INTRODUCTING: SAM HARRISON

Just a couple more weeks too catch relative new comer Sam Harrison’s exhibition NEW SCULPURE at New Markets Jensen Gallery.

Markets of Britain, a short film by Lee Titt

Thanks to Murray Crane not that I've read his blog.

A.S.K.

Opening today in New Zealand's biggest suburb ......

Thorndon (Lack of) Preservation Society

I went to 194A Sydney Street West, Thorndon, Wellington for the first time last week. One of the highlights was seeing the original letterbox painted with "Rita Angus House" by Tony Fomison. He was the first resident of the cottage following its sale by the Rita Angus estate to the Thorndon Trust in 1984. Sadly said letterbox sits decaying in damp and dusty conditions in the shed out the back, along with a rusty sink and other miscellaneous shed stuff. Officially listed as a quote unquote chattel of the property, Rita's letterbox is literally wasting away.

Pictured: Current artist in residence Wayne Youle outside 194A Sydney Street West - 10/11/10.

THE GREEN BOX OF SHATTERED DREAMS

In the space between my bed and my bedroom door sits a green cardboard box about the size of a case of wine. I trip over it every morning getting out of bed and then again at night going back to bed. This box has sat there unmoved, unopened for over three years.

In this box sits a collection of the British popular music magazine New Musical Express (better known as the NME).

There was a time of my life when I went out a lot. And when I say a lot I mean almost every night. And when I say going out, I don’t just mean going down to the pub (although I did do that a lot too), I am referring to the thrill and excitement of seeing a live band play a set of songs you know every word to (or think you know every word to). Yes I am talking about going out to gigs. In this period of my life I used to average seeing well over 100 live bands a year. You don’t have to be the best in your class at math to work out that is over two gigs a week.

I was living in central Amsterdam just a measly seven minute walk (or seven minute cycle (I never have been the fastest biker)) away from their two famous rock concert venues, the Paradiso and the Melkweg. Nestled in between both venues was (which to this day still remains today my favourite watering hole), the unpretentious yet sophisticated Weber.

My regular gig going routine would involve meeting up with friends at Weber for a couple of drinks. Then we would head down to either the Paradiso or Melkweg en masse in plenty of time to secure a good position (front right hand side of the stage, and easy access to the bar). Although the Dutch are a pushy bunch during daylight hours (I looking at you oude vrouw side swiping my entry to the checkout at the Albert Heijn), their night time demeanour was somewhat more mellowed, which always allowed you to get up the front no matter how late you arrived. 

I was privileged enough to see a lot of up & coming bands play in a room not much bigger than your living room who now fill stadiums around the world. Kings of Leon, Bloc Party, Kasabian and the Killers to name a few.

After the gig the venue in house DJ would play songs of a similar genre to whom has just played keeping the punters around for another couple of hours. Then it was back to Weber for post gig drinks and a synopsis of the events that had just taken place.

Life was good.

It was during this time and the fruity words people used to describe the performance they had just witnessed on stage a mere metres away from them, that I thought to myself I should write gig reviews. What a cushy job that would be. You get to go out and see all the bands you want for free and then get paid to put your memories into print.

This was a time when whilst internet blogs did exist, we did not have the time in our day to read them. Unlike now where people are able to spend considerable time during working hours reading blogs as it is “work related”.

The blogs that were out there in regard to the live music scene in Amsterdam (and in English) were very negative. Disgruntled ex-pats who were running away from a mundane life back home taking out their frustrations on the Rakes as their sound guy was inexperienced and subsequently their live version of Strasbourg lacked the intensity and vitality of the bootleg copy of the in-store performance at Rough Trade Covent Garden that they owned.

Perhaps I could write for print I thought to myself. I could see myself being a music journalist, a muso journo as it were. The liquid lunches, then down to the venue to catch the sound check. Then out for a quick bite to eat and in time to catch the support. Hang out with the band afterwards. Wake up somewhere I shouldn’t, no memory about the night before besides a thumping baseline that had played at some stage during the set. Head into the office late next morning, bang out a review for that nights copy and off to that liquid lunch again. Full circle. Full stop.

After five years of residing in the lowlands, it was time to return home. Packing everything into so many cartons they took up more space that I had in my modest (read tiny) apartment, I jumped on the silver bird to my home town of Wellington. Living what my friends call a bohemian lifestyle (I was unemployed), I kidded myself I was a playwright, drank far too many coffees in the many fine cafes Wellington has to offer and wrote a play in which nothing much happened. Needless to say my play never made it to the hallowed boards of Bats theatre.

Finer weather saw me relocate to New Zealand’s sprawling metropolis they call Auckland where I immersed myself in the local music scene.  Often down at the then Schooner Tavern or Kings Arms midweek I was privy to early incarnations of the Tutts and Motocade (yes it was 2006) play to young but enthusiastic crowds. Fervent promoters booked international acts like the Fiery Furnaces and Ratatat who drew the scensters out of their windowless bedsit apartments for the night.  Life was good again. I was soon over the artist angst of my failed forte in the literary world and began again to have thoughts of turning my hand to music journalism.

Reality has a funny sense of turning around and biting you in the bum, and I woke up one day with a serious nine to five job, married, 2 kids and a hefty mortgage.  I couldn’t even remember the last gig I went to, and not because the memory was erased from some alcohol fuelled binge drinking marathon afterwards, but because it had been that long ago. (It was the Powerstation / Vector double header of the Pixies, but that just took 20 minutes to work out).

In an effort to face my new reality and to stop tripping over the box each time I get up in the morning I am now selling this box of hopes and aspirations.


http://www.trademe.co.nz/Books/Magazines/Music/auction-330920201.htm