Friday, April 23, 2004

Rode home pondering whether i was enjoying the weather (unseasonnably sultry nights) still or whether i'd had enough heat for another half year, and was cooking dinner and entertaining Shepthedog when Pru came home to announce her crazy cousin from Sydney had just called to tell her there was a launch party for some magazine in Melbourne and he'd decided to get on a plane and go to it, and see you in an hour can i crash at yours please.
Having been convinced of said cousin's craziness by said housemate, and not needing any prompting to go out anyway (it being afterall, unseasonably warm), we headed off to the Public Office on the assumption that any party worth getting on an aeroplane at short notice for was at least worthy of our looksee.
Turns out it wasn't. Said cousin wasn't crazy, either, which was unfortunate, but he's a nice chap, and i wobbled into the kitchen this morning to find him playing Langquidity, a serendipitous piece of anorak happenstance enabling us to have a most illuminating (it being The Morning, after all) conversation about Mr Ra, Mr Sanders and Evidence, which released both Lanquidity and Journey to the One.

I had to feel sorry for the poor bugger - maybe he thinks nothing of dropping a cool couple hundred on a last minute plane ticket to attend a party in another state, but if you did that and turned up only to find a couple dozen people sitting on the floor watching video artists do whatever it is they do with their dubious talents, you'd be a mite put out, one would think.
This indeed being the case I cut my losses and went to Honkytonks to say hello to Nik Weston, which was similarly a bit of a bust. Not that going to Ennio and Kano's night is ever wasted time, they being purveyours of the finest music played regularly in an Australian club (a claim i refuse to qualify even if you can think of a better regular night; which you can't, because their isn't one), but the crowd was scant, at best.

Annie, the promoter, was really bummed as she'd done a lot of postering and flyering for last night and was feeling embarrassed that a decent crowd had utterly failed to turn out for 'an international'. I didn't say so, but being international doesn't mean a great deal if nobody in the country bar the djs you're playing with know who you are.

Actually, that wasn't quite true.
Was baled-up by two drunken English backpackers (from Chiswick, if memory serves) who decided i was an ideal candidate for Third Person on Otherwise Deserted Dancefloor, and, powerless to resist, was pulled floorward from enthuiastic conversations about various recent records to shuffle bemusedly while they flailed about, intermittently heckling Kaman for not playing DnB. Being a lovely chap, he got around to obliging the lasses with some ace hospital/drummagic-type business, and i was able to make good my escape.
To be fair, they'd left a pub crawl with their mates specifically to come and hear Nik W, so i'd feel exceedingly churlish for, say, calling them slappers or making some similar bigoted generalisation on drunk English tourists.

It confounds me how so few people turn out for that night. Kaman's radio show is hugely respected and widely listened to, so how can you go down to their night and not find it heaving, week in, week out? Sure, seeing him drop the odd interminable jazz-fusion dirge to a packed floor he has eating out of his hand can seem somewhat perverse, but generally, he and Kano play such fantastically ace music it seems a crime their weekly doesn't do better.

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