A brief tale of beachside terror.
A brief tale of beachside terror.
Here’s the first of a bunch of content I’ll be editing for the various Australian chapters of XR, featuring tunage from Half Majesty. I highly recommend donating your skills and time to this, the most important cause - a future for your kids’ grandkids - if you can.
Joining the dots on an unnamed fantasy artist who’s ticked these oculars since the late ‘80s.
The Australia depicted in the show’s universe seems to be frozen in some sort of perpetual Rennie Ellis via Wake In Fright meets Sir Les Patterson drongo purgatory.
Naomi Klein, Ron Cobb, mixtapes, total eclipses, platforming throwbacks, war is heck and rebellions explained.
So welcome to this unruly grab bag of whatever it is I’ve been listening to, reading, playing and watching delivered unto you via the wonder of embedded tweet threads.
This divisive new film from director Darren Aronofsky – who last graced our screens in 2014 with the reimagined biblical epic Noah – is a startling meditation on creation.
Sure, the band’s legend is now cast in solid platinum, but I’d imagine that, back in double-denim triple-bourbon late-70s Straya, these flashy Californian wunderkinds would have presented as a musical bridge too far for the sticky carpet blooded, Acca Dacca indoctrinated rabble.
By all contemporary western metrics, it turns out, Captain America is a ruthless, merciless terrorist.
As Snowpiercer kicks off, our man Curtis — a cagey, brittle arsekicker played by Chris Evans (The First Avenger) — leads a desperate uprising against the privileged upper classes who tyrannise the have-nots.
The year is 2031 and it’s all gone tits up. Our last ditch efforts to thwart climate change have proved cataclysmically and ironically misguided, plunging the planet into another Ice Age. For all intents and purposes humanity has been rendered extinct.
CAST your mind back to 2006.
The Australian twenty four hour news cycle was in its infancy - scuttlebutt, innuendo, hearsay, grossly ill-informed speculation and flat out bullshit travelled at much slower speeds.
Corrosion of Conformity (‘COC’ to terrified Marketing Departments everywhere) were a ragged agit-prop hardcore band who released albums with names like Animosity, Eye for an Eye and Technocracy in the mid to late ‘80s.
Seth Rogen and Evan Goldberg's adap of Ennis and Dillon's seminal PREACHER begins to wrap up with the start of season four on Monday night. It's been a messy, frustrating ride, spinning its wheels more often than not, but when it's been good it's been pretty fucking excellent.
Dubious, digit-inclusive title notwithstanding (don’t we usually reserve those for Fast & Furious-er?), Tarantino’s eighth directorial effort, The H8ful Eight, is a slow-burn, barking mad post Civil War whodunit. It’s a brash showcase for the auteur’s returning repertory players and a raw illustration of the man’s urgent engagement with the contemporary American political environment.
It’s all too superfluous at this stage, considering the embarrassment of nerd (not to mention mainstream) plaudits with which it’s been inundated, to observe thatGuardians of the Galaxy is a bit of a dizzying space operatic cinematic miracle.
So, MAD Magazine's having its last rites read.
There’ve been a lot of spilt Tweets, a lot of gnashed teeth, a lot of think-pieces awkwardly crowbarring in a “What, Me Worry?”.
Honestly, though - when was the last time anyone actually bought it?
Attack! Books were doing the rounds at the turn of the millennium, back when I was wearing highly flammable clothes and poncing about living in my dad's back shed larging it up like an emo Hugh Hefner.
I discovered the imprint in early 2018, just around the time I was getting serious about putting Home Brewed together.
The books looked just the ticket, in theory.
ALP post-election policy meet up, Ablo’s man-cave, Marrickville.
The scene: it’s your standard wood laminate lined back shed situation.
Old Picture Magazine, Australasian Post and CarToons pin ups festoon the walls. There’s an old foamcore Red Eye Records sign hung over the bar, which is stocked exclusively with Tooheys New. Ablo’s wheels of steel are dormant on the bar, mixing headphones perched on top of some truly egregious BOSE woofers.
Joel Fitzgibbons (absent) has positioned a cardboard standee of Acca Dacca’s Angus Young with his dacks down on top of one of the Razorback pinnies next to the Happy Hour Tiki Bar.
Remember how quickly the world slipped past, and now you’re on the cusp of 42, it’s 2019 and Ridley Scott’s dystopia looks positively cuddly, considering the very real prognostications for climate calamity by 2050 - just another quick 30 year jump, maybe less - being made by, oh, 97% of scientists globally?