Ancient Secrets of the Arts - UNVEILED! Part 4

A BELTED FLOOR SANDER

I've never been in a band, but I've been in the same room as several. I believe this unconditionally qualifies me to reveal to you, the wide-eyed and naive innocent, the secrets to MAKING IT IN THE BIZ.

And so: MYTHS OF THE MUSIC INDUSTRY.


I once shared a backyard with a great band called Liberty. They'd previously been known as Porcelain, and had come down to Melbourne after winning some kind of JJJ competition. For about six months they had a film crew occasionally turn up to do a story on them for that ABC show hosted by Dylan Lewis (what was that called again?). They played night and day. Most of all, night.

That means a lot when the only thing separating you from the music is a thin wall. And when the music is of a face-melting power chord variety of tonsil-rattling intensity, you take time to reflect. At the time, my bedroom was painted red which, despite what intuition might tell you, is a beautiful and restive colour for a bedroom. It's womblike. Assuming the womb in question belongs to a mother who loves to ROCK.

I can still recall in vivid detail the exact melodies and lyrics of their best songs, since they lulled me to sleep nightly for about a year. Of course, it went both ways. When my housemates and I moved in, the place was a bit of a dump, so we tore up the carpets, rented a sanding machine and a gathered a bunch of tools in order to strip the place back to its bare bones and make it all nice and liveable. They gave us a tape of music once which included a song whose only lyrics were "Tools/And Sandpaper/Make My Life A Misery". I still hum it to myself sometimes.

Anyway, they were truly, authentically into the lifestyle. They lived communally, breathed music, one had gone nearly deaf from sitting too close to his speaker during a marathon session one night, and every so often they would decide that material things were a distraction from the real life of the artist. It was during these periods that they would give us stuff they no longer had any need for, which is how I came into possession of about three crates of superb vinyl. They'd also give us about three or four TVs each time, but over the coming weeks one or another would come sliding by to quietly ask if they could have their television back.

So, the short of it is that this band, made up of people who I can without reservation say were some of the best and most committed musicians I've ever met, imploded. That's how it is. That's music. I never found out the real reason, but a few years ago I was standing at the tramstop and I saw a poster for a band touring down from Sydney. I thought to myself: hello, what have we here? That looks uncannily like the childlike drawings which used to promote Liberty. And so I found The Hauntingly Beautiful Mousemoon, who tour the country regularly and are a lot like Liberty, although only Liberty's singer, Zack, is a member.


Mousemoon are a lot of fun, and are the only band who could ever get shy old me to engage in a group hug featuring every single audience member attending a crowded Duke of Windsor gig. They're also unashamedly hippy in philosophy and talk to their audiences like close friends.

A little after that, I came across two other former members of Liberty, now making up four sixths of Neon.

Neon are Liberty's polar opposite, but they make good music too. They were signed to Graham Coxon's label really quickly, if I remember correctly. Anyway, the point is that even though the old band fell apart, good things happened.

When we went to NZ recently, we went as a band. It didn't matter that we had no songs, most of us had no talent, we'd never had a gig, etc. We had a story, which while fictional, was perfectly believable. And so it was that we have a lot of kiwis hanging to get their hands on one of the many albums by the five-piece Sex Piece.

Which is why, tonight, we shall record our first. The studio is set up and I AM READY TO ROCK. A karaoke Certificate of Rock-God-Ness is my only qualification, but we don't need no stinkin' certificate to prove to us the Power of Sex Piece. Prepare to bask in the glory.

NEXT: MYTHS OF THE MUSICAL!

Ancient Secrets of the Arts - REVEALED! (I mean) UNVEILED! Part 3

As promised, the controversial revelation of arts-related mysteries continues...

And so: MYTHS OF DANCE























There are no myths surrounding the world of dance. It's all pretty straightforward.

Ancient Secrets of the Arts - UNVEILED! Part 2

I'm really very excited about this whole Ancient Secrets of the Arts thing and have been for the entire four or five hours since I came up with the concept. By my reckoning, I will remain excited for about another hour and then will not be excited, but will be disappointed that I lost that initial enthusiasm and will be disappointed in myself for not following through with it, instead putting it on the pile of things which I had hoped would continue to bring me delight but now, alas, are just glaring reminders of all my failings. In this, like all things, I respond like any other would: I try to find a better track than the one now playing.

The better track is: there is no better track.

And so: MYTHS OF THE THEATRE

Many people hold illusory beliefs about The Theatre: this is made even more mind-boggling by the fact that the theatre is all about illusion anyway. Can you be wrong about something which is itself inherently untruthful? Philosophers call a logical contradiction like this a "paradox" or a "paycheck".

It's all too much!

Another philosophical mental utensil is the law of inverse relations, which may or may not exist. But in the World of the Theatre, said law goes thusly:

Your DESIRE to foist badly acted, ill-conceived and poorly rendered theatre on the innocent public will exist in inverse proportions to your ABILITY.

This should never stop someone from wanting to put on shows. But it should stop them from actually doing so.

If you do still want to mount your silly show, here's how to do it. I will use as an example an infamous theatre production I co-wrote/directed many, many, many years ago. Ten years ago.

It had forty actors/crew and went for about three hours I think, and was held in the derelict basement of a building on Swanston Street. We had costumes from the ABC and Opera Australia, and also some homeless men tried to urinate on the audience from above. And about fifty drunken guys from the pub up the road tried to storm the place with bottles and rocks and seething scorn.

It cost $10,000 and we came in $500 short. While this sounds successful, here's the key: We never had more than a handful of audience members, because we didn't know anything about advertising, publicity, promotion, etc. We truly were - LIVIN' ON A PRAYER (and no money).



How was that accomplished? I'm glad you asked at this specific moment in time, because it leads neatly into what I was about to write anyway.

Firstly - I mentioned the 40 or so cast & crew, right? Yes, I did. Go back and read it if you don't believe me.

Forty people means lots of friends and family. Now, if pressed, a lot of those friends and family would like to go support their loved one's stupid uni student theatre endeavour, but more than that - they'd like to SHOW their support. Especially if that doesn't actually mean having to see the show. The answer?

PRE-SALES. If you make all of the cast/crew sell ten tickets each for a show that won't be on for over a month, you reap the moulah and don't actually make the friends/family have to see the show. A lot of them "forgot" that they'd bought tickets. It's WIN-WIN.

Step two is Sponsorship. The myth is that it's difficult to get sponsorship for a crappy little show. The reality is that if you find someone who knows lots of accountants/lawyers/doctors, these people can write off their entire sponsorship donation as a tax break, and they're hungry for it. They love it. They don't even care what the show is, as long as it can be entered on the books.

Step three is selling drinks before the show. This should be obvious anyway, as your poor audience will be grabbing the nearest alcoholic beverage as soon as they see your crummy set and the half-rate spruiker you've positioned outside.

That's actually about it.
BOSCO WEIGHS IN:
It should now be clear that the theatre is a chump's game, fit only for the desperate and mad, those clutching at straws and fraying at the edges. It's a dizzy whirlpool of misfits who think they're trying to create art, but are more often just trying to find a mate. And when you see that loneliness in the eyes of said mate, you will know the hollowness that is the World of the Theatre.

And you will see why the theatre is, in this regard, both a reflection of life and its opposite.

NEXT: MYTHS OF DANCE

Ancient Secrets of the Arts - UNVEILED!

There are many myths surrounding the arts and entertainment industry; myths which confuse and stymie the outsider and cause head-scratching and the occasional teeth-grinding. As a public service to patrons and dentists alike, AHFLV will now embark on a short series entitled ANCIENT SECRETS OF THE ARTS - UNVEILED!

QUESTION: ARE YOU EXCITED?

ANSWER: YES.

I thought as much.

The myths in question circulate like silver balloons at a children's party, and it is time to burst said balloons like a naughty kid/clumsy clown. This bursting, perhaps, will cause (in equal proportions) gleeful howls of delight from some children and miserable squeals of dismay from others, especially from those who had grown attached to a particular balloon and had hoped to take it home when the party is done. These children should leave now.

PART ONE: MYTHS OF THE PUBLISHING INDUSTRY

The first thing to say (by which I mean write) is that there are any number of fallacies perpetrated by the arcane publishing industry in order to keep common folk away. "Any number" is not quite accurate, I suppose, since the number in question is EXACTLY 5.

FALLACY: You need talent to be published.
FACT: "Talent" is one of those words which doesn't really refer to anything but is bandied about in the place of real, meaningful terms. Talent is like Narnia: you think that it is only accessible through a hidden, magical doorway available to those with just the right combination of fortunes (orphans, greedy children, lovers of Turkish delight and talking lions). But like Narnia, the simple fact is that TALENT DOES NOT EXIST (outside of the wonderful world of the imagination).

FALLACY: You need connections to be published.
FACT: Connections can, in fact, be an obstacle to your writing career. The more people you know, the more expectations will be placed on you. If a 'connection' provides you with a way of being printed, that 'connection' will probably read what you write, and THAT WAY LEADS TO JUDGEMENT.

FALLACY: You need readers to be published.
FACT: What is really needed, in fact, is the appearance of readers. This is why people write reviews of their own works under an assumed name; why they artificially boost the hit counters on their website; why they create controversies over their works in major national broadsheets; why they buy up massive quantities of their own books and keep them in mouldy garages. As an example, Bryce Courtenay, one of Australia's most "well loved" authors, has in fact only sold EIGHTEEN NOVELS to people besides himself and his agents. This is why he has managed to produce the same novel not less than six times, simply altering the title and cover image.

FALLACY: You need perserverance to be published.
FACT: Like anything worth doing in this life, if you can't do it quickly and without even properly waking up to do it, it's probably not worth your time. Many journalists file copy from the safety of their own bed, their eyes half-lidded and bleary from the tears they shed every morning as they awake to find that yes, their life is still a sham from which escape seems impossible.

FALLACY: You need a basic level of literacy to be published.
FACT: I have, under my own name, had printed several pieces written by one of my ghost writers/cats, Molly.

Here is a true story: for nearly two years, I penned a column for one of Melbourne's premier newspapers despite the fact that I had no journalistic training, was not a member of MEAA, was not employed by the editorial department and did not even know anyone who was. How is this so, you ask, or pretend to ask in my imagination (aka Narnia)?

Simple: I wrote in unused advertising space. Noticing that there was a regular spot which was never filled in a certain section of the newspaper, and which only contained house ads (ads for the paper itself), I made a deal with my manager/certain layout staff to write stuff relating to the arts industry on that page. This made sense - it was filling in dead space with relevant info on the areas which readers wanted from that section. But since it wasn't edited, I had carte blanche to write whatever I wanted. I didn't abuse that (much) but the strange thing is that in the entire time (repeat: nearly two years), no one from editorial ever asked what this column by [insert real name here] was doing appearing every week.

Here is a randomly selected extract from one column:

"Few realise that I was not always a reclusive yet handsomely-attired Arts Sleuth living on a healthy stipend from mysterious benefactors. I once travelled amongst the people, too. These were hard nights, rough and unpredictable. For several years I was forced to make a living the only way I knew how: balancing complimentary glasses of cheap vodka on my forehead while Russian-dancing to the Genghis Kahn disco hit “Moskau”. But even as I frolicked under the evil Cheshire Cat grin of my nemesis and dancing instructor, Dr Tobermory (AKA The Strongman) I knew that there was hope. It was an exciting time to be alive."

HOW COULD THIS GUFF GO UNNOTICED? [This column was not written by Molly (though she was paid a consultation fee).]

But that was then and this is now (or shortly thereafter) and I do actually write properly for things and stuff and whatnot.

Another example: as a young lad in his late teens, I travelled to London with a friend under the pretense that we were international music journalists. In three weeks, we managed to score interviews with nearly all of our favourite bands, and it got to the point where we would call them up to ask if we could sleep on their floors, since there was no room at the crummy hostel we were using. The answer was usually yes. Which goes to show: musicians are often very nice people, especially if they are only on the cusp of success and may be gullible enough to believe the improbable claims of two fresh-faced boys from a far-off land. This is not a story of getting published, per se, but a story of pretending to get published and reaping the rewards that accompany getting published, without having to do all the actual writing/submitting/revising etc.

NEXT: MYTHS OF THE THEATRE

White Noise

Hot diggity dog!

What a turnout at tonight's launch of the White Noise exhibition at ACMI!

In a word: very big! In two words: also very big!

Ah, my enthusiasm is spent. But the launch was very good. And by "very", I mean "quite" (English for "rather").

To describe it, I will have to enlist the help of our old friends, Antony and Cleopatra.

Antony: Hi.
Cleopatra: Big up yo bad self.
A: Huh?
C: You heard.

Atmospheric Harmonies for Lone Voice: So, what are your impressions of the new show?
A: Well, from the outset I was skeptical. I mean: white noise? As a title, you're offering us nothing. A show about nothing. A show the curator describes as "a show about nothing". We're in Seinfeld territory here. And good as Seinfeld was, ACMI just doesn't have the pulling power of a Kramer or a George. Am I right or am I right? You're with me down front, see that guy is with me!
C: Cram a sock in your spit faucet, Ant.
A: Huh?
C: You heard.

AHFLV: Did you get a chance to look at the various pieces on offer?
C: Hell yeah. I came, I saw, I conquered their sorry asses. And let me tell you straight up - ain't no multimedia exhibition ever been one up on Cleopatra. You heard.
A: You're just stealing lines from Jules.
C: Come here and say that, "Antony".
A: Huh?
C: And what's with that 'huh' thing? You want some new material, child.
A: I'm not your child. I'm Antony.
C: No, you "Antony". I've seen your birth records,.
A: What are you talking about?
C: I'm talking about your real name, "Antony".
A: Quit it with the quotation marks. I'm Antony.
C: Sure you are, Fraggle Rock.
A: What?
C: I've seen 'em. I know Antony is just a pseudonym. An alias, a nom de plume, if you will.
A: What the freakin' hell are you talking about, Cle?
C: Your birthname, child. Fraggle Rock. Don't tell me you don't know that?

A: Huh?

AHFLV: People. Can we get back to the subject at hand? White Noise. Abstract moving images. Intermedia. The launch tonight.
C: Yeah. Sure. Long as you're paying me.

AHFLV: ....
A: I enjoyed the fact that most of the exhibition is in utmost darkness. Nothing vitalises me like the imminent threat of walking into a wall/glass siding.
C: I concur.

AHFLV: I, too, concur.
A: The works selected are certainly abstract, but we've surely reached a point where such modes of expression have become archaic, a throwback to pre 9/11 ennui.
C: Speak for yourself. I like an artwork that doesn't get caught up in the fashionable topics of the day.
A: Yes, but don't you see these works as meaningless simulacra? The media which becomes the message? Pop eating itself?
C: Sure! You got a problem with that?
Don Delillo: Squeeze me, but I'm just gonna have to weigh in on this bantam weight prize fight, kids.
C: Aw Don, give it a rest.
D: No, I think I have a right. White Noise and all.
C: No, Don, you ain't got no right. Antony?
A: Huh?
D: I'm just saying -
C: SHUT IT, DONNY!
D: ....

AHFLV: Ooooookay, so that's that, and I'm glad we managed to nab the input of Don Delillo, considering the, you know, title of the show and-
C: And will you quit it with the pensive expression?!? Stop touching your face!!!

D: ....

AHFLV: I'm going to bed.