Rave On

The best of 2011

Top Five Films of 2011:

5) We Need To Talk about Kevin

4) The Black Power Mixtape (1967-75)

3) The Guard

2) Senna

1) Submarine

One that just missed out:

Rise Of The Planet Of The Apes

 
Top 10 Songs of 2011:

10) ‘Call It What You Want’ by Foster The People

9) ‘Apartment’ by Young The Giant

8) ‘Somebody That I Used To Know’ by Gotye featuring Kimbra

7) ‘Perth’ by Bon Iver

6) ‘Midnight City’ by M83

5) ‘The Look’ by Metronomy

4) ‘Machu Picchu’ by The Strokes

3) ‘Hurting’ by Friendly Fires

2) ‘If You Wanna’ by The Vaccines

1) ‘Lonely Boy’ by The Black Keys

Five songs that just missed the cut:

‘Escapee’ by Architecture In Helsinki

‘Piledriver Waltz’ by Alex Turner

‘The Last Living Rose’ by PJ Harvey

‘Blink And You’ll Miss A Revolution’ by Cut Copy

‘Options’ by Gomez

Top 10 Albums of 2011:

10) ‘Zonoscope’ by Cut Copy
Key tracks: ‘Where I’m Going’, ‘Pharaohs & Pyramids’ and ‘Blink and You’ll Miss A Revolution’. 

9) ‘Moment Bends’ by Architecture In Helsinki
Key tracks: ‘Desert Island’, ‘Escapee’ and ‘That Beep’.  

8) ‘El Camino’ by The Black Keys
Key tracks: ‘Lonely Boy’, ‘Dead and Gone’, ‘Little Black Submarine’.  

7) ‘Let England Shake’ by PJ Harvey
Key tracks: ‘Let England Shake’, The Last Living Rose’, The Glorious Land’.  

6) ‘Making Mirrors’ by Gotye
Key tracks: ‘Easy Way Out’, ‘Somebody That I Used To Know’, ‘In Your Light’.  

5) ‘Young The Giant’ by Young The Giant
Key tracks: ‘Apartment’, ‘My Body’, 12 Fingers’.  

4) ‘Angles’ by The Strokes
Key tracks: ‘Machu Picchu’, ‘Under Cover of Darkness’, ‘Taken For a Fool’.  

3) ‘Bon Iver, Bon Iver’ by Bon Iver
Key tracks: ‘Perth’, ‘Towers’, ‘Calgary’.  

2) ‘Pala’ by Friendly Fires
Key tracks: ‘Blue Cassette’, ‘Hawaiian Air’, ‘Hurting’.  

1) ‘What Did You Expect From The Vaccines’ by The Vaccines
Key tracks: ‘Wreckin Bar (Ra Ra Ra)’, ‘If You Wanna’, ‘All In White’.  

Five albums that just missed the cut:

‘Hurry Up, We’re Dreaming’ by M83

‘Helplessness Blues’ by Fleet Foxes

‘This Modern Glitch’ by The Wombats

‘Suck It And See’ by Arctic Monkeys

‘Build A Rocket, Boys!’ by Elbow

In 2012…

I will not…

Eat fast food. At all. This means no McDonald’s, KFC, Red Rooster, Pizza Hut, Nando’s, Crust, Hungry Jack’s, Oporto or Subway.

Drink soft drink, unless it is mixed with spirits.

Go any further into debt.

Drive if I can walk.

Be bashful and will go after what I want.

I will…

Have breakfast every single morning, either at home or work.

Drink at least four glasses of water every day.

Eat at least two pieces of fruit every day.

Swim once a week, at least.

Cook for friends more often, trying to expand my repertoire. 

Endeavour to visit the United States.

Ditch procrastination and work as hard as I can.

Write more.

Short walk, long memories

Nostalgia is a funny thing, especially when even the most mundane routine brings memories flooding back. And so it was when, after a day at the cricket, I took the train back to my mother’s home.

I must have done the walk from Yarraman station to my old place in Dandenong West hundreds of times in my time as a high school and uni student, but I haven’t done it since moving away five years ago and since living in Ballarat, East Melbourne and now Canberra.

The walk is only a 15-or-so-minute stroll (although I used to be able to do it in nine minutes when under the pump to catch a train in the old days, seven with a little running on the side), and to be honest I was tempted to continue on to Dandenong and get a cab back instead, but once I started the walk I was very glad I did.

It’s a walk that gives me a reminder of my working class roots. The homes are almost exclusively one-story and either brick or weatherboard. The front yards and gardens are usually a bit unkempt, there are young kids playing with a small ball in the overgrown parkland opposite their home and the multicultural mix of the area is on display in dress and home decoration.

Like any area over time, some things have changed and others are just as you remember.

The bridge over Dandenong Creek that used to be a dipping concrete walkway that was dangerous after a lot of rain has been replaced with a modern wooden bridge high above the waterline. Some of the old houses have been knocked down, the land subdivided and smaller units built. And I have to wonder how many of the dogs that barked at me from behind fences are the same that barked at me more than five years ago.

But it’s the things that are the same that brightened me up. The big, bulging mass of hedge that I ran my hand or arm over every single time I went past it, even when it was wet (heck, especially when it was wet) just so I could feel its soft bristled branches run along my skin. The basketball court in the front yard of my old friend Chris’ place, where I have fond memories of intense two-on-two games on the specially laid concrete slab with regulation height hoop and backboard. I even recognised the old man walking his old small dog through the parkland; he still carries the handle off a sledge hammer to ward off larger dogs and he still won’t give even the slightest hint of a smile after you acknowledge him.

I’ll always love that I was brought up in Dandenong, and for some reason, this particular walk is great reminder of that – even though I hated every second of it when I was younger.

Happy Birthday to my one true love

Dear Melbourne,

I hope you’re having a happy 176^th birthday, you saucy old minx.

I’m so sorry that I cannot be there for your celebrations – it really is my loss. But I assume (and hope) you’re putting on one of your typical late August sunny days interspersed with cloud cover and the teasing threat of some very light showers. While the “will you?/won’t you?” questions about the weather annoy newcomers, it’s part of your quaint charm to locals. It just forms part of your complex but interesting character.

While sometimes I kind of wish you’d kept the name Batmania in honour of early settler John Batman, you weren’t to foresee the popularity some 145 years later of the Batman series of comics, and saying you’re a Melburnian is probably more respectable than saying you’re a Batmanian when travelling interstate or abroad.

I’m sorry I’ve only been back once since I moved away, but I’ll make it up to you. I love that my last weeks with you were the Melbourne International Comedy Festival, and that I’ll be spending a lot of time with you in September to watch my beloved Hawthorn Football Club play finals. April and September are your best days, where your the city centre truly comes alive and locals and visitors mix like a well-made gin and tonic.

I miss your magnificent gardens, your detailed classical architecture, your indie dance clubs, your perfect late breakfasts, your world-class sporting events, your vibrant live music scene, your danky river that I wouldn’t swim across if offered a five-figure sum, your trams, your more progressive thinking populace, your historic cauldron of a cricket ground, your elite range of restaurants, your collection of my friends and your ability to make me feel like I’m home. Because when I’m with you, I am.

In just over a week, I’ll be flying to you in the evening. If I’m lucky, we’ll need to make a sweeping north-easterly approach and your cluster of tall bright lights will be visible from my window seat (I’ll make sure I am on the left side of the plane to make sure I get a good view). If I’m really lucky, we’ll have to sweep in over your inner northern suburbs, and I’ll get that rare up-close view of the MCG and your city skyline with the bay behind it. I’m getting tingles just thinking about it.

They say that if you love something then set it free, and if it returns it was meant to be. Well Melbourne, you set me free four months ago and I want you to rest assured that I’ll be back some time soon to while away my remaining days. I truly do love you.

Eternally yours,

Me

An Open Letter to Arsenal

Dear Arsenal,

After so many years of fire and passion, it is over. I just can’t look you in the eye any more.

It’s not me, it’s you. You used to challenge me and the physical side of our relationship was amazing. But slowly over recent years that side of things has been on the wane, and I have had to look around for new, more exciting liaisons.

I’m not to one to dwell on physical appearance, but you’ve let yourself go. Your once tight backend and your swivelling hips that left all and sundry mesmerised is gone, and I have no faith that you have the ability – or even the inclination – to get it back to how it used to be.

I can’t help but remember the good times; they’ll stay with me forever. You know, Sol Campbell being sent off for a flaying elbow, Martin Keown getting all up in Ruud’s grill after his missed pen, your FA Cup victory on penalties against me when it seemed like I had 80 percent of the ball and 60 shots and of course Giggsy’s winning goal in the ’99 FA Cup semi final replay.

But now it’s just boring. You tried to spice things up recently with a 1-0 win late last season, but while I appreciated the effort, deep down it felt a bit empty. I mean, after City and I shared that amazing derby in February, everything else felt a little… you know… meaningless.

While you’ve no doubt noticed my flirtations with that young thing Chelsea over recent years, it is really two of my old exes – Liverpool and City – that have me interested again. You see, they’ve made an effort. They’ve fought and bought for my attention. And because they’ve been so close for so long, it feels more homely.

I’m sorry, but it’s over. I know you have that little thing on the side with Spurs – maybe a passionate fight with them over minor European places can inspire you into the team you once were. But I doubt it.

Yours in sadness,

Manchester United

Finality is good, even if it’s bad

There’s a certain sense of relief and clarity that comes with knowing that something is over and there is absolutely no going back. Whether the finality comes in the form of achievement or a sudden and crushing end, the human mind has a remarkable ability to focus on other matters as soon as it realises something is over.

Often that finality comes in the form of hope being extinguished. I’ve always been a believer that false hope is one of the cruellest burdens a person can bear, so even if hope is finally snuffed out, it means you can move on.

Think of that period when you like a girl or guy but you’re not sure it is reciprocated. If you really like them, it means butterflies in the stomach, irrational angst over a slow response to an SMS and the over-analysing of every word said in the search of clues on the other person’s true feelings (or maybe that’s just me). But you just want to know either way – the thrill of the chase is grossly overrated if you actually care about the other person.

Think of the last time you resigned from a job. Towards the end of my previous employ I felt conflicted between the need to move on and do something different versus loyalty to a boss that I greatly admired and loved working for. It was a tough decision, but as soon as I signalled my intent, a huge burden felt lifted from my shoulders – even though I hadn’t already organised a new job to move on to.

And somewhere in a compound under attack from the rebel liberators of Libya, Colonel Gaddafi knows it is the end. Whether his end is death or being tried in an international court for his crimes, I bet somewhere in the dark recesses of his mind he is thankful that the arm wrestle for Libya is over, even if it means it is his knuckles on the table.

Once something is done and dusted, either by your hand or the hand of others, there’s nothing left to do but move on. If you truly know something is over, you can be surprisingly quick in your refocus on the future – on what you can actually alter.

Unfortunately, recognising that something is finished and not holding out false hope is the hardest part of the process.

Stop it I love it: Choosing your karaoke song

Dear Miranda, I’m fatherless and I’m okay

“You only had to see the burning streets of London last week to see the manifestation of a fatherless society.” – Miranda Devine, Daily Telegraph, August 14 2011

I don’t read the columns of people like Miranda Devine and Andrew Bolt. In fact, I go out of my way to avoid them. Like so many episodes of Q&A, all they serve to do is make the blood pressure soar, the voice’s volume rise with indignation and a vitriolic flow to emerge from a keyboard.

And so here I am to prove the third point.

I didn’t read Devine’s column where the above quote came from; it came to my attention thanks to David Marr on the Insiders program. It’s a single sentence in a typical non-sense Devine piece on Penny Wong’s same-sex partner carrying a child with help from a sperm donor.

But I’m not here to defend Wong, I’m here to defend myself and the perception of children who grew up without a father and the single mothers who, in the vast majority of cases, do their very best to provide a good upbringing in the circumstances they find themselves in.

I haven’t seen my father in nearly 25 years. My father – let’s call him Patrick, as I don’t consider him my “father” in the true sense of the word – took off in the family car when I was 18 months old after my mother found out about an extra-marital affair. Patrick fleeced his own parents of money set aside for his father’s aged care, fleeced my mum’s mother of owed money and, over the course of my entire childhood, deliberately worked cash in hand jobs interstate to avoid paying child support.

His actions meant that my mum had no option but to raise me – her only child – by herself. His deliberate avoidance of paying child support meant that my mum had no choice but to raise me in an old concrete housing commission place in Dandenong West. His actions meant that the second most important relative in my upbringing was my grandmother, who looked after me so often whenever my mum wanted a rare night out or just some respite from her know-it-all kid.

And you know what? Knowing the kind of person Patrick is, I would not have wanted any different.

Sure, it would have been easier on my mum and I would have had a more financially secure childhood, but I don’t wish for a second that my philandering, thieving and downright criminal biological father had stuck around. And I would like to see an argument from Devine or any other nuclear family devotees that I’d be a better person if he had.

I credit my independence, initiative and core values to my upbringing. If never having cheated on a girlfriend or being compassionate or standing up for what I believe is right through working in politics is a consequence of not having my father around, then I’m more than comfortable with that.

And if either one of Wong or Sophie Allouache are as good and as loving a parent as my mother, then their child will turn out just fine. 

The London riots were a maelstrom of social frustration from a section of the community that feels disconnected and blatant criminal opportunism. To link it to a “fatherless society” is nothing short of spitting in the face of single mothers and same-sex parents everywhere who have given as much of themselves as humanly possible to raise a good child in a loving household.