Get Cape, Wear Cape, Fly.

Oh internet, you are such a distraction. 

But such an inspiration.

The simple act of opening my Facebook homepage never fails to break my heart these days. Befriending a whole range of fashion blogs, boutiques and designer labels, it transpires, was a terrible idea. Now, not only is Facebook as terrible a procrastination device as ever, but a constant reminder of how many beautiful clothes exist in this world. Clothes that I will never be able to afford. Wandering home from class I waste hours meandering in and out of Good as Gold, Area 51, and all the vintage shops on upper Cuba, starry eyed and virtually drooling.

Don't get me wrong, I LOVE op-shopping. I do my best to rifle through the bargain bins and those rare little dusty suburban stores where you can pick up pieces for just a couple of dollars. I miss these days before second-hand became 'vintage.' When op-shops were what they should be, instead of overpriced hipster haunts. But, every now and again you come across that designer, one-off, dazzlingly beautiful piece that it's totally justified to splurge on or lust over.

Not only are the clothes amazing, but the photo-shots are often so creative. The fashion world is simply a wealth of artistic inspiration.

Like Lindsey Thornburg's Fall collection (above and below). Utterly drool-worthy.

Catching Lives.

Blowing Bubbles...

Yet again, Wellington put on a stunner. For all our complaints, when Wellington does do sunshine, it does it well. Gloriously even. Needless to say, my attempts to study were way-laid by certain invitations for cider, coffee, stone-grill and sitting beside the lagoon on bean bags. I've come to the unfortunate conclusion however, that whenever my camera battery dies, the potential photo opportunities increase exponentially, much to my intense frustration. I'm so used to having my camera in hand that I constantly see photos everywhere, regardless of whether I have it with me or not.

Today, while catching up with an old friend and sipping a flat white a man stood on the end of the Oriental Parade jetty, making giant detergent bubbles which floated smoothly into the autumn air. Of course, my camera chose that precise moment to kark it. Luckily I managed to snap it on my friend's camera.

Spend your autumn blowing bubbles, kicking leaves with your feet and your head in the clouds.

Exit Through the Gift Shop



Banksy... Makes you think huh?

 It looks like I'm in grave danger of becoming a theatre geek. One of those pretentious prats who turn their noses up because they spent the last $10 of their weekly student loan on theatre tickets at BATS, instead of your solid investment in a bottle of Lindauer. Who spend their Friday nights ernestly discussing the feminist interpretation of some obscurely titled play while the rest of us engage in the ever-dignified pursuit of grinding, stumbling and drunkenly screaming our way down Courtenay Place.

Yes, it appears that somehow, unbeknowst to me, I have accidentally volunteered myself as a theatre reviewer for our student magazine, Salient. And I know NOTHING about theatre. But I'm finding this entire business rather enjoyable and thought-provoking. After watching August: Osage County last Friday I found myself mulling over its themes and intensely questioning some of my assumedly fundamental values. Which all sounds very pretentious and over-zealously philosophical if you ask me.

 But regardless of what this labels me, I must admit I love the use of arts as social commentary. Last night I watched Bansky's film, Exit Through the Gift Shop, which, to be honest, is nothing short of an absolute mind-fuck. It leaves you simultaneously confused, frustrated and intrigued. Which, I think, is entirely the point. It makes some fairly major stabs right at the heart of popular culture.... or does it?
Banksy, you f'ing genius.

I admire artists in any field who aren't afraid to express their opinion and challenge the status quo. I admire artists full-stop. Art has this wonderful and subtle ability to make us think. I know alot of people who consider modern art absolute bollocks. What pretentious twat spends several thousand dollars on a blank canvas with a line through it? Right? Or maybe, as Exit Through the Gift Shop so enigmatically suggests, there's a message in that too. Maybe art is a dynamic process which are reactions are very much a part of. When we scoff at a painting, stop to investigate an usual piece of graffitti on the street or dance to a catchy tune- perhaps that response is art too? In its broadest sense, I think art is something that makes you think. And surely no one can deny that there is always some value in that.


So here I am, exhibiting all the tell-tale symptoms of theatre geek syndrome. That was a long-winded spiel about art that, quite frankly no one gives a shit about (the spiel, not the art). Prognosis: critical. All the same, I rest assured in the fact that when I do go to plays, Salient arranges me free tickets, meaning I don't ever need to sacrifice that precious bottle of Lindauer.

Here are some of my favourite Banksy works, which he painted on the West Bank barrier in Israel

Magnificently Fucked-Up

There are plays, and then there are plays.August: Osage County, showing at Circa Theatre until May 7, is one of the latter. Having wowed audiences from London to Broadway, Tracy Letts’ Pulitzer Prize winning play has finally been given its eagerly anticipated Wellington incarnation.

Set in the oppressive heat of late Oklahoma summer, the play details the story of the Westons, an average family at its most extraordinarily dysfunctional. When the brooding, alcoholic patriarch Beverley (Ray Henwood) mysteriously disappears, the entire family converges under one equally stifling roof. As the details of Beverley’s disappearance unfold, a series of long-held secrets emerge from the woodwork. Thus the floodgates are opened for ensuing truth-torrent and the family’s disturbing realities are revealed through incredible acting and impeccably convincing ensemble work.

Jennifer Ludlam-spectacularly reprising the role that won her great critical acclaim in Auckland-plays Beverley’s wife, Violet. Rendered semi-coherent by her addiction to prescription drugs, the volatile matriarch is brutally truthful and hideously manipulative, yet possesses just enough vulnerability to make her human.
While Michelle Amas as the strong-willed eldest daughter, Barbara, and Victoria University’s own Lauren Gibson as the pot-smoking teenage grand-child were personal favourites, there is not a single weak role in the thirteen-strong cast. Particularly intriguing is the character of Johnna Monevata (Anya Tate-Manning) a Native American housekeeper who acts as an enigmatic observer and pillar of stability amongst the unfolding chaos.

What is most incredible about August: Osage County however, is that the work explores seemingly universal elements of family dynamics in the most sensationally fucked-up of situations. Letts’ script is simultaneously thought-provoking and hilarious and utterly unafraid of questioning some of our most purportedly fundamental values.

Whether you are a regular theatre-goer or not, you are doing yourself an injustice if you don’t see August: Osage County. Admittedly the play is three and a half hours long, including intervals. But don’t let that discourage you. By the first interval I was intrigued, by the second interval engrossed and at the end, during the standing ovation, simply wanted to see it all over again.

This is Foreign Land.

See our city reflected in the harbour.

Skyscrapers, church spires, and city lives,

distorted by velvet folds of rippling water.

Wellington is an island,
connected to the rest of this land by sea.

We speak different words here,

all a new language.

By custom and by fashion,

this is all but foreign land.

Drink we not water,

but sustenance derives from small coffee cups.

A world of liquid black gold

embracing cappuccino harbour.

Dress we against wind,

and it undresses us.

Upturned umbrellas

and snatched-at skirts,

blowing hard against the solace of souls.

Down Ngaio Gorge,

round motorway corner 

and grand harbour opening-

This is Wellington now.

But evening star rises,

Shines bright over silhouette hills-

They see it too.

In Cape Reinga, Bluff,

all here below a southern cross.

On sunshine days

                          we drop airs, don jandals,

dive waves, light barbies-

perhaps like Kiwis after all.

Through love affairs

with Artisan beer,

and long black lunches,

at our truest we know

                                                          It's sunshine on ocean that's liquid gold after all.

Wasting Light- It's all Rock n' Grohl

What do you do after playing at Wembley to 86,000 people?

You make a record in your garage of course. And do a fuckin’ good job of it.

After reaching this absolute pinnacle of rock n’  roll stardom- not to mention a performance with Paul McCartney at the 2009 Grammys and a side project with Led Zeppelin’s John Paul Jones- you might have been forgiven for thinking that the Foo Fighters had nothing left to give. Yet, out of Dave Grohl’s San Fernando Valley garage comes a refreshing step back to the band at their greatest and truest, and one of their best records yet.

Wasting Light, released in stores on April 12, heralds the fully-fledged return of stalwart guitarist Pat Smear and is overseen by Nevermind producer Butch Vig. Fortunately however, the record is far from Cobain-esque, nineties grunge nostalgia. Rather, as reflected in the Foo’s innovate decision to release the entire eleven tracks free online, Wasting Light seems a relevant, but grown-up product of fifteen years of Foo Fighters history.  From the moment Dave screams “These are my famous last words” in the very first line of the emphatic opener, “Broken Bridge,” the listener is treated to an aural smorgasboard of styles guaranteed to leave you simultaneously trembling and singing along.

From the Probot reminiscent metal riffs and dirty whiskey vocals of “White Limo” to the pure-pop groove of “Dear Rosemary,” the rock giants’ monumental seventh album contains enough variety to never let you quite settle in too comfortably. While Grohl ventures slightly toward lulling country ballad territory with “These Days,” the album’s more melodic moments are interjected with timely gravel gargling choruses for good rock n’ roll measure.

With the knee-tappingly catchy “Back and Forth” and feel-good finale in which Grohl sings of “learning to walk again” the gargantuan rock LP remains satisfyingly cohesive by always feeling fundamentally Foos at heart. Unlike its recent predecessors, Wasting Light is rocky enough to satisfy the die-hard elite of “I’ve liked them since forever” fans, but full of the catchy radio-hooks that may well lure in a new generation of followers.  After all, when a man can play the triangle at a rock concert (as I saw him do at Vector Arena in 2008) and make it look bad-ass, you know he is timeless.

The famous five-piece have, this year, reasserted themselves as the rock n’ roll nobility of our generation.  Somewhat ironically, for an album recorded in a garage, Wasting Light screams quintessential Foo Fighters arena rock. Dave Grohl and his band learnt to fly back in 1999, which is lucky, because in 2011 they’re jumping off a musical cliff with potentially their most audacious album thus far. Yet somehow, it seems more classic Foos than ever.

Daringly deemed by many their best album since The Colour and the Shape, Wasting Light is a must-buy, not just to play in the car, but to put into the stereo and blast the goddamned roof off. 

On repeat.

You can listen to the entire album online- here.


Also, they've released a documentary on the making of this album, titled Back and Forth. I'm not sure when (if) it'll be available in New Zealand but it looks pretty damn Grohltastic. You can check out the trailer here.


Also, kudos to Luke for his superb efforts in helping me edit this.