Random Play by Graham Reid

I wish I wasn’t writing this. I wish it wasn’t humid and raining. I wish I could bring myself to put his album on right now.

But -- and I really don’t know why -- I am overwhelmed by grief to learn that Pauly Fuemana has died.

Many, many others knew him -- or will now claim to know him -- better than I. In truth I did not know him at all -- other than in a professional capacity.

But I can recall seeing his clip of How Bizarre when I was sitting slightly lost and lonely in a hotel in Amsterdam and in another in Tokyo; hearing that lazy summer song come out of car radios in Brixton and downtown LA; and again in a remote part of Italy where the people always struck me as too cool for even the Milan fashion set.

Pauly and his ineffably cool song were there, gone global. How strange.

This I am writing unfiltered because that is how I feel: I am so sad for his family of course, and cannot imagine what people such Simon Grigg and Victor Stent and Alan Jansson must be feeling right now.

(Those who, like me, know the dark backstory behind Pauly’s briefly successful career will guess they must each be feeling very different things but possibly a similar sadness.)

I will just say my bit: I remember a lovely day sitting in Auckland’s Virtu restaurant in late ‘96 when Pauly was relaxed and had come back from the madness of having a hit single in Europe.

He’d had to fly back and forth to Britain to be on Top of the Pops (it meant the quick purchase of a Eurail pass and a re-entry permit) and he’d started rehearsals there at 7.45am and left the studio at 8pm.

When I spoke to him he could laugh about it all: he’d met (and you have to remember this actually meant something back then) Bryan Adams, Neneh Cherry and … Peter Andre. (“He works really hard for what he’s got” said Pauly charitably. Andre was dick even then.)

Pauly’s new manager was Grant Thomas (who handled Neil Finn, Crowded House and Dave Dobbyn at the time), and he laughed about having played the Big Day Out -- and University gig for $35. Highs and lows. All good.

He joked about being interviewed about his newly found high profile: of being interviewed by Dylan Taite for television (“we wanted to get in the lift”), and John Russell (then editing Rip It Up) -- and me, at the Herald.

“You snubbed me at the music awards, “ he laughed -- and on that night I maybe did, the same at the Silver Scroll where he picked up a couple of awards.

No one in their right mind would snub him of course, but I saw the man was far too busy for chit-chat with the likes of me. By way of example he was in South East Asia within days of our long lunch and by the time my interview was in print he was in Thailand.

“I was in Germany for four days and did 16 interviews every day, plus four video shows,” he told me. “Switzerland and Sweden were like that.”

And that was his life at that time when the spotlight shone the brightest -- and possibly was the most blinding.

I’d like to think that sitting with me he was as relaxed as he seemed: we’d met a few times on a sociable basis, once memorably before How Bizarre was happening but it was obvious to me it was a Kiwi hit -- and then said as much in print.
The international rest of it I would never have guessed.

Pauly was relaxed despite it all -- but he did also note that some people here had given him the fingers, he’d had accusations of “sell-out” on his phone and his ’79 Mercedes coupe had been vandalised.

He told me that at a family function things had changed too: his extended Niuean community which once marginalised him (my words) now wanted autographs. I remember telling him that Ringo Starr knew he’d become famous and things were changed irrevocably when he went an aunty’s house in late ’63 and she insisted on bringing out the good china.

We laughed over that. But he knew it already.

And the rest.

His song Breaking My Heart said: “When you’re in they all come around, and when you’re out they don’t wanna know”. And we talked about that too, and he named names.

And so my afternoon went with Pauly who was sensitive, happy, smart but slightly sad, looked good in a great suit (“Oxford Street? No, Salvation Army, mate”) and so on.

He had a bit to hide about his past, but we both knew that and passed over it. And why not? I remember he spoke a lot about “learning the business”.

But in a way it was too late: the business had taken over him.

In the coming months I guess all of that will come out -- as it should. But right now I don’t care. I am just sad.

A few years ago -- and my wife tells me I have no concept of time so it might have been more than a few -- Pauly’s wife rang out of the blue and said he wanted to talk. Needed to talk were the words, if I recall.

He had something going on and after what I had written over the years he trusted me.

I rang back, left the message, calls were passed and connections never made. I knew part of what was happening in his life at that time.
But that is enough of that.

This I know beyond question.

There isn’t a hip-hop, or pop, artists in this country -- unwittingly or otherwise -- who doesn’t owe a debt of gratitude to Pauly Fuemana. He (and his late brother Phil) proved the impossible was within our grasp.

Some cynics will say Pauly only left one great song. But that is one more more than they and I -- and most of us -- will ever leave.

This is a sad day.

On the back of those pages of my long interview published in the Herald -- which I kept for reasons I cannot explain -- I note there are interviews with AC/DC (who were playing Ericsson Stadium a few days later) and with Mel Gibson (who had a new movie Ransom opening).

For them, life and their careers continued.

For Pauly the public part was over long ago. And now, public and private, forever.

I’m going to go upstairs and open a bottle of wine and look at this rainy afternoon. I will not put on his one great hit or his somewhat indifferent album, because if I did I know I would probably weep uncontrollably.

And the strange thng is, I won’t know why.

His death, to me, just seems too big and small, too sad and too unnecessary.

And -- because of what I know about the music world which eats its young -- not that bizarre at all.

There are signs on Santa Monica Beach of the dos and don’ts: at the bottom of the list is “no percussion instruments”.

I’m down with that.

Tub thumpers are annoying, intrusive and seem to have endless time on their hands. They can bang away for ages -- just like some group did at Mission Bay on Sunday. They seemed to start just after we sat down for a quiet lunch in a bar across the road. If I had a hand-gun . . .

I’m sure they were much appreciated by passers-by (who could at least just pass by?) because when one seemingly shapeless piece ended there was scattered applause. I don’t know who they are but I spotted some of them later and they were wearing matching t-shirts. I guess they were their gang colours.

For the record there are only two good drum solos in the world: they are this one (because it’s short, to the point and meaningful) and this one because it’s mad Ginger Baker at his polyrhythmic peak (and it sort of tells a story.)

After that? None more.

And there is never a good percussion session to be had in park - unless of course you are doing it yourself. For innocent civilians, drumming is like having someone else’s pork scratchings shoved in your face and being told that you should just enjoy it and get in touch with your inner piglet or something.

That said, I have three adult children, all of whom are fine musicians and one of them is . . . Yes, an excellent drummer. He doesn’t do solos.

Of course when I die and if they choose to play at my wake (And Your Bird Can Sing lads, an extended version inna Hendrix-style) he will be perfectly entitled to do a drum solo.

That’s one I would really like to be around for.

Banging My Own Drum : On Wednesday night at 5.30 there will be a free glass of wine for you in the Auckland Central Library in advance of me speaking about my travel book The Idiot Boy Who Flew at 6pm.

It will be an illustrated and hopefully amusing talk about travel writing, and particularly the complex title story of my book (the only story this month which includes a flying Catholic saint, man-boy love and the late Dalvanius?).

It is free and will be all the better for you being there, so do stop by -- although they tell me bookings are advised (Ph 377 0209)

In that regard, many thanks to those who took the time to vote for my book in the Peoples’ Choice awards section of the up-coming travel writing awards. If you still wish to do so -- and you only vote once, this isn’t Afghanistan -- you can vote here. Just scroll down and click the link beside my book and send the e-mail that comes up. Simple as, bro’.
Again, sincere thanks to those who have already done so.

And more free stuff? At Elsewhere I have just posted album reviews (with music tracks and clips) of everything from the excellent new Midlake album and a beguiling Underworld compilation to the recent Lyle Lovett and some new jazz -- and a consideration of that album of “Japanese punk jazz” (her description not mine) by Miho Wada. Oh, and Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs!

There’s also an overview of Daniel Johnston (here for Laneways) and a terrific box set of psychedelic music from San Francisco in the late Sixties, essays on the great Timi Yuro (who?) and an Essential Elsewhere album by Little Feat, plus DVD reviews (In the Loop, the artists Gilbert and George, and a very funny cult flick about Elvis in a retirement home) and some book stuff. And I am regularly expanding My Back Pages(encounters with musicians) for your amusement. The Quireboys from London (does anyone else remember them?) were terrific fun.

All that -- and more -- at Elsewhere. Enjoy.

The giveaways for subscribers -- CDs, DVDs and concert tickets -- will be done soon so if you want to subscribe, it’s also free, then go here quick-smart.

And that’s the end of my annoying tub-thumping.

I’ve always thought at a Big Day Out that for every three or four bands who were ordinary, indifferent, straight jacketed within their genre or just bloody awful, I’d get one great one. The band or artist that made me want to see them again immediately and certainly buy their album.

Not so last Friday. I thought most of it was dire and predictable.

A couple of quick positives though from someone who has been to them all and a couple in Australia: the whole thing was much better organised and access/egress to the stadium field and more importantly, the Green and Essential stages, was vastly improved. You could just get around a whole lot better.

Moving the Local Produce stage to beyond the Green and Essential stage was also an excellent idea, and if it was a little further to walk and fewer people seemed to know of it that will change over time. The artists there had a better space to play in, and much less bleeding of sound. Great.

The food outlets also seemed much better. All good.

But the music? Hmmm.

I did what I have always done: turn up at the start of a band/artist and give them four songs or about 20 minutes. By then I figure I will have either seen all they can and will do, or I am so impressed that I will stay on longer and watch the arc of their act reveal itself. So what follows isn’t a “review” of the BDO ‘10 but just personal observations.

You are entitled to, and doubtless will in the discussion thread, disagree.

Some people don’t deserve a stadium: Lily Allen was, for my money, bloody hopeless and well out of her depth. Two dull songs in a row then sit down and have a fag for a third? Nonsense. And don’t tell me she improved as time went. It’s real easy to get teenagers to sing “fuck you”. I could do that.

I’d toss her back to clubs where she would have to learn how to engage with an audience and also to get some strength in her vocals. And I don’t mean dance or night clubs, I mean Australian RSL clubs. That would sort her out.

Too far, too fast, on too little talent.

The Checks however certainly did deserve the big stage and were terrific. And so did Muse who I don’t rate at all (“I don’t want to hear Radiohead play Queen,” said my friend Karl with withering accuracy) but they certainly put on a show. And I like a band (like Muse and the Checks) that just kicks from one song into another with no fannying about in between.

Cairo Knife Fight could learn from that. They seemed rather more proud of what they did than they should have been -- and they dicked about. Lads, there are only two of you, just get on with it -- like Shayne Carter and Dimmer did on the same Boiler Room stage two hours later.

The Checks and Dimmer were my two early highlights: Carter and band delivered a blinder of a set which was pure energy and grubby psychedelic rock -- and put young pretenders on notice. Deafening and chest pounding also, my tinnitus has increased. Thanks for that.

Seeing Dimmer only made the bloody awful Eskimo Joe even worse. They are Blooty and the Ho Fish (or whoever they were) for kids who last year loved High School Musical and have now graduated onto what they think is rock music.
Jet shortly after sounded much the same to me. They kicked off with what was their My Sharona as done by Twisted Sister -- but of course dress like indie-rockers (the Libertines etc) so that’s all right then.

They sounded like AC/DC-lite and I was amazed that so many adults in black t-shirts took them seriously. More manufactured rock with a modicum of dissent thrown in for credibility.

In that regard I was massively disappointed in Dead Prez who invited us to put our fists in the air for Haiti (hand in pocket might have been more appropriate) then banged on about power to the people, promised to burn the place down and asked us if we were “ready to go to war?”

Alarmingly people seemed to be, they bayed and pumped fists into the air (which war, against whom, where?) and cheered when they hauled out the tino rangatiratanga flag. I guess that was Dead Prez connecting with what they think the revolution is about in this country? There was a lot of revolution talk but frankly I thought it all cheap sloganeering and posturing -- and appropriating slogans from Black Panther predecessors does not make you “a warrior”.

Am I taking them too seriously? Well, not half as much as they took themselves -- and they wanted to be taken seriously. In that case then we might put them up for close analysis.

The message that was more effective and representative was happening on the Local Produce stage at the same time. House of Shem were bringing their songs of peace, love and cultural understanding (what’s so funny about that?) to a small but receptive audience -- and for me raised a question: if reggae is one of the bloodlines of New Zealand music, why isn’t it represented on the main stage?

I’d rather have seen Katchafire or House of Shem bringing their positive vibes to the morning’s line-up than those Australian amp-standing dullards Karnivool.

When it came to connecting with the local audience with an honest statement I preferred what Colin Meloy of the Decemberists said, that we have a great maritime museum in Auckland. He’d checked it out obviously. And they delivered an excellent set of faux-Celtic folk-rock and rock’n’roll country-folk. The Rake’s Song is terrific: a murder ballad where the father shows no regret for killing his children: ”it never really bothers me”.

Ladyhawke I kinda liked but got bored quickly by (yep, it’s the 80s fer sure, nostalgia for people who weren’t there) but at least her Haiti gesture was genuine: Sarah Larnach (who did Ladyhawke’s album and single covers) is auctioning off her artwork here.

Larnach and Ladyhawke will sign copies of the art and album.

The Veils were as they always were, excellent, Concord Dawn impressed me for a while, Minuit much less so (boring actually), and Peaches was her usual mouthy, salacious, provocative self and the better for staying true to the course. (She’s a standout and maybe deserved the main stage to command “shake your dick”) And The Mars Volta did everything I expected them to, but louder.

Dizzee Rascal started badly (“Jump! Jump” Think for yourself. Jump! Jump!” Huh?) and invited a lot of arm waving, but by the time I returned he was going off. I maybe should have stayed but was delighted I caught Devendra Banhardt who struck me as much more interesting than his albums.

He dedicated his set to Bobby Charles (the singer in the 60s soul band Checkmates Limited I am guessing and not the golfer) and came off like a much more drug addled but smart Andrew Fagan. His songs wove from folk to doo-wop pop (“who wrote the Book of . . . Job”) and they were quirky, fun -- and they didn’t seem to give a shit. They enjoyed themselves and were a highpoint for me, a guy I’d see again immediately and will now listen to much more interest.

Groove Armada I caught a slab of from just outside the tent in the wings and they were very impressive. I would loved to have seen more, from a better vantage point and closer.

And the Horrors: I really did enjoy their declamatory indie-rock although if Jarvis Cocker thinks they are “the future of British rock” he has (as Gordon Campbell once noted about that similar comment on Springsteen) mistaken what's in the rearview mirror for the road ahead.

The Horrors are Liverpool 1980 -- Teardrop Explodes, Echo and the Bunnymen and Orchestral Manoeuvres in Dark -- all wrapped up in indie-rock anger and finger pointing. I liked it (and I liked the fact they wove in the old She Cried into one of their pieces of moody, broody rock’n’roll.

Them I want to hear more of. But few others.

So I missed as much as I saw (I was disappointed I didn’t get to Gin, and arrived just a fraction too late for Bandicoot at 10.30 - 11am) but the drabness of the manufactured rock and the attitude dance was ameliorated by Head Like a Hole who were stunning. Just like they used to be. Not many acts can pull off an intro like, “this is a song about fucking a horse”.

Regrettably we left to the sound of Fear Factory growling away just like they have always done. More manufactured dissent?

So, few standouts for me among what I saw, little to be enjoyed and much to endured or sceptical, not cynical, about.

And just a thought: in the world of restaurant reviewing there is an observation, often true, that the better the view the worse the food. Might we say of the BDO that as the food has improved the music has got worse?

The lamb burgers this year were excellent.

More Music?: Elsewhere has returned with a vengeance: lots of music reviewed from the hip and happening to the old and crusty; I’m adding more to My Back Pages (reflections and reminiscences on musicians encountered); there are articles about the great Timi Yuro, the tragic story of Badfinger (two suicides, that’s one more than Nirvana!), marijuana, crazy old films and modern westerns, books reviewed. And more. All free (with sound and vision) right here.

And Finally, Your Support Please?: As some of you know my second travel book (see below) has been doing rather well (although hardly rocketing up the charts). Some real nice comments on the stories -- “they are like songs” from a musician, “my mother-in-law loved them” and so on.

The book is a finalist in the Whitcoulls Travel Book of the Year award and while the category is obviously judged by other writers, there is a Readers’ Choice poll.

Obviously Public Address Books is up against the might and power (and voting block?) of the major publishers but I am told I am allowed to solicit support.

So if you have read and enjoyed The Idiot Boy Who Flew (maybe even if you haven’t, or read and disliked?) then you can simply vote for it here.

Click on the link by my book, send the already-written e-mail -- and you are out of there. Fifteen seconds at a guess. I thank you in anticipation of your generous support.

Some fell, others are hanging on in much changed circumstances. Some are in love and happy for the first time in many years. Yet others await the call.

Last Friday night the taxi driver, from Iraq seven years ago, told me his fiancée was arriving in 10 days. He was happy and I was happy for him.
We agreed that for him next year should be better.

And it is that time of year when the arbitrary turn of a calendar rings out the old and rings in the new. We wish each other a happy new year. I like that.

We enter a new year with optimism, and Lord knows there any number of people and factors beyond out control which could make it miserable.

But we look ahead and hope for the best. We are amusing animals to observe.

I cannot lie. We had a good year, yet are aware that all around us others didn’t. We especially wish them a happier new year. We are grateful for all we have -- and it isn’t the Beatles box set in mono.

We have a small circle of fine friends, a larger circle of helpful and forgiving acquaintances, and families who are loving and supportive. I find it sad that so many can’t say such simple things, can only say them cynically, or will detect cynicism in those who do say them.

At this time of the year I especially miss my three kids who are all in London. My sisters live in Singapore and Melbourne. So there’s just me.

Which is okay, it means I get more ham.*

I hope you had a good year and have an enjoyable Christmas and holiday season. And I also genuinely hope you do have a happy new year.
See you on the other side.

PS. At Music From Elsewhere I have chosen the best 25 albums of 2009 out of the many hundreds I heard and profiled for your pleasure, so feel free to Post a Comment. (People already are and many agree with me, that I have terrible taste).
Oh and the 26th is that Beatles mono set. I’m grateful I have it.

* This quip backfired within a few minutes of writing. We had ordered some kind of PC South Island free-range ham and after many delays it just turned up. I signed for it and paid, not knowing what Megan had ordered. It turns out what now occupies the whole of our modest fridge-freezer is twice the size of what she wanted. It is a whopping 10kg and is as big as my chest.
More for me? And for everyone I know.

I didn’t think much of James Cameron’s blockbuster movie Titantic. But then I saw it.

I'd heard gushing comments about it from teenage girls and damning opinions from the parents who had to take them, and -- more fool me -- decided on the basis of that I probably wouldn’t like it.

Eventually I saw it and it was nowhere near as bad as some had told me. Overly long and so forth, but as blockbusters go it was a whole lot better than Gone with the Wind or The English Patient.

Oddly enough, I’ve had almost the opposite reaction with Cameron’s new one Avatar. I liked it before I had actually seen it.

To clarify: a couple of months ago I saw a sampler of footage (about 15 minutes at a guess) and was “blown away“. (That’s a technical term used by only the most serious film reviewers.)

What I saw was not just state-of-the-art computer graphics and enhancements, but also a creative vision of great beauty and complexity.

Last night I saw the movie in its 3D entirety. And I liked it even more. It is stunning, in fact.

These days we tend to see far too many tele-docos about “The making of . . .” and they -- like knowing how a magician does a trick -- rather detract from the surprise and delight and magic. I liked knowing how George Lucas and his chums did the first (fourth) Star Wars, but only after I had been “blown away” by it from that opening sequence.

Last night they took away cellphones (can cellphones capture 3D?) from attendees and I understand that: they want this film to just arrive. And I think it deserves to.

So if there is any footage out there in web world (and there is the official trailer at that link above), do yourself a favour and don’t go looking for it. Go to a big screen and be swept away. In superb 3D.

So I’m not going to say too much about Avatar lest I deny you the magic.

But a couple of things: some have skewered it because the storyline is pretty simple (at least it has one) but that’s fine. So was Star Wars (the first/fourth) and this one layers in messages of eco-consciousness, the wisdom of being connected to your planet, (implied American) militarism, the barbarity of capitalism and so forth.

They seem decent and important messages to pass on in the early 21st century.

There is a certain Cowboys and Indians element (it gives nothing away to say the Indians win this time) but it really is the intergalactic setting that elevates this and brings home the magic.

As created by Weta Workshop (sets'n'props) and Weta Digital (visual effects), the planet of Pandora (hmmm, don't open that box?) is astonishing: it is on a massive scale and full of wondrous, freakish plant and animal life.

The flora is like Kew Gardens turned up to 11, and the vision of odd animal hybrids and islands floating in the sky owes more to the imaginative art of Roger Dean (who designed album covers for Yes, Uriah Heep and Osibisa in the Seventies) than Jonathan Swift. I hope he got a nod in the lengthy credits.

This is a world which is hypnotically beautiful (and scary).

And the hi-tech stuff looks entirely believable, not some great leap into a place where you have to suspend so much disbelief you get cynical. The techno stuff and military machinery looks like it either already exists or someone is working on it right now. Cool (and scary).

I’m sure I should go and see The Lovely Bones, but I’m going back to see Avatar again on Friday when it opens *.

Like 2001 and Star Wars, it creates its own world and for two and half rather fast hours you can immerse yourself in it. People -- many of them media people and well viewed when it comes to the magic of the silver screen -- applauded at the end last night, and not in that film festival way.

They just kinda clapped out of appreciation and delight and surprise.
Movies don’t have that effect much any more, do they?

* Late notice, just learned it opens Thursday (tomorrow) in New Zealand. Even betterer. See you there.