound for the UK. That flight, and the fifty or so since, haven't worried me in the slightest, mainly because there was barely a ripple of turbulence on any of those flights, and the fact I was young and silly and perhaps didn't give life the credit it deserved.
On my first few flights, particularly the first one with Waz (yes, I jumped straight into the deep end, no domestic flight in Oz to speak of, just an epic journey to a destination almost as geographically far away as possible) any nerves I may have had were assuaged by a dozen stiff drinks. That would get me to Kuala Lumpur or some other Asian middle-of-the-planet stopover and then I'd be so dehydrated and deliriously tired that I'd even manage some shut-eye on the back nine.
I've done flying's full gambit: 24-hour long-hauls - four times back and forth to the UK and Ireland; the halfway ones to Asia and back; and, of course, the blink-and-it's-gone commercial journeys within our great country. From the outside I could have even be perceived a casual flyer, one who could read immerse myself in a film, or read great chunks of novels, or happily slap my knees to music, or wile away many an hour unsuccessfully trying to beat the in-flight computer at tennis or frustrate myself no end at mini-golf. Until now. That voice, the one that I'd manage to bury away in my inner psyche, was always right. Truth is, I am scared when I'm up there. All it took was one incident, one flirtation (in my mind) with death for that voice to take over my faculties of reasoning; to scar me, perhaps forever.
Let's recap. Seeing I've given you a long, some might say self-indulgent lead-in to the story (that's the beauty of having your own blog, there's no issues with word count, or space, or even sticking to the point or angle of the story) I think it's only fair, for purposes of consistency, to give you ample lead-up to my flight from hell. A story told in detail is a story told well.
My beautiful girlfriend Tash and I recently left our lives behind for a tick under a month as we took in Buenos Aires and Argentina's lake district, and the US of A's New York and Los Angeles. As part of a snaffled bargain basement US deal, we flew to LA first. This flight went by in the wink of an eye, and aside from Tash and I being stuck in the middle of the four-seat middle aisle, with big, snoring men either side of us, it was smooth and uneventful: just the way I liked it. We spent the day touring Hollywood on a bus tour, one that would have been exciting had we not been so utterly jet-lagged.
Guide: 'And there, behind those large gates, amid those million dollar plants, next to the that statued waterfall, is Brad and Angelina's house...'
Tash and Lewy: Snore.
The next flight, from LA to Buenos Aires, went along the same, Guinness-head smooth lines. I'll stop here to say this part of the journey wasn't even part of the original plan. If Tash hadn't fallen pregnant after we'd booked our flights to Peru with the intention of doing the Inca Trail, perhaps I wouldn't be spending time recounting this story, and maybe I'd be thinking of my next trip overseas without thoughts of dread. But she did (which is indeed a blessing and, after a few weeks (months?) of uncertainty I have to say I'm besotted with the little creature captured on the 12- and 20-week scans and can't wait until December when it springs eternal) and therefore, due to the required immunisation jabs that are said to increase the risk of miscarriage, we had to dispense with the Inca dream and instead moved our flights, at a small cost, to Buenos Aires.
(Which, while we were there, was more than sufficient compensation. Buenos Aires is an amazingly diverse city, and we spent five endless days walking its streets, taking in as much as possible but ultimately only unravelling a tiny part of its rich cultural tapestry. Hip cafes, a hauntingly beautiful cemetery that is home to Eva Peron, the chance to retrace the steps of the hallowed grounds where Diego Maradona's twinkle feet once had his countrymen in the palm of his hand, and, last but surely not least, beautiful people everywhere, men included {Tash, to her credit, refrained from the sideways glance... as far as I know...} A huge city that takes up more than a third of Argentina's population, where the poor are poor and the rich are exceedingly, exclusively so. Unforgettable. And the Lake district - surrounding the homely town of Bariloche where the cleverly named 'Seven Lakes' are situated, was as breathtaking an alpine area you could hope to see, even if the lack of English {I learnt a few basic words but the locals' propensity to speed talk had me baffled every time} counted against us on two of our day tours, one of which we were cooped up in a bus for twelve hours with a nasally tour guide whose high-pitched Spanish and reluctance to accommodate us with her limited, but probably adequate, grasp of English had me thinking of all sorts of weird, Temple Of Doom-type ceremonial stuff... In the end our source of revenge was to not tip her at its conclusion.)
It was just the flight back across the equator towards the Land of the Free that has me scarred.
And so, to the flight itself. We checked in three hours before our flights to ensure we had our own aisle seat. The friendly woman at the reservation desk, one of few who spoke fluent English, gave us two aisle seats towards the rear of the plane, one of the last few remaining, adding that these were only available because people generally don't like sitting at the back. When I asked why, she mentioned something about people not feeling safe there. Is that because if the back snaps off, we're the first to go, I asked, drawing laughter. We guffawed a little more before we moved on towards customs. We boarded without fanfare. Upon taking up our seats, Tash voiced her displeasure that there was no in-flight entertainment, just a few strategically placed screens, the nearest of which wasn't working anyway. Next to us, in the three-seat middle aisle was a woman of middle-eastern appearance, wearing a long dress and bandanna, with two daughters. She was leafing through a Koran, praying. I looked away.
The take-off was stock-standard: we ascended, found altitude and cruising speed soon enough, and then the pilot turned off the seatbelt sign. The Captain's voice came through the speaker, informing us of all the places we'd be flying over, our expected arrival time, and that he was expecting a smooth journey. I opened my book and relaxed into my seat. There was no in-flight entertainment this time, which I thought a good thing as I could make some decent inroads into my novel and not get sucked into the ultimate of all life-suckages: computer games.
In a jiffy, Tash was served up her vegetarian meal (not that she's against meat, just the random bits and pieces that make up the meat options for in-flight meals). The flight path navigator suggested we were somewhere over southern Brazil. And then the buffeting started. At first it felt no different to regulation turbulence but within seconds I knew it was something more than that. We'd apparently enveloped ourselves into an unexpected air pocket of terror. The dreaded bell of the seatbelt sign flashed on and the little girls next to us starting crying, blubbering 'mummy, mummy'. I grabbed Tash's hand, an understated sobbing in my voice as I said with increased urgency: 'Tash, Tash'. The plane shook and bumped. After about half a minute the plane felt like it went into a spasm and then it dipped. My heart flipped. Then it stopped dipping, and came to a jolting halt, like we'd landed mid-air, and everyone was lifted from their seats. It reminded me of a silly time with several mates in Cobram when I was 18 or 19, when a mate, known by all and sundry as 'Pronga', fifteen pots of draught to the good, decided to take us on a crazed tour of our hometown in his yellow Datsun. The car would never be the same again after he flew over a levy bank near the river and came crashing to the ground a few seconds later. My head hit the roof on that occasion. Although my cranium didn't hit ceiling on this occasion, this felt much worse. Tash's glass of water lashed her meal. The little girls' cokes tipped along their trays. A few yelps escaped from other passengers' mouths but most stayed calm, even as the rattling continued. The Captain's voice came through the speaker: "Sorry about that ladies and gentlemen, we encountered some unexpected turbulence there, we are going to change our flight path slightly to see if we can get out of this bad area. Flight crew, please stay in your seats."
The plane continued to rattle we descended slightly. I had no choice but to hold the Captain to his word. Things calmed down a bit. Tash looked across at me. "That was bad". I couldn't speak. I didn't want to be up there any more. I was in a situation I had no control over and I'd peeked into the world of death. I didn't like what I saw. A wave of pure sadness washed over me, making me feel dirty. I was aware of how common turbulence was but it was the utter unexpectedness, the sheer violence of mother nature that shook the plane mid air that made it feel like something out of a movie, that made me think: this is my time. And I couldn't get rid of the sadness. I could barely talk. Two years ago it wouldn't have worried me. But now, with my partner carrying my future child next to me, I had more in the world to concern myself with. I wanted the baby to see the world, I wanted to leave something behind before I went on my way. Apparently this sort of thing is, and I hate this word, common. What isn't common though, and I've always prided myself on being a little different, is how utterly irrational I was being. Tash was no doubt spooked but was able to hold herself together. She didn't want to harm the child. Where as I, the man, the so-called protector, would sit there fidgeting, fists clenched, gently punching myself in the mouth, flicking in and out of in-flight movies and games, unable to concentrate on anything other than what I thought was our pending death for more than a few minutes.
The rest of the flight was ugly to say the least. There would be periods of calm but inevitably the demons of turbulence would have their wicket way again and yet again the seatbelt sign would flash on and that sickening sadness would engulf me again. What perplexed me most was how calm other passengers were. How they could just sleep through it, some of them in that open-mouthed deep slumber, was beyond me. How could they allow their bodies to lapse into such a state of advanced relaxation when our mode of transportation was akin to that of jut-impeded cattletruck, 30,000 feet above the air?
These airbuses, are they safer than 747s? Am I right in thinking those old mothers used to cut through the air, regardless of the weather? Airbuses seem to be just that: like a bus on a rattly road, except in an an airspace that requires oxygen if things go awry. I can't, and probably won't, subscribe to the theory that when it's your time , it's your time, and in life you should only worry about what you can control. That's why I won't get on a plane again for a while. However, I also abide by the adage, time heals all wounds, and have been told by others averse to flying that eventually I will be okay to fly again. I hope so, because I still have much to see and do; there are continents to conquer, things to show my kid down the track that will require travel.
As for the rest of the trip, we had a ball in New York, the city that throbs to its own heartbeat. Mixed it up well. Spent the first four nights in the crazy busy Roosevelt Hotel near Times Square, then took up residence at an apartment in East Village (which proved conveniently close to the home of Cobram's favourite son, Brad Blanks), then rounded it out with a night in Central Park West, near where John Lennon was murdered. After nine days in the big Apple it was time to get back on a plane: a four-hour flight to LA. My nerves were still shot, I needed another flight like a weekend binge-drinker needs a stein of lager on a Monday night, particularly when the plane took a minor buffeting as we ascended. This is where I was at: if we are being knocked around on the way up, what's it going to be like when we reach cruising speed? Surrounded by Aussie accents again (it's amazing how strong the accent sounds when you haven't heard it for a while; it's like something out of a movie) was a minor comfort and we got to LA in one piece. Two nights at the Roosevelt in Hollywood allowed me to relax and try to put the pending flight home out of my mind as I sun baked by the hotel's famous pool surrounded by a hundred beautiful, plastic people. But I allowed myself to be immersed in a USA Today article about the Air France flight, and the apparent heavy thunderstorms the plane had snagged itself in not long before disappearing into the sea. The old heartbeat thumped and I felt pathetic once more. I even put forth the idea to Tash that we perhaps take a boat home. A romantic cruise, was how I put it. When Tash saw I was half serious she explained that it would take weeks, months even, and we had a life in Melbourne to get home to and to stop being so silly.
But that nonsensical mindset stayed with me and was very much on song as I tried to combat anxiety boarding the plane that last time. The captain assured us it would be a smooth flight but he expected a few bumps just north of the equator. Great, I thought. Something to look forward to. I hung in there for eleven hours, continually checking the flight path, shaking my head and trying to take heed of Tash's advice to take deep breaths when we did hit turbulence and the seatbelt sign was turned on. Then I could see the top of Cape York appear on the flight path map, and as the gap between the little white plane and Australia's east coast lessened, the better I felt.
After we touched down Tash turned to me and said, "I'm never flying with you again". And I don't blame her. But I was rapt. It felt great to be on the ground again. Great to be home. I had fallen in love with Melbourne all over again. No more cliche-avoidance: it's great to be alive.
On my first few flights, particularly the first one with Waz (yes, I jumped straight into the deep end, no domestic flight in Oz to speak of, just an epic journey to a destination almost as geographically far away as possible) any nerves I may have had were assuaged by a dozen stiff drinks. That would get me to Kuala Lumpur or some other Asian middle-of-the-planet stopover and then I'd be so dehydrated and deliriously tired that I'd even manage some shut-eye on the back nine.
I've done flying's full gambit: 24-hour long-hauls - four times back and forth to the UK and Ireland; the halfway ones to Asia and back; and, of course, the blink-and-it's-gone commercial journeys within our great country. From the outside I could have even be perceived a casual flyer, one who could read immerse myself in a film, or read great chunks of novels, or happily slap my knees to music, or wile away many an hour unsuccessfully trying to beat the in-flight computer at tennis or frustrate myself no end at mini-golf. Until now. That voice, the one that I'd manage to bury away in my inner psyche, was always right. Truth is, I am scared when I'm up there. All it took was one incident, one flirtation (in my mind) with death for that voice to take over my faculties of reasoning; to scar me, perhaps forever.
Let's recap. Seeing I've given you a long, some might say self-indulgent lead-in to the story (that's the beauty of having your own blog, there's no issues with word count, or space, or even sticking to the point or angle of the story) I think it's only fair, for purposes of consistency, to give you ample lead-up to my flight from hell. A story told in detail is a story told well.
My beautiful girlfriend Tash and I recently left our lives behind for a tick under a month as we took in Buenos Aires and Argentina's lake district, and the US of A's New York and Los Angeles. As part of a snaffled bargain basement US deal, we flew to LA first. This flight went by in the wink of an eye, and aside from Tash and I being stuck in the middle of the four-seat middle aisle, with big, snoring men either side of us, it was smooth and uneventful: just the way I liked it. We spent the day touring Hollywood on a bus tour, one that would have been exciting had we not been so utterly jet-lagged.
Guide: 'And there, behind those large gates, amid those million dollar plants, next to the that statued waterfall, is Brad and Angelina's house...'
Tash and Lewy: Snore.
The next flight, from LA to Buenos Aires, went along the same, Guinness-head smooth lines. I'll stop here to say this part of the journey wasn't even part of the original plan. If Tash hadn't fallen pregnant after we'd booked our flights to Peru with the intention of doing the Inca Trail, perhaps I wouldn't be spending time recounting this story, and maybe I'd be thinking of my next trip overseas without thoughts of dread. But she did (which is indeed a blessing and, after a few weeks (months?) of uncertainty I have to say I'm besotted with the little creature captured on the 12- and 20-week scans and can't wait until December when it springs eternal) and therefore, due to the required immunisation jabs that are said to increase the risk of miscarriage, we had to dispense with the Inca dream and instead moved our flights, at a small cost, to Buenos Aires.
(Which, while we were there, was more than sufficient compensation. Buenos Aires is an amazingly diverse city, and we spent five endless days walking its streets, taking in as much as possible but ultimately only unravelling a tiny part of its rich cultural tapestry. Hip cafes, a hauntingly beautiful cemetery that is home to Eva Peron, the chance to retrace the steps of the hallowed grounds where Diego Maradona's twinkle feet once had his countrymen in the palm of his hand, and, last but surely not least, beautiful people everywhere, men included {Tash, to her credit, refrained from the sideways glance... as far as I know...} A huge city that takes up more than a third of Argentina's population, where the poor are poor and the rich are exceedingly, exclusively so. Unforgettable. And the Lake district - surrounding the homely town of Bariloche where the cleverly named 'Seven Lakes' are situated, was as breathtaking an alpine area you could hope to see, even if the lack of English {I learnt a few basic words but the locals' propensity to speed talk had me baffled every time} counted against us on two of our day tours, one of which we were cooped up in a bus for twelve hours with a nasally tour guide whose high-pitched Spanish and reluctance to accommodate us with her limited, but probably adequate, grasp of English had me thinking of all sorts of weird, Temple Of Doom-type ceremonial stuff... In the end our source of revenge was to not tip her at its conclusion.)
It was just the flight back across the equator towards the Land of the Free that has me scarred.
And so, to the flight itself. We checked in three hours before our flights to ensure we had our own aisle seat. The friendly woman at the reservation desk, one of few who spoke fluent English, gave us two aisle seats towards the rear of the plane, one of the last few remaining, adding that these were only available because people generally don't like sitting at the back. When I asked why, she mentioned something about people not feeling safe there. Is that because if the back snaps off, we're the first to go, I asked, drawing laughter. We guffawed a little more before we moved on towards customs. We boarded without fanfare. Upon taking up our seats, Tash voiced her displeasure that there was no in-flight entertainment, just a few strategically placed screens, the nearest of which wasn't working anyway. Next to us, in the three-seat middle aisle was a woman of middle-eastern appearance, wearing a long dress and bandanna, with two daughters. She was leafing through a Koran, praying. I looked away.
The take-off was stock-standard: we ascended, found altitude and cruising speed soon enough, and then the pilot turned off the seatbelt sign. The Captain's voice came through the speaker, informing us of all the places we'd be flying over, our expected arrival time, and that he was expecting a smooth journey. I opened my book and relaxed into my seat. There was no in-flight entertainment this time, which I thought a good thing as I could make some decent inroads into my novel and not get sucked into the ultimate of all life-suckages: computer games.
In a jiffy, Tash was served up her vegetarian meal (not that she's against meat, just the random bits and pieces that make up the meat options for in-flight meals). The flight path navigator suggested we were somewhere over southern Brazil. And then the buffeting started. At first it felt no different to regulation turbulence but within seconds I knew it was something more than that. We'd apparently enveloped ourselves into an unexpected air pocket of terror. The dreaded bell of the seatbelt sign flashed on and the little girls next to us starting crying, blubbering 'mummy, mummy'. I grabbed Tash's hand, an understated sobbing in my voice as I said with increased urgency: 'Tash, Tash'. The plane shook and bumped. After about half a minute the plane felt like it went into a spasm and then it dipped. My heart flipped. Then it stopped dipping, and came to a jolting halt, like we'd landed mid-air, and everyone was lifted from their seats. It reminded me of a silly time with several mates in Cobram when I was 18 or 19, when a mate, known by all and sundry as 'Pronga', fifteen pots of draught to the good, decided to take us on a crazed tour of our hometown in his yellow Datsun. The car would never be the same again after he flew over a levy bank near the river and came crashing to the ground a few seconds later. My head hit the roof on that occasion. Although my cranium didn't hit ceiling on this occasion, this felt much worse. Tash's glass of water lashed her meal. The little girls' cokes tipped along their trays. A few yelps escaped from other passengers' mouths but most stayed calm, even as the rattling continued. The Captain's voice came through the speaker: "Sorry about that ladies and gentlemen, we encountered some unexpected turbulence there, we are going to change our flight path slightly to see if we can get out of this bad area. Flight crew, please stay in your seats."
The plane continued to rattle we descended slightly. I had no choice but to hold the Captain to his word. Things calmed down a bit. Tash looked across at me. "That was bad". I couldn't speak. I didn't want to be up there any more. I was in a situation I had no control over and I'd peeked into the world of death. I didn't like what I saw. A wave of pure sadness washed over me, making me feel dirty. I was aware of how common turbulence was but it was the utter unexpectedness, the sheer violence of mother nature that shook the plane mid air that made it feel like something out of a movie, that made me think: this is my time. And I couldn't get rid of the sadness. I could barely talk. Two years ago it wouldn't have worried me. But now, with my partner carrying my future child next to me, I had more in the world to concern myself with. I wanted the baby to see the world, I wanted to leave something behind before I went on my way. Apparently this sort of thing is, and I hate this word, common. What isn't common though, and I've always prided myself on being a little different, is how utterly irrational I was being. Tash was no doubt spooked but was able to hold herself together. She didn't want to harm the child. Where as I, the man, the so-called protector, would sit there fidgeting, fists clenched, gently punching myself in the mouth, flicking in and out of in-flight movies and games, unable to concentrate on anything other than what I thought was our pending death for more than a few minutes.
The rest of the flight was ugly to say the least. There would be periods of calm but inevitably the demons of turbulence would have their wicket way again and yet again the seatbelt sign would flash on and that sickening sadness would engulf me again. What perplexed me most was how calm other passengers were. How they could just sleep through it, some of them in that open-mouthed deep slumber, was beyond me. How could they allow their bodies to lapse into such a state of advanced relaxation when our mode of transportation was akin to that of jut-impeded cattletruck, 30,000 feet above the air?
These airbuses, are they safer than 747s? Am I right in thinking those old mothers used to cut through the air, regardless of the weather? Airbuses seem to be just that: like a bus on a rattly road, except in an an airspace that requires oxygen if things go awry. I can't, and probably won't, subscribe to the theory that when it's your time , it's your time, and in life you should only worry about what you can control. That's why I won't get on a plane again for a while. However, I also abide by the adage, time heals all wounds, and have been told by others averse to flying that eventually I will be okay to fly again. I hope so, because I still have much to see and do; there are continents to conquer, things to show my kid down the track that will require travel.
As for the rest of the trip, we had a ball in New York, the city that throbs to its own heartbeat. Mixed it up well. Spent the first four nights in the crazy busy Roosevelt Hotel near Times Square, then took up residence at an apartment in East Village (which proved conveniently close to the home of Cobram's favourite son, Brad Blanks), then rounded it out with a night in Central Park West, near where John Lennon was murdered. After nine days in the big Apple it was time to get back on a plane: a four-hour flight to LA. My nerves were still shot, I needed another flight like a weekend binge-drinker needs a stein of lager on a Monday night, particularly when the plane took a minor buffeting as we ascended. This is where I was at: if we are being knocked around on the way up, what's it going to be like when we reach cruising speed? Surrounded by Aussie accents again (it's amazing how strong the accent sounds when you haven't heard it for a while; it's like something out of a movie) was a minor comfort and we got to LA in one piece. Two nights at the Roosevelt in Hollywood allowed me to relax and try to put the pending flight home out of my mind as I sun baked by the hotel's famous pool surrounded by a hundred beautiful, plastic people. But I allowed myself to be immersed in a USA Today article about the Air France flight, and the apparent heavy thunderstorms the plane had snagged itself in not long before disappearing into the sea. The old heartbeat thumped and I felt pathetic once more. I even put forth the idea to Tash that we perhaps take a boat home. A romantic cruise, was how I put it. When Tash saw I was half serious she explained that it would take weeks, months even, and we had a life in Melbourne to get home to and to stop being so silly.
But that nonsensical mindset stayed with me and was very much on song as I tried to combat anxiety boarding the plane that last time. The captain assured us it would be a smooth flight but he expected a few bumps just north of the equator. Great, I thought. Something to look forward to. I hung in there for eleven hours, continually checking the flight path, shaking my head and trying to take heed of Tash's advice to take deep breaths when we did hit turbulence and the seatbelt sign was turned on. Then I could see the top of Cape York appear on the flight path map, and as the gap between the little white plane and Australia's east coast lessened, the better I felt.
After we touched down Tash turned to me and said, "I'm never flying with you again". And I don't blame her. But I was rapt. It felt great to be on the ground again. Great to be home. I had fallen in love with Melbourne all over again. No more cliche-avoidance: it's great to be alive.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Response to JJJ's Hottest 100 of all time 2009
I gave Triple J's Hottest 100 Of All-Time a good chunk of my attention last weekend. So much so that my girlfriend had to tell me to dispense with the aghast sighs when hearing of an average (in my opinion) song's giddy position on the countdown as opposed to another's (of which I'm fond) lowly position.
Don't get me wrong. This is indeed a strong list of songs (I ranked each out 10 - and no, it's not that I've got too much time on my hands, I've had to burn the midnight oil a few times. The average is 7.82, a tick under an 'A' or 'HD' average).
Without stretching the old noggin any further (given this is more than likely to be a futile, thankless task) I'd say a good half of the tunes herein would be in line for my top 100 of all time. Or top 200. But then, it's impossible to say until I actually sit down and tackle that mammoth task. Unless the windfall comes my way it probably won't happen, I like my sleep too much.
Actually, even if I'm able to bathe in $100 notes while attempting it, it wouldn't feel right. Music is always alive, songs go up and down in estimations; new tunes emerge that take your breath away. I guess that's why these sorts of polls find constantly find themselves on the radio and in music magazines. It's the search for the fruitless - the definitive all-time great song. But it's more than that for many of us. It's the thrill of the chase.
So. What I've done is put my own order to the 100 songs that made the countdown. It seems I'm on the same page as the nucleus on no less than four songs - Under the Bridge, Alive, London Calling and Every You, Every Me while I was one off the pace on three - Superstition, Paranoid Android and Today. As for the others, well, I differ. And that's what, for me, made this exercise worthwhile. By throwing in a comment on each one (my self-imposed 20-word limit proved difficult, particularly on the songs I didn't like as much), and by listening to the Blip Playlist, I reaffirmed my thoughts on each.
Below is the final product. It's been through excel, word and now in restrictive e-blogger format.
Finally, my disclaimer: that I love music too much to make apologies for any of my choices. To adopt a well-worn cliche: music is the winner here!
My rank
(Hottest 100 of all time 2009 rank)
Song
Artist
Year of release
Comments
1
(59)
One Crowded Hour
Augie March
2006
Already an old friend. Moo You Bloody Choir, along with their first two albums, helped me through my ‘dark summer’.
2
(76)
Fools Gold
The Stone Roses
1989
Cool as f*ck (who’d have thought to turn the vocals down?) and ten years’ ahead of its time.
3
(36)
Into My Arms
Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds
1997
The definitive funeral song. Achingly beautiful.
4
(5)
Paranoid Android
Radiohead
1997
Goosebumps still sprout when electric guitar meets that bass-driven riff.
5
(7)
Last Goodbye
Jeff Buckley
1994
Memories of hostel life, rot-gut red and a love seemingly lost forever.
6
(15)
Karma Police
Radiohead
1997
Just pipped by Paranoid Android for Radiohead's best. ‘90s angst drips off this.
Harmonies Brian Wilson would be proud to claim.
7
(75)
Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)
Green Day
1997
Before Seinfeld and others took it to different place, this was a simple, heartfelt pop song for all ages. Pays to banish it for a while.
8
(8)
Under the Bridge
Red Hot Chili Peppers
1991
If you can’t be bothered with Anthony Kiedis’s autobiography, then just read the lyrics to this. Best bridge ever?
9
(84)
No Woman, No Cry
Bob Marley & The Wailers
1974
Ah, stoner backpacking daze… Grabs hold of the heart in its own unique way.
10
(44)
Hey Jude
The Beatles
1968
Pleased this made it; not such a guilty pleasure after all!
11
(85)
Bohemian Like You
The Dandy Warhols
2000
Sure I once read somewhere music-world doomsayers predicting we’d run out of great riffs?
12
(2)
Killing in the Name
Rage Against the Machine
1992
This raucous belter flips the bird with spittle-flying menace.
13
(71)
How Soon Is Now?
The Smiths
1984
Spine-tingling ‘80s synths and lyrics that carry across the generations.
14
(3)
Hallelujah
Jeff Buckley
1994
Leonard Cohen’s bank account inflates as his musical ego is forced in the other direction.
15
(11)
Imagine
John Lennon
1971
Perhaps heard this more than any other but it still more than holds its own.
16
(19)
One
Metallica
1988
Some songs are labeled an ‘epic’ undeservedly. Not this. Still awesome.
17
(14)
Bitter Sweet Symphony
The Verve
1997
Walkman had this on repeat walking along Brighton beach (UK) to work back in ’98. ‘I can change’!
18
(93)
Unfinished Sympathy
Massive Attack
1991
Normally not my genre but this haunts and moves the feet in equal measures. Trip-hop too ingenious to ignore.
19
(65)
Born Slippy
Underworld
1995
Instantly back to Edinburgh and backpacker hostel days again. A nightclubbing staple for years.
20
(16)
Wish You Were Here
Pink Floyd
1975
Even on the simpler, lighter side of the moon, Pink Floyd come up with the goods.
21
(40)
Come as You Are
Nirvana
1991
Yes, I have this above Teen Spirit. Strong album, Nevermind, wasn’t it?
22
(92)
Skinny Love
Bon Iver
2008
A broken-hearted gent who hibernated in Wisconsin and recorded for months. Basic and beautiful; you can picture him perfecting this by a log fire.
23
(28)
Fake Plastic Trees
Radiohead
1995
A constant on my walkman in the Edinburgh days. I'd forgo the bus from Portobello to Princes Street so I embrace the cold and listen to The Bends and reflect on how confusing love is. Pathetic, isn’t it.
24
(56)
Lover, You Should've Come Over
Jeff Buckley
1994
Again, it’s gallons of cheap red wine, life on a shoe-string and intoxicated by a first love. ‘Let me sleep tonight, on your couch’.
25
(25)
Alive
Pearl Jam
1991
Prominently black band t-shirt over long-sleeve, dreaming of tearing into this in front of a big crowd. I wonder where Jeremy ended up?
26
(77)
Hearts a Mess
Gotye
2006
Highly original and deeply affecting. Released around the time of an epic break-up.
27
(1)
Smells Like Teen Spirit
Nirvana
1991
Put the snarl in my 14-year-old self. Possibly suffers from a hundred too many listens.
28
(10)
Stairway to Heaven
Led Zeppelin
1971
Always number one on 96.9 Sun FM’s (Shepparton) all-time countdowns. Led me to buy Remasters at age 15.
29
(69)
Grace
Jeff Buckley
1994
Even by Bucks’ lofty standards, the ol' larynx gets a fair work out here.
30
(18)
Knights of Cydonia
Muse
2006
Music critics labeled it a ‘Spaghetti Western’. Me and my Muse-loving mates just turned it up. Loud. We discovered that cops are Muse fans, too.
31
(49)
Sweet Child o' Mine
Guns N' Roses
1988
Maybe forget Chinese Democracy ever happened. Reacquaint yourself with this instead.
32
(22)
Teardrop
Massive Attack
1998
You got a roach?
33
(13)
Creep
Radiohead
1992
Pablo Honey has always been harshly rated. Creep isn’t even the best song on it.
34
(50)
Don't Dream It's Over
Crowded House
1986
Around the time of this song’s release Australia claimed Crowded House for good.
35
(20)
Seven Nation Army
The White Stripes
2003
The riffs are getting bigger. I still struggle to reconcile their huge sound with a two-piece.
36
(43)
God Only Knows
The Beach Boys
1966
Picture this: a golden sun going down on a Californian beach; no music, just the Wilson brothers further beautifying the amazing arrangements of this classic, the waves crashing in.
37
(24)
A Day in the Life
The Beatles
1967
Arguably The Beatles’ most inventive moment to that time. Still holds up today. Of course, so does much of their material.
38
(87)
Yellow
Coldplay
2000
Wouldn’t it be great if great songs were given a five-year sabbatical after copping the 'year-long, broken record’ treatment from radio stations?
39
(4)
Love Will Tear Us Apart
Joy Division
1980
Got me fifth time around. That spine-tingling ‘80s riff always demands attention. Control one of the great music movies.
40
(35)
1979
The Smashing Pumpkins
1996
A heart-pulling electronic riff doesn't overshadow a cleverly-executed pop-rock number.
41
(55)
Like a Rolling Stone
Bob Dylan
1965
Forty-four years on and still going strong. Is so old my dad was still years away from blowing smoke rings in front of my ogling mother at the Ouyen cafe.
42
(81)
Common People
Pulp
1995
Camp, tongue-in-cheek and cool. Invokes memories of vile lager, late night chippies and full breakfasts. All at once.
43(41)
Billie Jean
Michael Jackson
1983
A great song anyway. Motown with menace.
44
(61)
Song 2
Blur
1997
At two minutes it was never great value on the video jukebox. Nor would it be to download now.
45
(80)
Paint It, Black
The Rolling Stones
1966
The Stones’ finest moment – and that’s saying something.
46
(64)
Blister in the Sun
Violent Femmes
1982
A classic but heard it too many times. Reminds me of the Barooga Sporties for some reason.
47
(94)
Float On
Modest Mouse
2004
The archetypal slow-burner – first time you think: 'good song'; then, 'there’s something more there'; and finally, 'a touch of genius'.
48
(98)
Kashmir
Led Zeppelin
1975
Led Zep are worthy of two songs; this is a worthy bridesmaid to Stairway.
49
(60)
Hurt
Johnny Cash
2003
An ailing old man outdoes himself. Again.
50
(99)
Wolf Like Me
TV on the Radio
2006
Another that has grown in stature as it’s aged. Feel your adrenalin snowball.
51
(100)
Take Me Out
Franz Ferdinand
2004
Wouldn’t be out of place in any era from the ‘70s onwards.
52
(6)
Bohemian Rhapsody
Queen
1988
Bona fide classic that suffers, as many do, from over-saturation. Perhaps we have too many all-time counts.
53
(12)
Wonderwall
Oasis
1995
Ah, 1995. The Gallaghers were young. I was younger. We all drank.
54
(31)
Enter Sandman
Metallica
1991
Never quite got the Metallica tee, but this song had me browsing. Definitely not a kids' bedtime story.
55
(62)
Closer
Nine Inch Nails
1994
The ARIA charts were relevant back in the ‘90s when songs from the far-left like NINs’ jewel were hits.
56
(46)
Epic
Faith No More
1990
Can still see that fish in its dying throes to the classical piano. Very underrated, Mike Patton.
57
(30)
All Along the Watchtower
Jimi Hendrix
1968
A Dylan cover that Hendrix made his own. First cab off the Vietnam rank.
58
(38)
Mr. Brightside
The Killers
2004
Top-notch glam rock with a look-at-me statesman. No wonder they made an instant impact.
59
(53)
Comfortably Numb
Pink Floyd
1979
Close your eyes and fly to the moon. Scissor Sisters' version is brilliant, too.
60
(23)
Throw Your Arms Around Me
Hunters & Collectors
1985
Pot of draught in hand, wrap an arm around your mate and bellow the chorus from your lungs.
61
(51)
Bullet with Butterfly Wings
The Smashing Pumpkins
1995
Another of the mid-90s stockpile. Disappointed Tonight, Tonight didn’t make it.
62
(33)
Tomorrow
Silverchair
1994
Fifteen years ago? Already? Where's some of the stuff they've achieved since?
63
(67)
Brick
Ben Folds Five
1997
Oddly beautiful but his strong Yank accent gets in the way somehow.
64
(32)
Blue Monday
New Order
1983
I was six when this came out; twenty-six when I fully understood its brilliance.
65
(29)
Where Is My Mind?
Pixies
1988
Nothing from Doolittle? Where are you, Pixies fans, too cool for this poll?
66
(39)
Better Man
Pearl Jam
1994
Sappy but shows how versatile Vedder is. His best work is on the Into The Wild soundtrack.
67
(27)
My Happiness
Powderfinger
2000
There’s more going on here than on most of their other stuff.
68
(89)
Bulls on Parade
Rage Against the Machine
1996
Check out this song on YouTube… and read the comments’ section. If you can decipher gen Y shorthand there’s some robust discussion going on.
69
(54)
Close to Me
The Cure
1985
Subliminal pop. First memory of Robert Smith is lipstick-smudged creepiness of Lullaby. Where’s Friday I’m In Love?
70
(21)
These Days
Powderfinger
2000
Couldn’t imagine Two Hands without it. Scriptwriting mates drool over the film’s simplicity… and its success.
71
(86)
Come Together
The Beatles
1969
If pushed wouldn’t have this in my Beatles top 10 but that’s more about their catalogue than me.
72
(52)
Berlin Chair
You Am I
1994
St.Kilda pub floors sticky with beer. Sweat flying from the stage. I prefer Cathy’s Clown though. And where’s Heavy Heart?
73
(73)
London Calling
The Clash
1979
Punk swagger of the highest order. Gov'ner.
74
(82)
Chop Suey!
System of a Down
2001
Bonkers. Only for heavy-heads and people who can decipher good music from the bad. This is the former.
75
(97)
Beds Are Burning
Midnight Oil
1987
‘80s Australiana that takes you back to the days of Bob Hawke, Perfect Match, Christopher Skase. Peter Garrett's political lyrics were never overshadowed by his electric-shock dancing. Were they?
76
(88)
Gimme Shelter
The Rolling Stones
1969
Well crafted and great musicianship but down a number of rungs on my Stones list.
77
(79)
Life on Mars?
David Bowie
1971
Bowie in his lithe, Ziggy-infatuated prime but Starman and Space Oddity are finer moments.
78
(57)
Forty-Six & 2
Tool
1997
A colossus of a song. I actually get Tool on this one.
79
(78)
Today
The Smashing Pumpkins
1993
Well represented, the Pumpkins. Very well, considering the songs and the bands that missed out.
80
(9)
Everlong
Foo Fighters
1997
Not their best but there's a layer of tenderness beneath that vintage rock sound.
81
(74)
Lithium
Nirvana
1991
Merely an album track on Nevermind. That’s what the standard’s like.
82
(72)
New Slang
The Shins
2001
Sweet as a blackbird at your window on a summer’s day. Know this song least out of all them. Might be top 40 next time.
83
(83)
Every You Every Me
Placebo
1999
Queen-bitch Brian’s passion comes through in waves here.
84
(42)
Banquet
Bloc Party
2005
Tight pop rock, spike-edged guitar, with a nod to '80s electronica. They keep getting better, too. Lead singer dresses cool.
85
(68)
Dammit (Growing Up)
Blink-182
1997
Rightfully a big hit at the time but they’ve had better stuff (I Miss You) since.
86
(91)
Back in Black
AC/DC
1980
All truckie singlets and VB tinnies. Oh, and some handy guitar work, too. Angus keeps returning to his Cornies in the morning, just like me.
87
(47)
Betterman
The John Butler Trio
2001
Low ranking because I prefer others of his. Much respect for the man.
88
(70)
Breathe
The Prodigy
1996
Godfathers of industrial metal. The sound is stuck in 1996 though.
89
(17)
The Nosebleed Section
Hilltop Hoods
2004
The pick of Aussie hip-hop but really, that shouldn’t matter when determining all-time lists.
90
(63)
Thunderstruck
AC/DC
1990
I reached for the Strepsils 19 years ago. How much longer will Brian Johnson’s screechy, gravel-laden voice hold up?
91
(96)
One More Time
Daft Punk
2000
Credit where it’s due: very clever techno released at just the right time. Was always oddly transfixed by the animated clip.
92
(26)
Thriller
Michael Jackson
1984
Not Jacko’s best by any stretch. Not even in the top five songs on the Thriller album.
93
(66)
Tiny Dancer
Elton John
1971
Elton and Stevie have never made it before, so why now?
94
(95)
Superstition
Stevie Wonder
1972
It's vintage groovy but question is worth posing: how many times played on JJJ?
95
(45)
No One Knows
Queens of the Stone Age
2002
Proof that a monster riff doesn’t necessarily make a song.
96
(34)
Prisoner of Society
The Living End
1997
Never been a fan. But that’s just me. Reviewer's prerogative.
97
(37)
Stinkfist
Tool
1996
Lots of noise and meaningful build-up but doesn’t hit its mark.
98
(90)
Sex on Fire
Kings of Leon
2008
Most overrated band of modern times. Kudos for dominating the airwaves but overkill has ensured a once tolerable tune is now abhorred.
99
(48)
Sabotage
Beastie Boys
1994
Their high-pitched voices give me the shits.
100
(58)
Around the World
Daft Punk
1997
Repetitive, nauseating and dumb.
Before signing off, consider this...
Five Aussie classics that missed:
Friday On My Mind - The Easybeats
The Real Thing - Russell Morris
Never Tear Us Apart - INXS
Khe Sanh - Cold Chisel
Under The Milky Way - The Church
Five I'm surprised didn't make it (not necessarily because I like them):
Hey Ya! - Outkast
Here Comes Your Man - Pixies
Zombie - Cranberries
Are You Gonna Be My Girl? - Jet
Feel Good Inc. - Gorillaz
And what about these:
Marquee Moon - Television
Light My Fire - The Doors
(same goes for Riders On The Storm, Peace Frog, LA Woman)
Anarchy In The UK - Sex Pistols
And She Was - Talking Heads
Passenger - Iggy Pop
Don't get me wrong. This is indeed a strong list of songs (I ranked each out 10 - and no, it's not that I've got too much time on my hands, I've had to burn the midnight oil a few times. The average is 7.82, a tick under an 'A' or 'HD' average).
Without stretching the old noggin any further (given this is more than likely to be a futile, thankless task) I'd say a good half of the tunes herein would be in line for my top 100 of all time. Or top 200. But then, it's impossible to say until I actually sit down and tackle that mammoth task. Unless the windfall comes my way it probably won't happen, I like my sleep too much.
Actually, even if I'm able to bathe in $100 notes while attempting it, it wouldn't feel right. Music is always alive, songs go up and down in estimations; new tunes emerge that take your breath away. I guess that's why these sorts of polls find constantly find themselves on the radio and in music magazines. It's the search for the fruitless - the definitive all-time great song. But it's more than that for many of us. It's the thrill of the chase.
So. What I've done is put my own order to the 100 songs that made the countdown. It seems I'm on the same page as the nucleus on no less than four songs - Under the Bridge, Alive, London Calling and Every You, Every Me while I was one off the pace on three - Superstition, Paranoid Android and Today. As for the others, well, I differ. And that's what, for me, made this exercise worthwhile. By throwing in a comment on each one (my self-imposed 20-word limit proved difficult, particularly on the songs I didn't like as much), and by listening to the Blip Playlist, I reaffirmed my thoughts on each.
Below is the final product. It's been through excel, word and now in restrictive e-blogger format.
Finally, my disclaimer: that I love music too much to make apologies for any of my choices. To adopt a well-worn cliche: music is the winner here!
My rank
(Hottest 100 of all time 2009 rank)
Song
Artist
Year of release
Comments
1
(59)
One Crowded Hour
Augie March
2006
Already an old friend. Moo You Bloody Choir, along with their first two albums, helped me through my ‘dark summer’.
2
(76)
Fools Gold
The Stone Roses
1989
Cool as f*ck (who’d have thought to turn the vocals down?) and ten years’ ahead of its time.
3
(36)
Into My Arms
Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds
1997
The definitive funeral song. Achingly beautiful.
4
(5)
Paranoid Android
Radiohead
1997
Goosebumps still sprout when electric guitar meets that bass-driven riff.
5
(7)
Last Goodbye
Jeff Buckley
1994
Memories of hostel life, rot-gut red and a love seemingly lost forever.
6
(15)
Karma Police
Radiohead
1997
Just pipped by Paranoid Android for Radiohead's best. ‘90s angst drips off this.
Harmonies Brian Wilson would be proud to claim.
7
(75)
Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)
Green Day
1997
Before Seinfeld and others took it to different place, this was a simple, heartfelt pop song for all ages. Pays to banish it for a while.
8
(8)
Under the Bridge
Red Hot Chili Peppers
1991
If you can’t be bothered with Anthony Kiedis’s autobiography, then just read the lyrics to this. Best bridge ever?
9
(84)
No Woman, No Cry
Bob Marley & The Wailers
1974
Ah, stoner backpacking daze… Grabs hold of the heart in its own unique way.
10
(44)
Hey Jude
The Beatles
1968
Pleased this made it; not such a guilty pleasure after all!
11
(85)
Bohemian Like You
The Dandy Warhols
2000
Sure I once read somewhere music-world doomsayers predicting we’d run out of great riffs?
12
(2)
Killing in the Name
Rage Against the Machine
1992
This raucous belter flips the bird with spittle-flying menace.
13
(71)
How Soon Is Now?
The Smiths
1984
Spine-tingling ‘80s synths and lyrics that carry across the generations.
14
(3)
Hallelujah
Jeff Buckley
1994
Leonard Cohen’s bank account inflates as his musical ego is forced in the other direction.
15
(11)
Imagine
John Lennon
1971
Perhaps heard this more than any other but it still more than holds its own.
16
(19)
One
Metallica
1988
Some songs are labeled an ‘epic’ undeservedly. Not this. Still awesome.
17
(14)
Bitter Sweet Symphony
The Verve
1997
Walkman had this on repeat walking along Brighton beach (UK) to work back in ’98. ‘I can change’!
18
(93)
Unfinished Sympathy
Massive Attack
1991
Normally not my genre but this haunts and moves the feet in equal measures. Trip-hop too ingenious to ignore.
19
(65)
Born Slippy
Underworld
1995
Instantly back to Edinburgh and backpacker hostel days again. A nightclubbing staple for years.
20
(16)
Wish You Were Here
Pink Floyd
1975
Even on the simpler, lighter side of the moon, Pink Floyd come up with the goods.
21
(40)
Come as You Are
Nirvana
1991
Yes, I have this above Teen Spirit. Strong album, Nevermind, wasn’t it?
22
(92)
Skinny Love
Bon Iver
2008
A broken-hearted gent who hibernated in Wisconsin and recorded for months. Basic and beautiful; you can picture him perfecting this by a log fire.
23
(28)
Fake Plastic Trees
Radiohead
1995
A constant on my walkman in the Edinburgh days. I'd forgo the bus from Portobello to Princes Street so I embrace the cold and listen to The Bends and reflect on how confusing love is. Pathetic, isn’t it.
24
(56)
Lover, You Should've Come Over
Jeff Buckley
1994
Again, it’s gallons of cheap red wine, life on a shoe-string and intoxicated by a first love. ‘Let me sleep tonight, on your couch’.
25
(25)
Alive
Pearl Jam
1991
Prominently black band t-shirt over long-sleeve, dreaming of tearing into this in front of a big crowd. I wonder where Jeremy ended up?
26
(77)
Hearts a Mess
Gotye
2006
Highly original and deeply affecting. Released around the time of an epic break-up.
27
(1)
Smells Like Teen Spirit
Nirvana
1991
Put the snarl in my 14-year-old self. Possibly suffers from a hundred too many listens.
28
(10)
Stairway to Heaven
Led Zeppelin
1971
Always number one on 96.9 Sun FM’s (Shepparton) all-time countdowns. Led me to buy Remasters at age 15.
29
(69)
Grace
Jeff Buckley
1994
Even by Bucks’ lofty standards, the ol' larynx gets a fair work out here.
30
(18)
Knights of Cydonia
Muse
2006
Music critics labeled it a ‘Spaghetti Western’. Me and my Muse-loving mates just turned it up. Loud. We discovered that cops are Muse fans, too.
31
(49)
Sweet Child o' Mine
Guns N' Roses
1988
Maybe forget Chinese Democracy ever happened. Reacquaint yourself with this instead.
32
(22)
Teardrop
Massive Attack
1998
You got a roach?
33
(13)
Creep
Radiohead
1992
Pablo Honey has always been harshly rated. Creep isn’t even the best song on it.
34
(50)
Don't Dream It's Over
Crowded House
1986
Around the time of this song’s release Australia claimed Crowded House for good.
35
(20)
Seven Nation Army
The White Stripes
2003
The riffs are getting bigger. I still struggle to reconcile their huge sound with a two-piece.
36
(43)
God Only Knows
The Beach Boys
1966
Picture this: a golden sun going down on a Californian beach; no music, just the Wilson brothers further beautifying the amazing arrangements of this classic, the waves crashing in.
37
(24)
A Day in the Life
The Beatles
1967
Arguably The Beatles’ most inventive moment to that time. Still holds up today. Of course, so does much of their material.
38
(87)
Yellow
Coldplay
2000
Wouldn’t it be great if great songs were given a five-year sabbatical after copping the 'year-long, broken record’ treatment from radio stations?
39
(4)
Love Will Tear Us Apart
Joy Division
1980
Got me fifth time around. That spine-tingling ‘80s riff always demands attention. Control one of the great music movies.
40
(35)
1979
The Smashing Pumpkins
1996
A heart-pulling electronic riff doesn't overshadow a cleverly-executed pop-rock number.
41
(55)
Like a Rolling Stone
Bob Dylan
1965
Forty-four years on and still going strong. Is so old my dad was still years away from blowing smoke rings in front of my ogling mother at the Ouyen cafe.
42
(81)
Common People
Pulp
1995
Camp, tongue-in-cheek and cool. Invokes memories of vile lager, late night chippies and full breakfasts. All at once.
43(41)
Billie Jean
Michael Jackson
1983
A great song anyway. Motown with menace.
44
(61)
Song 2
Blur
1997
At two minutes it was never great value on the video jukebox. Nor would it be to download now.
45
(80)
Paint It, Black
The Rolling Stones
1966
The Stones’ finest moment – and that’s saying something.
46
(64)
Blister in the Sun
Violent Femmes
1982
A classic but heard it too many times. Reminds me of the Barooga Sporties for some reason.
47
(94)
Float On
Modest Mouse
2004
The archetypal slow-burner – first time you think: 'good song'; then, 'there’s something more there'; and finally, 'a touch of genius'.
48
(98)
Kashmir
Led Zeppelin
1975
Led Zep are worthy of two songs; this is a worthy bridesmaid to Stairway.
49
(60)
Hurt
Johnny Cash
2003
An ailing old man outdoes himself. Again.
50
(99)
Wolf Like Me
TV on the Radio
2006
Another that has grown in stature as it’s aged. Feel your adrenalin snowball.
51
(100)
Take Me Out
Franz Ferdinand
2004
Wouldn’t be out of place in any era from the ‘70s onwards.
52
(6)
Bohemian Rhapsody
Queen
1988
Bona fide classic that suffers, as many do, from over-saturation. Perhaps we have too many all-time counts.
53
(12)
Wonderwall
Oasis
1995
Ah, 1995. The Gallaghers were young. I was younger. We all drank.
54
(31)
Enter Sandman
Metallica
1991
Never quite got the Metallica tee, but this song had me browsing. Definitely not a kids' bedtime story.
55
(62)
Closer
Nine Inch Nails
1994
The ARIA charts were relevant back in the ‘90s when songs from the far-left like NINs’ jewel were hits.
56
(46)
Epic
Faith No More
1990
Can still see that fish in its dying throes to the classical piano. Very underrated, Mike Patton.
57
(30)
All Along the Watchtower
Jimi Hendrix
1968
A Dylan cover that Hendrix made his own. First cab off the Vietnam rank.
58
(38)
Mr. Brightside
The Killers
2004
Top-notch glam rock with a look-at-me statesman. No wonder they made an instant impact.
59
(53)
Comfortably Numb
Pink Floyd
1979
Close your eyes and fly to the moon. Scissor Sisters' version is brilliant, too.
60
(23)
Throw Your Arms Around Me
Hunters & Collectors
1985
Pot of draught in hand, wrap an arm around your mate and bellow the chorus from your lungs.
61
(51)
Bullet with Butterfly Wings
The Smashing Pumpkins
1995
Another of the mid-90s stockpile. Disappointed Tonight, Tonight didn’t make it.
62
(33)
Tomorrow
Silverchair
1994
Fifteen years ago? Already? Where's some of the stuff they've achieved since?
63
(67)
Brick
Ben Folds Five
1997
Oddly beautiful but his strong Yank accent gets in the way somehow.
64
(32)
Blue Monday
New Order
1983
I was six when this came out; twenty-six when I fully understood its brilliance.
65
(29)
Where Is My Mind?
Pixies
1988
Nothing from Doolittle? Where are you, Pixies fans, too cool for this poll?
66
(39)
Better Man
Pearl Jam
1994
Sappy but shows how versatile Vedder is. His best work is on the Into The Wild soundtrack.
67
(27)
My Happiness
Powderfinger
2000
There’s more going on here than on most of their other stuff.
68
(89)
Bulls on Parade
Rage Against the Machine
1996
Check out this song on YouTube… and read the comments’ section. If you can decipher gen Y shorthand there’s some robust discussion going on.
69
(54)
Close to Me
The Cure
1985
Subliminal pop. First memory of Robert Smith is lipstick-smudged creepiness of Lullaby. Where’s Friday I’m In Love?
70
(21)
These Days
Powderfinger
2000
Couldn’t imagine Two Hands without it. Scriptwriting mates drool over the film’s simplicity… and its success.
71
(86)
Come Together
The Beatles
1969
If pushed wouldn’t have this in my Beatles top 10 but that’s more about their catalogue than me.
72
(52)
Berlin Chair
You Am I
1994
St.Kilda pub floors sticky with beer. Sweat flying from the stage. I prefer Cathy’s Clown though. And where’s Heavy Heart?
73
(73)
London Calling
The Clash
1979
Punk swagger of the highest order. Gov'ner.
74
(82)
Chop Suey!
System of a Down
2001
Bonkers. Only for heavy-heads and people who can decipher good music from the bad. This is the former.
75
(97)
Beds Are Burning
Midnight Oil
1987
‘80s Australiana that takes you back to the days of Bob Hawke, Perfect Match, Christopher Skase. Peter Garrett's political lyrics were never overshadowed by his electric-shock dancing. Were they?
76
(88)
Gimme Shelter
The Rolling Stones
1969
Well crafted and great musicianship but down a number of rungs on my Stones list.
77
(79)
Life on Mars?
David Bowie
1971
Bowie in his lithe, Ziggy-infatuated prime but Starman and Space Oddity are finer moments.
78
(57)
Forty-Six & 2
Tool
1997
A colossus of a song. I actually get Tool on this one.
79
(78)
Today
The Smashing Pumpkins
1993
Well represented, the Pumpkins. Very well, considering the songs and the bands that missed out.
80
(9)
Everlong
Foo Fighters
1997
Not their best but there's a layer of tenderness beneath that vintage rock sound.
81
(74)
Lithium
Nirvana
1991
Merely an album track on Nevermind. That’s what the standard’s like.
82
(72)
New Slang
The Shins
2001
Sweet as a blackbird at your window on a summer’s day. Know this song least out of all them. Might be top 40 next time.
83
(83)
Every You Every Me
Placebo
1999
Queen-bitch Brian’s passion comes through in waves here.
84
(42)
Banquet
Bloc Party
2005
Tight pop rock, spike-edged guitar, with a nod to '80s electronica. They keep getting better, too. Lead singer dresses cool.
85
(68)
Dammit (Growing Up)
Blink-182
1997
Rightfully a big hit at the time but they’ve had better stuff (I Miss You) since.
86
(91)
Back in Black
AC/DC
1980
All truckie singlets and VB tinnies. Oh, and some handy guitar work, too. Angus keeps returning to his Cornies in the morning, just like me.
87
(47)
Betterman
The John Butler Trio
2001
Low ranking because I prefer others of his. Much respect for the man.
88
(70)
Breathe
The Prodigy
1996
Godfathers of industrial metal. The sound is stuck in 1996 though.
89
(17)
The Nosebleed Section
Hilltop Hoods
2004
The pick of Aussie hip-hop but really, that shouldn’t matter when determining all-time lists.
90
(63)
Thunderstruck
AC/DC
1990
I reached for the Strepsils 19 years ago. How much longer will Brian Johnson’s screechy, gravel-laden voice hold up?
91
(96)
One More Time
Daft Punk
2000
Credit where it’s due: very clever techno released at just the right time. Was always oddly transfixed by the animated clip.
92
(26)
Thriller
Michael Jackson
1984
Not Jacko’s best by any stretch. Not even in the top five songs on the Thriller album.
93
(66)
Tiny Dancer
Elton John
1971
Elton and Stevie have never made it before, so why now?
94
(95)
Superstition
Stevie Wonder
1972
It's vintage groovy but question is worth posing: how many times played on JJJ?
95
(45)
No One Knows
Queens of the Stone Age
2002
Proof that a monster riff doesn’t necessarily make a song.
96
(34)
Prisoner of Society
The Living End
1997
Never been a fan. But that’s just me. Reviewer's prerogative.
97
(37)
Stinkfist
Tool
1996
Lots of noise and meaningful build-up but doesn’t hit its mark.
98
(90)
Sex on Fire
Kings of Leon
2008
Most overrated band of modern times. Kudos for dominating the airwaves but overkill has ensured a once tolerable tune is now abhorred.
99
(48)
Sabotage
Beastie Boys
1994
Their high-pitched voices give me the shits.
100
(58)
Around the World
Daft Punk
1997
Repetitive, nauseating and dumb.
Before signing off, consider this...
Five Aussie classics that missed:
Friday On My Mind - The Easybeats
The Real Thing - Russell Morris
Never Tear Us Apart - INXS
Khe Sanh - Cold Chisel
Under The Milky Way - The Church
Five I'm surprised didn't make it (not necessarily because I like them):
Hey Ya! - Outkast
Here Comes Your Man - Pixies
Zombie - Cranberries
Are You Gonna Be My Girl? - Jet
Feel Good Inc. - Gorillaz
And what about these:
Marquee Moon - Television
Light My Fire - The Doors
(same goes for Riders On The Storm, Peace Frog, LA Woman)
Anarchy In The UK - Sex Pistols
And She Was - Talking Heads
Passenger - Iggy Pop
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
"No-one is from here"
Had one of those head-nipping, moral-rattling situations earlier. I think I once read somewhere that everyone finds themselves in at least one such situation in their lifetime. Whatever, it has stuck with me since.
I'd just picked up my green station wagon from a garage, where I'd just had a petrol pump replaced, still reeling from the sting in my hip-pocket. Given it was low on petrol (part of the reason the fuel pump gave way) and dirty I decided to take it to my local servo for a clean. Give the neglected old thing a complete makeover.
This place has two cleaning stations, one of which has been out of service for what seems like an eternity now. This almost always means a delay. No problem; I live in a city where patience is a pre-requisite for survival. Whilst waiting for the incumbent occupier to finish, I filled the wagon up, and cruised inside to pay.
I recognised the moustached guy behind the counter: he was one of two friendly men of hard-to-pin origins. As I swiped my bank card and hit the digits on the EFTPOS holder I casually asked him, "Is that other car wash ever going to be operational again?". He almost cut me off answering, like he'd been asked this a zillion times before.
"Soon. We have been waiting for part from Germany."
Fair enough, I thought. I guess it's not an issue unless you have twenty cars lining up when there could only be ten.
Then he fixed upon me a strange look. "Are you from Germany?"
I shook my head. "No, I'm from here."
He gave a tight, crackly laugh. "That what everyone say. No-one is from here."
A flashbulb went off in my head as I considered that my game was up. Perhaps this stocky little retail assistant, whose broken English had a rolling accent that leant towards Israeli, or, for the sake of hedging my bets, somewhere else in the Middle East, was some sort of prophet. I understood what he was getting at, though: the distant German ancestry of my mother's side, and the shape of my nose. Maybe my girlfriend had it on the button early on in our relationship when she said my nose gave me away. Although she guessed wrong. Poland is a galaxy away from Germany.
I screwed my nose up slightly, as if to rid it off its 'German-ness' and stated simply: "I was born here." I wanted to say: so were my parents, grandparents, Great-grandparents, and, I think, Great-greats... it was either the 'greats' times two or three that made the trip over. On both sides. But he cut me off.
"Don't matter. No-one is from here."
I didn't know what to say. It was an abrupt reach-around from left-field. He tore off a receipt and wished me a good day, a look of stoicism still on his face.
I walked out and moved my car into the now-empty car wash and thought about what had just been said.
Had this guy been on the receiving end of racism one too many times? Was this a backlash of sorts? What disturbed me most, was his comment that 'no one was from here', regardless of where they were born. Effectively he was saying there was no such thing as an Australian! This was racism in reverse!
As I scrubbed off month-old bird turds off my car bonnet I considered how lucky it was that I didn't care about the whole racism/multi-cultural thing. My groove is: let as many in as possible, provided it's value-added, and we can live together harmoniously. Imagine if I'd been some disgruntled, out-of-work hulk with right-wing, red-neck tendencies. Someone who'd have him up against the wall for a comment of far less poignancy. Someone who'd demand more respect for a country who had taken him in. Perhaps he saw me as an easy test target.
I wanted to walk back in there and declare that I'm from here because I'm Australian. I wanted to say: Just as you're Australian, sir, because you immigrated here. Just as you may have picked my German nose, I pick your accent as someone who arrived not long ago, probably in the past twenty years. It goes back to old-fashioned geography. This continent is Australia, and we live on it. We two. You're originally from somewhere else, but I'm not. I'm a fifth-generation Aussie. I accept – and encourage – your culture, and wish you all the best in this land of opportunity. And that's what Australia still is. That's why you're here isn't it?
I don't think respect is too much to ask for in return for the opportunity to be sworn in as a citizen of one of the world's most liveable countries.
But still, I didn't say any of those things. All I did was finish cleaning my car, then got in and drove off. And not even a burn-out on departure.
I'd just picked up my green station wagon from a garage, where I'd just had a petrol pump replaced, still reeling from the sting in my hip-pocket. Given it was low on petrol (part of the reason the fuel pump gave way) and dirty I decided to take it to my local servo for a clean. Give the neglected old thing a complete makeover.
This place has two cleaning stations, one of which has been out of service for what seems like an eternity now. This almost always means a delay. No problem; I live in a city where patience is a pre-requisite for survival. Whilst waiting for the incumbent occupier to finish, I filled the wagon up, and cruised inside to pay.
I recognised the moustached guy behind the counter: he was one of two friendly men of hard-to-pin origins. As I swiped my bank card and hit the digits on the EFTPOS holder I casually asked him, "Is that other car wash ever going to be operational again?". He almost cut me off answering, like he'd been asked this a zillion times before.
"Soon. We have been waiting for part from Germany."
Fair enough, I thought. I guess it's not an issue unless you have twenty cars lining up when there could only be ten.
Then he fixed upon me a strange look. "Are you from Germany?"
I shook my head. "No, I'm from here."
He gave a tight, crackly laugh. "That what everyone say. No-one is from here."
A flashbulb went off in my head as I considered that my game was up. Perhaps this stocky little retail assistant, whose broken English had a rolling accent that leant towards Israeli, or, for the sake of hedging my bets, somewhere else in the Middle East, was some sort of prophet. I understood what he was getting at, though: the distant German ancestry of my mother's side, and the shape of my nose. Maybe my girlfriend had it on the button early on in our relationship when she said my nose gave me away. Although she guessed wrong. Poland is a galaxy away from Germany.
I screwed my nose up slightly, as if to rid it off its 'German-ness' and stated simply: "I was born here." I wanted to say: so were my parents, grandparents, Great-grandparents, and, I think, Great-greats... it was either the 'greats' times two or three that made the trip over. On both sides. But he cut me off.
"Don't matter. No-one is from here."
I didn't know what to say. It was an abrupt reach-around from left-field. He tore off a receipt and wished me a good day, a look of stoicism still on his face.
I walked out and moved my car into the now-empty car wash and thought about what had just been said.
Had this guy been on the receiving end of racism one too many times? Was this a backlash of sorts? What disturbed me most, was his comment that 'no one was from here', regardless of where they were born. Effectively he was saying there was no such thing as an Australian! This was racism in reverse!
As I scrubbed off month-old bird turds off my car bonnet I considered how lucky it was that I didn't care about the whole racism/multi-cultural thing. My groove is: let as many in as possible, provided it's value-added, and we can live together harmoniously. Imagine if I'd been some disgruntled, out-of-work hulk with right-wing, red-neck tendencies. Someone who'd have him up against the wall for a comment of far less poignancy. Someone who'd demand more respect for a country who had taken him in. Perhaps he saw me as an easy test target.
I wanted to walk back in there and declare that I'm from here because I'm Australian. I wanted to say: Just as you're Australian, sir, because you immigrated here. Just as you may have picked my German nose, I pick your accent as someone who arrived not long ago, probably in the past twenty years. It goes back to old-fashioned geography. This continent is Australia, and we live on it. We two. You're originally from somewhere else, but I'm not. I'm a fifth-generation Aussie. I accept – and encourage – your culture, and wish you all the best in this land of opportunity. And that's what Australia still is. That's why you're here isn't it?
I don't think respect is too much to ask for in return for the opportunity to be sworn in as a citizen of one of the world's most liveable countries.
But still, I didn't say any of those things. All I did was finish cleaning my car, then got in and drove off. And not even a burn-out on departure.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Who's the toothless tiger?
This article might be seen as biting off the hand that potentially feeds. But I don't care. As freelance writers, we're taught to write about topics that ensnare our passion, make us frolic or seethe inside. So, here goes.
Now that the dust has settled and Terry Wallace’s life has returned to relative anonymity – maybe he’s even sleeping and eating again – I don’t think it’s unreasonable for the blowtorch to be turned the other way. In short, the media’s treatment of Wallace this year has been nothing short of savage. Blood-thirsty. A slight on the profession.
The carnage began after Richmond’s first round loss to Carlton. It was Wallace's final year of a five-year plan and he'd yet to make the finals. Richmond needed a strong start to the year to keep the wolves at bay. It didn't. The Tigers were thumped, and they – the wolves – sprang to life. The losses kept coming and the calls for Wallace's head – literally – reached fever-pitch in round four after a loss to cellar-dweller Melbourne.
The media – so often a struggling coach's Achilles heel in April and May – probed Richmond's bigwigs about Wallace's future, to which their position was unequivocally stated – that it would be reviewed mid-season. And yet, amid such headlines as 'Death Row', the same question continued to be asked and the public woke up to the same article – albeit with a few words moved around – every morning for a week.
Even Ben Cousins' return from injury didn't arouse the lower-regions of writers and subs.Remember not so long ago when the Herald-Sun, tired of being hot on Cousins' heals for no result, sent out a plea to readers: have you seen Ben Cousins?
Then came Wallace's 'week from hell', where an unlucky three-point loss to Port Adelaide condemned Richmond to 1-7. Wallace’s sacking was misreported (it would later be dubbed as ‘the non-sacking') amid rumours of a player revolt, and the circus reached proportions that would make our British brethren blush. One article observed Wallace's 'gaunt' features; that he'd lost four kilograms. And yet they continued pushing. That Wallace had been involved in 500 games at the highest level mattered none. The respect and dignity normally reserved for a person of such calibre forgotten in the gluttony of attack.
How long until this sort of treatment puts someone over the edge?
I'm not denying the story was there, and, yes, some of the disclosures were out of the box. But surely when the denials start, and the broken record is immovably stuck on track one, it's time to move on?
Football clubs are like any other employer. They do things on their own terms. When did your last employer get hassle from an outside party and then think to themselves, “Oh yeah, why didn't we think of that?”
Richmond fans, among the most passionate in the competition, would be sick to the teeth of the negativity surrounding their club. They know better than anyone how they're travelling on and off the field. Yes, a new coach should have been appointed earlier in the season. Yes, their club has made some perplexing decisions at draft and trade time. But they don't need their faces rubbed in it. And they especially don't need journalists and cameramen hiding behind pot plants and then reporting fact based on assumption.
Whenever journalists are challenged by players or club management on intrusiveness or shoddy reporting, their usual response is that players' and coaches' salaries are worthy of such scrutiny; that it's not for them to decide what's in the public's interest. What's forgotten is that with the rigours of modern-day football a player's career can end with one bent limb, and, historically, a coach's life only accounts for a small percentage of their life.
And so we get manic sensationalism from editors trying to outstrip their rivals, and, with increased third-party interests in the game, more outlets delivering news to the people they say matter most – the fans.
What codswallop. If fans mattered most then many things would be different, not least the fact that you are still short after handing over $10 for a beer and a meat pie.
Are the media still giving us what we want to know, or is the current climate of reportage based on assumption? If public forums are anything to go by, it's the latter. The on-line tide is turning. The average Joes don't trust what they read anymore. There's one senior writer of eloquent, minimalist prose who should understand this better than most. Bottom last in Herald Sun's tipping competition, among his many privileges is the ability to amend his pre-season predictions. If only the rest of us were able to reconsider the choices we get paid for. Amongst the varied condemnation posted this year, one popular notion is, “I'd have lost my job ten times over if I kept getting it wrong like that”.
How about changing that record, Mr Media? What about some focus on the good side of footballers' lives? Their entertainment value during these grim times aside, what about how the majority of these young blokes carry themselves as role models when so many of a similar age are turning Melbourne's streets into battlefields?
Maybe you could even write about what’s happening on the field. When was the last time two teams remained unbeaten after eleven rounds?
Now that the dust has settled and Terry Wallace’s life has returned to relative anonymity – maybe he’s even sleeping and eating again – I don’t think it’s unreasonable for the blowtorch to be turned the other way. In short, the media’s treatment of Wallace this year has been nothing short of savage. Blood-thirsty. A slight on the profession.
The carnage began after Richmond’s first round loss to Carlton. It was Wallace's final year of a five-year plan and he'd yet to make the finals. Richmond needed a strong start to the year to keep the wolves at bay. It didn't. The Tigers were thumped, and they – the wolves – sprang to life. The losses kept coming and the calls for Wallace's head – literally – reached fever-pitch in round four after a loss to cellar-dweller Melbourne.
The media – so often a struggling coach's Achilles heel in April and May – probed Richmond's bigwigs about Wallace's future, to which their position was unequivocally stated – that it would be reviewed mid-season. And yet, amid such headlines as 'Death Row', the same question continued to be asked and the public woke up to the same article – albeit with a few words moved around – every morning for a week.
Even Ben Cousins' return from injury didn't arouse the lower-regions of writers and subs.Remember not so long ago when the Herald-Sun, tired of being hot on Cousins' heals for no result, sent out a plea to readers: have you seen Ben Cousins?
Then came Wallace's 'week from hell', where an unlucky three-point loss to Port Adelaide condemned Richmond to 1-7. Wallace’s sacking was misreported (it would later be dubbed as ‘the non-sacking') amid rumours of a player revolt, and the circus reached proportions that would make our British brethren blush. One article observed Wallace's 'gaunt' features; that he'd lost four kilograms. And yet they continued pushing. That Wallace had been involved in 500 games at the highest level mattered none. The respect and dignity normally reserved for a person of such calibre forgotten in the gluttony of attack.
How long until this sort of treatment puts someone over the edge?
I'm not denying the story was there, and, yes, some of the disclosures were out of the box. But surely when the denials start, and the broken record is immovably stuck on track one, it's time to move on?
Football clubs are like any other employer. They do things on their own terms. When did your last employer get hassle from an outside party and then think to themselves, “Oh yeah, why didn't we think of that?”
Richmond fans, among the most passionate in the competition, would be sick to the teeth of the negativity surrounding their club. They know better than anyone how they're travelling on and off the field. Yes, a new coach should have been appointed earlier in the season. Yes, their club has made some perplexing decisions at draft and trade time. But they don't need their faces rubbed in it. And they especially don't need journalists and cameramen hiding behind pot plants and then reporting fact based on assumption.
Whenever journalists are challenged by players or club management on intrusiveness or shoddy reporting, their usual response is that players' and coaches' salaries are worthy of such scrutiny; that it's not for them to decide what's in the public's interest. What's forgotten is that with the rigours of modern-day football a player's career can end with one bent limb, and, historically, a coach's life only accounts for a small percentage of their life.
And so we get manic sensationalism from editors trying to outstrip their rivals, and, with increased third-party interests in the game, more outlets delivering news to the people they say matter most – the fans.
What codswallop. If fans mattered most then many things would be different, not least the fact that you are still short after handing over $10 for a beer and a meat pie.
Are the media still giving us what we want to know, or is the current climate of reportage based on assumption? If public forums are anything to go by, it's the latter. The on-line tide is turning. The average Joes don't trust what they read anymore. There's one senior writer of eloquent, minimalist prose who should understand this better than most. Bottom last in Herald Sun's tipping competition, among his many privileges is the ability to amend his pre-season predictions. If only the rest of us were able to reconsider the choices we get paid for. Amongst the varied condemnation posted this year, one popular notion is, “I'd have lost my job ten times over if I kept getting it wrong like that”.
How about changing that record, Mr Media? What about some focus on the good side of footballers' lives? Their entertainment value during these grim times aside, what about how the majority of these young blokes carry themselves as role models when so many of a similar age are turning Melbourne's streets into battlefields?
Maybe you could even write about what’s happening on the field. When was the last time two teams remained unbeaten after eleven rounds?
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