Archive for the ‘Party’ Category

1. You don’t have to listen to lame, pseudo intelligent, meaningless artwank lyrics.
Fuck yeah, I think I just coined the term “artwank”.

You guys know exactly what I mean too, don’t you. I love music like I love eating food, I don’t give a flying fuck about how it’s presented. It’s the act of absorbing it that feels so good.

I’m sick and tired of bands that concentrate on making songs with pretentious, sooky lyrics trying to come across deep and important. I don’t give a fuck about your inner anguish or interpretation of heroin addiction. I want to nod my head like it’s a bobble head on a Hummers dashboard in Afganistan. By the way, the next person I hear describing a band, or any art for that matter, as “important” I will swiftly reply to with Deadly Face Fist of Judah. Road safety and good nutrition is important, bands are not fucking important.

Rammstein have solved this problem with extreme ingenuity; they sing in German so I have no fucking clue what they’re on about anyway. Even if you are German, you still don’t understand them because Till Lindemann just sounds like a grizzly bear eating a chainsaw and you’re too busy putting the flames out on your girlfriend’s face because you were too close to the stage.

2. Your band doesn’t shoot flames out of their face and deploy fireworks at the crowd.
Like I need to expand on this. Flames. Out of their faces. Can your band do this?


3. Best name, ever.
I can’t think of anything that is better than having the words “stein” and “ram” in your name. Are they named after the act of forcibly cramming a huge mug of beer down your throat? Probably not, but who cares! I like to think they are. Even saying it makes me happy. LDLDLDLDLDLAAAHM SHTEEEEYYYN.

4. They can be ironic without trying to be.
Arty faggots love irony. It’s the unoriginal artist’s emergency imagination. The only time irony is cool in any artform and especially music, is when it’s not forced. What the fuck am I on about?

Stay with me.

I watched Rammstein live the other night. They came on stage for an hour, and in that hour they managed to shoot flames out of every place possible including their face, play drums using explosions, wheel a huge cauldron on stage wearing a chefs hat and apron smeared in blood then shot flames at it, shoot pyrotechnics at the crowd, then at themselves, induce nightmares in the mind of every sleeping child within a 50 kilometre radius, appease Satan, ride a giant penis around the stage shooting paper jizz all over the crowd…

and then bowed ever so politely to the crowd and in a nice little voice said “Danke shoen” then left.

That ass fucked my mind.

5. Pure, unadulterated entertainment.
Rammstein don’t just punch out their best tunes with amazing fidelity, you can feel the heat from the flame throwers, you can see the firworks and stage antics, you can smell burning fuel, and when a cloud of confetti begins to float toward the ground after being shot off stage… you can reach out and touch it. It is truly an immersion of the senses.

Tool came on stage directly after Rammstein finished and immediately disappointed me. Now, Tool and disappointment are not two things that often go together. I love Tool, as do millions upon millions of people across the globe. But what they did, I can experience by putting my iPod in my ears. In better quality sound, too.

Tool, like many other bands, go on stage and just sing their songs and then leave. You quickly get over the wow factor that your favourite band is right there in front of you, then it’s time to add more to your senses what the album you just bought already has. Many like to defend this behaviour, especially Tool, with “it’s all about the music, not the band.”

This is a cop out. Let me fucking tell you something.

It’s not about either, it’s about the fans. The people who buy your albums, who pay over-inflated ticket prices to see you live, who supply you with a huge income and opportunity to live out your dream lifestyle making and sharing music with others. We bought your fucking album and know what it sounds like, and now we’ve paid 10 times the price to come see you live. Make with the witty stories, theatrics and fireworks you fucking smug human dukebox because you’re being left behind by people who can’t even speak English.

6. Your band doesn’t shoot flames out of their face and deploy fireworks at the crowd.

7. Rammstein teaches bogans culture and how to speak German.
Now we all know how stupid bogans are. They are the people who have just discovered Facebook and change their status each day to something about fighting someone, people who think Kirk Cobain was a hero for blowing his head apart with a shot gun because he was a drug riddled emo, people who wear clothing that advertises cars like Ford, Holden and other cars that can’t turn a corner doing more than 30km/h.

People who think bourbon tastes good.

Rammstein has the benefit of appealing to bogans due to the lead singer’s voice sounding like a Tyrannosaurus Rex fucking a Harley Davidson. Thankfully, it suits the music they do perfectly which means smart people like you and me like it too. Bogans also have a curious need to make meaning out of every song’s lyrics  so they can make learned conversation over dinner at the pub. To do this with Rammstein means to sit for hours on Google Translate, systematically going through each line of each song and then deciphering it into something that makes sense. Here’s the funny bit though, hardly any of it does. Sucked in, bogans.

8. Federal Department for Media Harmful to Young Persons has banned their latest album.
In Germany you can show porn to kids, they allow women to grow hair anywhere on the body below their neck,  you can buy a beer in Mc Donalds, but Rammstein’s album is banned. This is fucking hardcore.

Other things that are dangerous to children include nuclear testing, knife fighting, heroin injections and pools filled with razorblades.

But your favourite band is probably on my grandmother’s iPod.

9. The guitarist’s name is Paul Landers.
His last name is really fucking Landers. That’s so fucking rockstar that it makes Freddie Mercury look gay, and Freddie Mercury IS gay.

10. This.


Our friend’s little girl, Rose, watching Barney.

The moon tonight.

Playng with zoom

I’m freaking out, driving to Perth airport at EXACTLY the speed limit which I’m sure was twice as much the day before and some fuck has changed it because there is a chip in my head and some secret government agency named AFSUAMN (Annoy The Fuck Outta Scotty Using Any Means Necessary) that go around doing this shit to me on a daily basis. Well, today is not the fucking day. “Melbourne and Karratha” I hear as I run like Wally Lewis through a pack of rugby players that are actually old people, babies in prams and other innocent people wandering through departure lounge, I’m convinced they are from the same agency.

“Last call for Karratha Flight QFXYZ, paging passenger Scotty Assassin” FUCK, I run up to the counter in front of this dick, too much tan, too thick gold around his neck, diamond coated sunnies on INSIDE THE FUCKING AIRPORT, and a tight black Gucci muscle shirt that made him look like a condom full of walnuts. I fully busted in front of him in the line in sheer panic.

Fag: “You right there mate?”


“Your boarding pass, sir, please hurry”


I walked back past Paris Hilton who was looking a little sensitive and bolted to my gate. “In the event blah seats blah oxygen under seat drop from roof exit” *SNORE* I was out of it. I had been up since Friday 6am, it’s now 3pm Saturday and just as the magical cashier in my dream handed me the lotto cheque for the Monster Truck Ferrari with laser cannons that I had ordered, I was woken up. Fucking LASER CANNONS bitch, and you wake me up and want me to move my FUCKEN SEAT FORWARD so that some idiot behind me can eat his dried bread-crumbs stuck together to form a bun, salami made from not salami and cheese that sucks the moisture out of your face quicker than chewing on a Chux wipe? FUCK OFF. MONSTER FERRARI IS GONE NOW.

Plane lands, I need sleep bad. My lads Todd and Jules are waiting for me at the airport and we get into this awesome mobile home superstar DJ bus roadtrip super truck. Pass through Karratha and we head straight to Dampier and the Mermaid Tavern where tonight’s gig will be. We get out of the mega-van and it’s about 36 degrees (that’s CELSIUS you fucking american heathens) so we head straight to the bar, my cries of help to relieve sleep deprivation falls on deaf ears save for one quick mumble from Todd “Yeah, we got a room bro, we’ll go check it out soon.

We enter the room which is soon to be packed to the rafters with people who usually kill people if they stand between them and a speaker blasting D&B. I haven’t met these people yet, but in a few hours I was about to meet 300 of them. You know those icecream freezers at the local BP petrol station full of Streets icecreams and Callipsos? We had one of them full of beer behind the stage. Before I could say “Fuck sleep let me in the Streets Icecream Beer Heaven Box” a big tattooed lad walks in with a box full of t-shirts. “Assassin, this is Zak”. He hands me a Dirty Coasty t-shirt “Thanks for comin up on such short notice bro, sweet as”. This was Todd’s cuz and co-promoter for the night. He’s also one of the most awesome people I have ever met, and I’ve chilled with The Prodigy and smoked spliffs with Cypress Hill. They don’t got shit on these fellas.

It’s 6pm and a pub full of Hi-Vis jacket wearing, mostly Kiwis, are watching the Kiwis vs Aussies Rugby match. These guys are all massive and work on either the rigs off-shore, or on the mines around the area. I mean, when their parents went through the baby drive through to buy a baby, they all said super size upgrade. I barracked for the Kiwis and tried my hardest to remember the lyrics to Dave Dobbin Slice of Heaven just incase a “Dah dah dup doom doom dah dah dup” broke out. I was way too tired for kung fu, peace was my word for the day.

“What time does the gig start, bruz?” I asked Todd, looking at my watch that doesn’t work and it said it was 2am, but the clock on the wall that worked unfortunately said 6:10pm. “It’s started, bro. 6pm. The first bus load of punters are on the way” Panic sets in, like the kind of panic that sits in the back of your head giggling at you whispering “You are SO fucked dude”. I ask for the room key and say I gotta get some sleep before I get on stage. “No worries bro” *cha chink*

I walk into the hotel room, turn every dial on the aircon full clockwise, then switch the ringtone on my phone to Rage Against The Machine’s Killing In The Name Of at full volume. When you absolutely, positively have to wake up any mutherfucker in the room, Rage will come to the party. I fall back on the bed and Lady Sleep walks in the room, closes the door behind her, takes her clothes off, winks at me and says “Sup, big fella”. Darkness.




“Scotty, it’s Ash I’m outside”

My bro, Ash. He’s at the gig.

“What’s the time?”


I’m back inside the gig, beer in hand, sleep has escaped me again. People are beginning to come through the doors in packs and the party is getting serious. I check the mic and give myself some inner councilling “OK mate, you gotta play this gig, they’ve flown you here to do what you do best, sleep. But in the meantime, they also expect you to rinse that fucking dancefloor clean with the mic, so harden the fuck up and get on it.” I’m good at giving myself pep talks, I even listen on occasion.


Fast forward to midnight and I say DJ, they say GO. “D.A.M.P.I.E.R, if the rest don’t party then fuck em coz we are” etc. A fight breaks out on the dancefloor and I call the DJ to turn the tune off. Having a mic in your hand rules, because you get to talk over everything, including fights. “OI” I say, “This is a D&B party, it’s all about the fun, all about the music, all about the love and if you wanna fight… FUCK OFF SOMEWHERE ELSE” The crowd went wild and the idiots were removed in about 5 seconds flat. “Yo Mista DJ, play that propa” Back to the party.


After the party was the real good stuff, and that’s another story.


It’s Friday and I already know that Monday morning at work will feel like it arrives in 10 mins from now. I have possibly the most conentrated weekend I’ve had since my Hong Kong Teebee & Assassin “Cloud Nine” Tour which involved 3 events, 4 flights, 3 countries in 2 days.

It’s 6:30am and here is my weekend schedule:

7:30 am – Gym
10:30 am – Work
7:00 pm – Super Party Begin

11:30 am – Super Paty End
12:30 pm – Home & Pack for gig
2:15 pm – Airport, Plane, Sleep
9:00 pm – On Stage

2:00 am – Off Stage
2:10 am – After Party
1:00 pm – Airport, Plane, Sleep
8:00 pm – Sleep

6:00 BAM!

Should be fun tho, I hear these guys seriously party