Sunday, 11 December 2011

Deride the Shite Scene

 Who needs a good laugh? You do! For those that didn't get a copy of the inaugural Tauranga Music Sux compilation, Deride the Shite Scene then here it is. Click on the link for your listening displeasure....

http://www.mediafire.com/?x6zb6ddryrrr696


 Track Listing:

1.) Tauranga Music Sux a Cock - T.M.S               
2.) Kinsella the Killer - Disc Jockey Joe Bloggs
3.) Sound Invasion - Zig Beatnik                         
4.) Indulge Magazine - Bob Mcbob
5.) A Hard On Sprays White - The Meatles          
6.) Not So Wise - Climbing Trees
7.) Booze, Spews, Bbqs - Blind Lemsip Jefferson 
8.) Doobie Smokin' - Spork
9.) Krazy Train - Sodomozzy Osbourne               
10.) If you can't beat 'em, beat 'em up - Bob Mcbob
11.) The Elements - Silver Lining                          
12.) Debase Oddity - Gavehead Blowme
13.) Never Going to use it - Gage Carter              
14.) Scooby Dooby Fuck You - The Pilot Goes Down
15.) Indie Kids - Malajustin Beiber                       
16.) Winz Bitch - Neo Yahtzee
17. ) Surfquake - Threat.Meet.Protocol.        
18.) Cock Slave Goblin - Rupert T. Candlestick
19.) Faithful Moon - Prof. Deadaddledbrain          
20.) Feel the Noise - Zig Beatnik
21.) 21..... - Rotate the Completor                        
22.) Bay of Plenty Bible Belt - Disc Jockey Joe Bloggs



Spread the virus.....

Monday, 31 October 2011

Rugby World Shut Up

Happy now NZ public? 'We' won the world cup. Yay. Now stop celebrating it like you all did the hard work. Cause sorry don't remember you ending your whitebaiting trip prematurely to step in for every injured Five-Eight and slot the winning penalty. Nor do I remember you taking a finger to the eye from a dirty French centre then selflessly battling on to finish the game Stevie Wonder like. Was that you defying TAB odds and your lunk head frame to score the opening try. Come to think of it I don't remember you on the field at all. Were you all on the reserves bench?

I let you have you fun. Even thought that by bringing the Rugby World Cup games to our shores it would be good for business nation wide. Didn't even complain that much when my tax/rate payer dollars were allocated to new stadiums, party zones etc. But instead of providing the stimulation that this country desperately needs it did the exact opposite. Turnover for restaurants, bars, retail stores outside of the rugby, big bucks, party zones like Aucklands viaduct were down accross the board as people decided to stay home and firmly entrench themselves in their lazy boys and turn their eyes square while eating colon cloggers and watching this silly little game. And a game it is. Not sport. Sport is two near naked oily men wrestling each other for their rulers pleasure while he eats grapes served to him by nubile slave wenches and looks on incousiantly A game is a cat chasing a ball round as its owner looks on with glee and eggs it on. Rugby is a bunch of men chasing a ball round as the public looks on with glee and eggs them on. Oil me some warriors quick.

And all these tourists that were meant to magically appear and start buying Kiwiana ephemera till our shelves were empty and their bags were full? Where were they again? Oh yeah. Tickets for the games, airfares, accomodation fees were all so much that by the time they got here they were all so destitute they had to take to the streets of the big citys begging for cash. And damn, they really did want that tacky Tuatara Key Chain they saw at Thelonious Junks Wonder Emporium. Their cousin Jimmy from Swanson would've loved it. But 'fuck you' must also go to the muppet business owners from places like Wanganui who optimistically told themselves that with the coming of the Rugby World Cup their business would boom. You live in Wanganui not Whanganui, you have no games staged for the world cup, even if you did no one would turn up to see them, not even the locals, the average tourist has no reason to go there unless they want to see what the world is going to look like in post apocalyptic times, you are not going to see any increase in revenue, you are destined to fail, you are Wanganui. Get over yourselves. Not just Wanganui but every locale that doesn't have a bar or hotel in the viaduct. Blame yourselves for injecting all that cash into renovations. Not the rugby world cup and its vistors. Let me do that. I'm the rambling heretic. It's beneath you. And your not very good at it because your brains have been turned to mush from Hamish Mackays lame commentry, wheat and hops and the Feelers less than rousing theme song.

"I'm so proud of the boys for bringing the cup back to its rightful home. It's about time we reclaimed our position as the best in the world." Jim Douchebagenstein, Levin. Why is such importance placed on winning this stupid little peice of silver. You won a tournament. Just. Barely. Beat some minnows. Dodged many of the larger more capable teams. Some that even soundly beat you earlier in the year. Best in the world? Lets see you back it up. Remember when Johnny Wilkonson drop kicked his team all the way to a Webb Ellis Cup in 2003? Best in the world? Not if you saw how England played in the year following this. Losers. The lot of them. All Blacks will be too.

Besides which the All Blacks should be the best in the world year after year. Surely we must be the only country that can claim Rugby as our national sport. Most South Africans are too busy playing soccer with the heads of former white appartheid leaders on dusty hard soiled plains to even know of its existence. Rugby is the little brother of other oval balled sports in Australia, AFL, NRL take precedence - probably because they aren't a convoluted mess of scrums, mauls and breakdowns. The Welsh are doing unspeakable things with leeks. The French being pretentious and eating Escargot by the Siene while reading Camus. The Irish blowing each other up while drinking Guinness and doing little jigs. Scots trying to lure pesky property price lowering monsters from their lochs with the mesmerising magnetic sounds of the bags that pipe. England playing polo on their lab bred super corgis. And a bunch of other teams from countries that have like 23 people who play rugby and all make it to their countries squads yet all have a Kiwi coach. If New Zealand was to win a tournament that has actual international scope like Soccer for example then and only then might I be impressed. Get your precious All Blacks to do it and I'll be doubly impressed. Might even have to go in to every retail store I can see and loudly proclaim that "My wife just left me because I've spent more time with Dan Carter and the boys than with her and the kids over the past month but that's alright because 'we' won the world cup" or "The bank just took my house because I couldn't pay my mortgage because I spent $15000 on a seat in the nose bleed section of Eden Park for the grandfinal but that's alright because we won the world cup" or "My overpirced, undersized, replica All Blacks jersey is so tight it has constricted the blood flow to my head and my skull has blown apart but that's alright because we won the world cup". Idiots.

The world cup is finished. We won. Stop gloating. Get off the front page of my newspapers. Get off the Tv news headlines. Make way for stuff of actual importance. Parochial super fans stop relating everything back to the world cup. New Zealanders what happened to our quiet reserved self effacing stereo type? When did you all become such a bunch of braggarts. Liked it better when you were sour faced losers complaing about the referees. Remove your car flags before I start firing cannonballs in your direction with my skull and bones pirtate flag flying in the wind as I erratically drive alongside you one eye on you, one on the black felt of my eye patch - none on the road. Stop playing Dave Dobbyn loudly, I hate Dave Dobbyn. Take of your All Blacks jerseys they need washing before you get scabies. In fact, burn them. Be safe. Burn yourselves. Small talk, direct it back to the weather please. Bussineses stop cashing in, don't, please don't do as your 'Junior Executive of Cashing In' says you should do and commemorate the victory with special limited edition champion Wheetbix, Steinlager, Durex, Janola, Water, Air, Carbon please. Just don't. Please. Give me some peace before the next four years have rolled around and repeat season kicks in once more. "Rise and shine campers it's cold outside...."

Sunday, 11 September 2011

Issue 5


Dear readership of 4-5 people....before casually flicking through the 5th and final instalment of my literary masterpiece 'Tauranga Music Sux' while no doubt watching some of the old ruggers on the doofus box -  please do take a moment to join me in thanking all of those that have made this possible. So the shit musicians, lame venues, crap bands, stand up and take a big never ending bow...thank you for being such a giving goldmine of acerbic, spiteful, comedic material. Keep reaching for the stars but barely lifting your feet off the ground you sad bunch losers. God I love to hate this town.... 
Zine 5




“Heeeeee haaaawww!!!!! John boy get your rattle snake boots and monkey hide over here a ways and join me for some of that ol’ readin’ gas the folks been talking about….Y’all see this?…here…have a look…This pamphlet been sayin’….spit ….that… spit…that ….Tauranga Music Sux…?....?...”
“Well aint that a cow lickin’, shoe cobblin’, hay bailin’ affront to our own personal sensibilities Cousin Jed. How dare some one insinuate that Tauranga Music is sub par to that of other townships…Has this here little inner city weasel not been to one of our yearly barn dances out at the Tauriko hall. Don’t he not appreciate the fine banjo slinging tunes of Rufus and the Rough Gut Rangers? Don’t he not get the simple yet forceful fun of Mavis and the Mountaineers? Don’t he not understand the social relevance of Tractor Tim and the Tiny Tug Boat Jug Band.???? These here city folk sure aint very smart like….”
“Don’t know what ya be finking there inside that little old acorn brain of yours ol’ cousin and also father and also brother and also uncle but I’s aints gonna be takin no guff from some shiny tailed, little, gonna take my farm then marry my daughter intellectual banker type from the big smoke. I am’s gonna be’s the only one here to marrys me my fast flowering virgin daughter. Hey Debbie Sue….get your pert little blossoming backside over here so John Boy and I can get a good ol’ look at the shit that I soon to be tappin’ like…and make it snappy little madam.”
“Sorry Poppa, been trying to milk all the cows, cook your breakfast, feed the chickens, process the eggs, rotate the crops, plow the fields, turn Mamma so that she don’t get no more of them bed sores that the Dr been so worried about, walk the dog and wash the clothes. But I can see you’re real busy like talking to Jed and attempting to read that Tauranga Music Sux pamphlet that you’ve been carrying around on your person for the past few days. Have you finished yet Daddy? Or is that first word still giving you trouble? It’s pronounced Ev-er-y…”
“That’s enough of your sass young lady….don’t make me wash out your mouth with a bar of jism soap again. We’ve been a readin’ and John Boy and I don’t like this here tone from this mealy mouthed little marmot and his malignant, masturbational words on music from these here parts….”
“But Daddy he speaks the truth, he spreads the gospel, Tauranga Music does suck!!!  Big Bertha playin her fiddle while Rhonda does some old timey piano honky tonkin’ to a bunch of line dancing hicks is so dated, so passe, Tauranga does need more than our backwater banjo bashin’. We need change, we need a new style, we need to expand our formulaic line of dance into more expansive, spontaneous patterns, but most importantly we need a new breed of musicians that don’t suck…”
“Slap…take that…Slap…and that….aint no daughter of mine gonna talk about our localities bards and bardettes with such a loose, filthy mouth. Woman you gotta start learning your place is out in the field, the kitchen, the bedroom, the workshop, the roof cleaning the gutters, the side of the house painting the window sills, the basement fixin’ our plumbing problems, the green grocers getting our food supplies, the bank sorting out our financial matters, the market sellin our farm products, the middle of the woods hunting for food for our kin, choppin’ wood for the fire, the neighbours house fixin their dinner, plumbing and financial problems and the middle of the ocean working in an off shore oil rig so as that we might get cheaper oil per drum to run our old rusting Tractor….Most certainly is your place not leaning on this here fence post talking the state of contemporary Tauranga Music with John Boy while getting a very sun burnt, potentially cancerous, crimson red neck, drinkin’ root beer and munchin on home made corn bread. Which reminds me, we are out of corn bread and root beer. So get back to work….enough of your larkin’ about….you dilly dallyin’…..lazy…no good….2 bit….whore….why I oughta slap the pretty right outta ya face….but I won’t…cause ….hee hee….I’ve got just the job for you…one that needs a womans touch….a pretty face….but not much smarts….go to the city… and try to find this here little author ant anus….this blasphemous bum fag….use your feminine wiles….infect him….make him sick with love….and then lead him to us so that we might deal to him with some Southern Tauranga Justice…Yeeeee Haaaawwwww…..But don’t take the tractor….walk….you could do with the exercise…. those thighs of yours are getting awfully fat…though they will be good for carrying my children….Yeeeee Haaaaaawwwww!!!!!!”

The Adventure Begins  

Debbie Sue packed her fox fur shawl and bear skin jacket into her rucksack and left the gates of the Clampett family farm riding a top her faithful Stead, the powerful, big dicked, former star of such bestiality classics as ‘Soggy Sea Biscuit’, ‘The Horse Wang from Snowy River’, ‘22” Black Beauty’ and ‘Sexretariet’ cause fuck walking- that’s for poor people, Ghandi and hippies. With her horse riding beneath her ample thighs she was happy to be on the open trail, happy to be away from the incestuous, predatory advances of her father, happy to be alone with her thoughts. Her mind quickly went to the person she was supposed to find, the writer of Tauranga Music Sux. She had read his zines and loved them very much. She loved his erratic, rambling, mostly incomprehensible writing style, the incomplete sentences, the doodles of doodles, the passionate hatred behind his words and his colourful and sometimes inventive use of cuss words. Oh she hoped that she would meet him and that he would be every thing that she dreamed of in a man. But never would she do as her father expected and bring him back to the deep south…of Tauranga where surely he would be lynched for his heresy.  She hoped instead that he would fall madly in love with her and whisk her away from her torrid, exhausting, unfulfilling life to a land of excitement, adventure and freedom. But how would she find him? She knew that the zines were once available at Tracs, Devenport Road but they had been banned recently after a central city out cry. Even in the liberal, cultured, big city honest truth is still very much verboten. But she would aim for Tracs anyway. There she may find some clues as to his where abouts. She set her GPS system and fell asleep, safe in the knowledge that her super Stallion, Wyatt would take her there….



Tracs

Debbie Sue hadn’t had a chance to read Issue 4 of Tauranga Music Sux due to its limited print run and aforementioned retail banning. So when she arrived at the gates of the Tauranga CBD she was aghast to find that most of the buildings had crumbled into a rubble, smoke still billowing from some of the larger stores and buildings. As she rode she saw bodies littering the streets, rats a top eating a full 3 course meal of human. She stopped old Wyatt and jumped free, spewing up her early morning feast of viddles onto the street. As she tried to recover her balance she heard a soft nasally, whimpering coming from one of the destroyed shops. She could see a hand poking out, a cigarette dangling loosely from the fingers. Quickly she ran over and tried to free this person from their prison. Piece by piece she revealed a little more of the trapped human until eventually she saw the retarded, grinning, black ash covered face of a manboy staring back at her. “Buy…buy…you must buy a Cd…from us…Tracs…do you like Flying Nun…we have a great selection from their back catalogue…don’t go to JB Hi Fi…they’re over priced, don’t have listening posts and their staff have limited musical knowledge….save my business…do you have a cigarette?” he croaked barely audible, no doubt in a state of shock. “What happened here?” Debbie Sue asked while attempting to shake him out of his stupor. “Bombs….Bombs…’Louder than Bombs’ is the best Smiths album….” He muttered. She had no idea who the Smiths were, nor would she want to but she could understand the point he was trying to make. Tauranga had been bombed, that and she should buy a Cd and keep his struggling operation in business. “Who…who…did this?” she shouted, almost crying. “Who?.... No ‘the Who’ didn’t do this…..though if Pete Townshead did he’d never admit it….he’d just say it was research for an upcoming novel.” He garbled. “Not, ‘the Who’ -  you muppet. Jesus man there is no time for an Abbot and Costello greatest hits rendition, you must tell me who did this to you, to Tauranga, it’s an abomination.” The little man in the rubble replied “Abomination? Is that a 4AD band?” then he snapped back into consciousness “Oh wait…I remember…Tauranga Music Sux…they got everyone associated with the music industry in Tauranga; bands, shop owners, fans, journalists together at the various musicial hotspots of the city, the venues, the retail outlets and then blew everyone and everything up with orchestrated bomb blasts…they are trying to kill local music….did they succeed…oh shit…they did…who’s going to buy my Cds now...oh no…there aren’t any Cds left are there….fuck…now I’ll have to get a real job…noooooo…..” Debbie Sue did not like to see any animal suffer so she removed her Colt from her holster and put one quick bullet into the head of the now inconsolable crying manboy in the rubble. “I’m sorry manboy, but it’s over now. But I will avenge your death. Tauranga Music Sux will suffer for what it has done to your shop and Tauranga Music…” Searching through the ruins for any clues that may lead her to Tauranga Music Sux she came across one of the discarded zines with a link to the Tauranga Music Sux facebook page, if she was ever going to find the perpetrator it would be through this site.


Debbie Sue and the Seven Sporks

With the majority of Tauranga town leveled it would prove difficult to find working Internet to access the Facebook page but Debbie Sue was now motivated by severe unbridled hatred and anger for Tauranga Music Sux and vowed to herself never to return to the Clampett family farm until she had found the writer of Tauranga Music Sux and made him pay for his crimes against humanity. Tears fell from her eyes as she passed the craters that were once Krazy Jacks, Illuminati, Brewers Bar, and Major Toms. Why would someone do such a thing to these amazing super venues? She could visualise these places in their former glory – with the regulars going spastic for Rage Against the Machine covers at Krazys, Tiki Tane fucking the police and then getting fucked by the police at Illuminati, bands playing to no one except the bar staff at Brewers and hipsters pretentiously hipping and hopping to Bowie at Major Toms. Why? Why would someone do this? Yes the existing music sucked massive amounts of cock, and I mean cock by the tonnage but at least give it a chance to reform itself. Don’t just destroy it all. Hack down the bands, venues, fan-yes!!! Hopefully motivate them to better themselves. Force them to re-evaluate themselves and their musical output. But don’t just eradicate them all before they have had a chance to enact change. Give them the means and they will produce the goods, she optimistically told herself. As she rode she heard a shout…Morty startled jumped high onto his hind legs throwing Debbie Sue awkwardly to her back on the hard asphalt and galloped off into the distance. Quickly from out of one of the still standing buildings came a collection of about 7 longhaired scruffs. They carried the unconscious Debbie Sue inside their hiding spot and attended to her welfare with a mixture of hot and cold water applications, a variety of band aids, and some roaming fingers. When she awoke she was surrounded by the 7 ugly yet friendly faces of the odd ball collection of misfits that were her rescuers and nurses. “Huh…where am I…who are you…what happened…?....?...” she exclaimed drowsily. “We are Spork and you are in the land of Oz…nah I’m fucking with you….your in Kansas….nah… you’re in what remains of Bobbys Strip Joint in the Mt Maunganui CBD….can you smell the seed….you fell off your horse….we rescued you from the street before they came….” Said the head dwarf, Leamy. “Oh thank you, thank you…but who are they?” “They? They are minions of Tauranga Music Sux. They patrol the streets night and day searching for musicians, CD’s, musical equipment, memorabilia, stereos and anything that could be related to music in any way. If they find anyone or anything even remotely musical they will destroy it on sight and execute those that were in possession of it. We have had to be real careful. Our formerly ear bleedingly noisey Mr Bungle esque metal band is now a mere 7 piece Jethro Tull influenced goblins and dragons loving flutes and lutes folk band. But I guess that’s what we always were, now we have just been forced to embrace it. And truth be told we are loving it. But we must be quiet, very quiet so we practice only during the day when most of the Tauranga Music Sux patrols are searching the outer suburbs for garage band hold outs….say you look tired….hungry???” Leamy asked his guest “Actually yes, It’s been a long couple of days”….. “Duh, here have one of these…”…. “An apple, I love apples!!!”…crunch…thud…”Nooooo!!!…Fuck Dopey/Ashley did you give her the poisoned apple we were going to give the writer of Tauranga Music Sux in the event that we should ever met him?”an exasperated Leamy yelled at his band mate          “Duh…Gee I don’t know Mr Leamy…uh duh.” Mumbled Ashley “ Fuck!!! Bitch can’t blow us all while in a coma Ashley….Fuck!!!! Well I guess we are stuck with Ho White now until a handsome prince comes along to awaken her from her slumber with a kiss…well who wants to rape her prostate body in the mean time?” But then just before Richard Steele could commence with his first dibs dick dipping a knock came at the door. “Everyone hide” whispered Leamy. He looked through the peep hole…he recognised the face….it was Luke Thompson…. “Someone order a big slice of handsome prince?” Fuck yeah they did!!! Prince Luke came inside and saw what had to be done, he didn’t want to kiss her without asking permission from her dad first and he was chaste so he felt a little guilty about cheating on God but it had to be done because his friends from Spork really wanted fellatio and he didn’t want to let anyone down so he busted out his acoustic and sang a ballad about how he felt, then smiling at an imaginary camera as the last notes of his wussy fag song rang out he lent over and kissed Debbie Sue on the mouth. She awoke and instantly fell in love. A real prince had rescued her!!! How romantic. She leapt into her saviours arms. “Mmmm….Fuck me, girl lips, Christian boy” she growled. But girl lips Christian boy wasn’t ready for this and stepped backwards and fell into a pile of cymbals whilst screaming for mercy. “Fuck” Leamy screamed “they will have heard that… we have got to run” but they were too late the Tauranga Music Sux minions had been trailing Luke Thompson after a tip off as to his where abouts from local satanists D.I.C and busted down the door and used their vapourises one by one on the members of Spork and Luke Thompson turning them to a fine dust but they stopped when they saw Debbie Sue. What a vision…what beauty…what a face…what slammin titties!!! The writer and his penis would be very pleased to see her they thought, they would no doubt be rewarded for bringing him such a prize and so she became their prisoner.

The Writer

The Writer paced up and down the carpet of his new office a top the Westpac Trust building, surveying the damage to his hometown. What had he done? He thought to himself. Yes local music had to die. It was hideous. The bands were substandard, the venues inexcusable, the fans nonexistent. But to destroy the entire city as well was not part of his original plans. He loved this city, just not the people, the music, the urban sprawl the shopping centres, the elderly, the infrastructure, the noodle canteens, the boy racers, the tradesmen, the polytech, the families, the beach, the fisherman, the subdivisions, the rugby, the fat cunts, the teenagers, the children, the traffic congestion, the high rise apartments at the mount, the lack of native trees, the cost of parking, the violence and the council. Collatoral damage was to be expected but this, this is an apocalypse and now he has turned into that which he hates most an authoritarian, didactic, dictator to mindless, gormless, directionless peons. How did it go so wrong? Why did he take the local bad music so personally? It is just music. The domain of the self obsessed, arty farty, head up your arse, no compunction for anything of real merit, pretentious, penis eaters. Why care so much? Why take it all so personally? Just get over it. Get a new hobby. Move towns. Go overseas. Dumb yourself down by eating pies. His guilt gnawed away at him. He decided that he could no longer live with himself. He must end his existence. Without him and his ridiculous ideals the city will have a chance of  renewing itself, the lemmings will have to rebuild the city in their own way, maybe they will improve on it’s former staid nature, maybe Tauranga can become truly great. He took a 10 meter run up and started to bound. Ring…Ring…the intercom was going. He was quite preoccupied with his imminent death but he couldn’t let the intercom keep buzzing it was rude and unfair on his P.A. He stopped and picked up the phone. “Yes…Someone to see me?…something I might find interesting?….no I’m not especially busy…send em up….” The writer couldn’t fathom who would be coming to see him. Since the mini rapture he had cut himself off from the rest of the world. His guilt meant that he couldn’t find enjoyment from human company. He chose to be alone, suffer in his head and occasionally play beginner Spider Solitaire on his Laptop when he wasn’t self flagellating. The office door opened and a body was forced inside., It was Debbie Sue “Let me go…let me go” She screamed. Upon seeing The Writer she gasped “Who, who who, who who, who, who are you…I really want to know…..who are you, are you are you, are you?” The Writer put his hands to his head “No…no…shut up…shut up!!! Don’t quote those lyrics….anything but…just not ‘the Who’ from their interminable 70’s period. Fuck it sucked a big ass. Keith Moon was a bloated Nazi regalia wearing piss head and Daltry was busy off making crap films and Townshead was looking at child porn and the other one…fuck who cares…he plays bass…their music suffered…it raped cats…” Suddenly Debbie Sue knew who it was that she stood in front of “You….you…” she pointed at the writer and lunged “you did this, you are responsible for the deaths of thousands of innocents, the end of an economy, the destruction of local music, the end of Tauranga as we know it. You….you must pay!!!!” She picked up a lamp and tried to scone the Writer but he easily over powered her because she is a woman and therefore really weak and also not very smart. As they wrestled he stared at her, she was so beautiful, so full of life, so passionate. Everything he was not.  He was smitten. Her golden hair. Her tiny little inbred nose. Her massive child bearing hips. He was in love. Finally he wrapped her up so that she couldn’t move and asked her who she was and why she was in his office trying to scone him with a lamp. Upon spitefully telling him her story he picked her up by the shoulders and agreed with her whole heartedly….he did have to pay for his actions. He was a monster, a cad, a rotter. He would do as she asked and go back with her to the deep south…of Tauranga where he would be no doubt be punished for his genocidal, homicidal, actions. He would do it partly out of guilt but mostly out of the power of the poon and also cause he had some awesome Hillbilly one liners he wanted to try out on the locals… they would leave in the early hours of the morning, that is after the minions had located her faithful yet now errant probably busting human bitch box on the beach stead Wyatt. Now as night fell they rested on the office floor of the Westpac Trust. Well Debbie Sue did, the writer just rested his hand on his cock as he watched her sleep…

The Return to the South  

Debbie Sue was anxious to get back to the Clampett Family Farm. Her brush with the outside world was not the journey of fulfillment she had yearned for. She hadn’t found the vast sea of opportunity she had been hoping to set sail on. But she believed that upon her return things would be different, she would be treated with the respect she desired and so deserved for having brought the villainous Writer to his apologetic knees. But riding into her sleepy hamlet her hopes were quickly dashed by the audible, ear burning gossip of the local milk maids making snide comments over her seemingly ever expanding thighs. Debbie Sue started to sink. Then from out of nowhere her Dad rushed up to Wyatt and yanked her off the horse she rode in on.

“Where were yee. Ma tea was not made last night, your momma wasn’t turned 15 times during the night like she should’ve and the cows are so full of milk they are lactating all over the place. What ya gotta say about that missy”

“Poppa…but Poppa you sent me off to locate and bring to you the head of the writer of Tauranga Music Sux for his blasphemous words against local music. Which I did….see Dadday…see…are you proud of me…your little ol’ Debbie Sue”

“Oh right….good job…good job…whore…now go make me some Corn Bread….”

“Oi, fuck you pal” said the Writer “ Talk to her like that again and I’m going to get off the back of this here horse that I have been loosely tied to cause women cannot tie knots to save themselves because they are weak, useless, vacuous creatures and fuck you up. I am born and raised in Tauranga so I know the ancient art of Tauranga meat sack fighting so don’t think I’m bluffing….”

“Ahhhh The Writer man huh….spit….just the person I want to see now that I’ve been reminded that I wanted to see you. Big words huh….like to mock Tauranga music huh….what have you done huh….when did you last sell out Tauriko hall….when did you last appear at Carolines Country fair….don’t remember seeing you at Jakes Music Jamboree or Hanks Happy Ho down….your a nothing and yet you use your big words to mock those of far greater talent than yourself….huh.”

“I know, I know I’m a nothing. And you’re right I’ve never zonked the zone that is Zekes Zany Waffle House or Jebediahs Jandal Jukebox but I’m a student of music, I love it, I live it, I breathe it, I eat it with milk and brown sugar and so it pains me to see substandard output when there is so much untapped potential for something far greater. So I still stand by my earlier declarations….Tauranga Music does suck!!!! But maybe, just maybe bombing the fuck out of Tauranga and destroying all music was a tad too excessive. Gawd, I was just trying to help but infact I think am a big part if not the biggest reason why Tauranga Music Sux so much. If we all worked together harnessing our positive energies instead of humorously slaying all those that try and fail then we might be able to bring about significant change. I apologize for my actions and swear to do whatever I can to bring Tauranga back to its former way below average status…”

“Not so fast buddy!” said two voices in unison coming from the tree line of the hamlet. Two dark figures came slinking out from the shadows. It was Derrin Richards and Natures Worst. “Fuck you Writer, you did as we all wanted you to do and destroyed this music scene yet here you are now apologising like a little fag and saying you are going to reverse the damage. No fucken way!!! We have waited too long to see this scene crumble…. Now finally we are safe from the dross that is Tauranga Music so don’t think for even a second that we will let you undo your hard work. We will kill you first.” And at that they aimed their guns at the hapless writer as old Jed jumped clear of the action while holding onto his old straw hat with one hand and suppin’ his root beer thus moistening for easier digestion the Corn Bread already in his mouth with the other.

“Bang…bang…”

Shots were fired. The Writer clutched his chest, then slowly brought his hands up to his face but there was no blood. He looked up just as Derrin and Natures Worst were falling to their knees, behind them gun raised was Debbie Sue. She lowered her gun and smirked as The Writer looked on amazed.

“Why…why did you save me?”

“Because it is I that gets to kill you…not those two sycophantic schlubs.”

“But why???…can’t you see that I love you….r slammin’ titties!!!!...”

“Why? Because you killed the one that I truly, whole heartedly, very fleetingly loved….Prince Luke Thompson…We could have been happy together….knitting scarves for children with cancer, vaccinating Ethiopian orphans from Polio, singing to the deaf and doing performance art for the visually impeared…that is at least until I wanted premarital sex… at which point I would have had to get ma’ sexual gratification from ol’ Wyatt… because that little puss wouldn’t have wanted to do ma’ puss…. And fuck you for insinuating that I’m not dat smart like…Eat lead…”

Bang…..bang….

“Die mother fucker!!!! Yeah boy. Westside for life. Smoke it fool.Fully.”

The bullets cruised through the body of the writer and he went into a dreamlike state of remembrance. Enercia, the Rockshop, Spork, Kiss Fm, Major Toms, Luke Thompson, Krazy Jacks, the Mellow Drops, Machete Justice, Brewers Bar, Winston Watusi  - they were all there and would forever haunt him in the hell he was destined to go to - Taihape. But he promised himself once he got to his eternal resting spot of fire and brimstone he would try and cut a deal with music mega mogul and the true architect of all good art  – Satan and aim to do something for Tauranga Music that would help rather than hinder any further. He would release a poorly designed, cheaply produced, inexpensive compilation of Tauranga Music imaginatively titled ‘Tauranga Music Sux:Vol 1….Deride the Shite-scene’.  It wouldn’t sell much because the music on it would aptly SUCK and would have really, really limited distribution. Not that that would matter as no one from this town will buy it anyway – support local music? Ha. But hey it should get some good publicity for all involved right after lethally litigious Lars Ulrich catches wind of this intellectual property stealing effrontery and sue’s Tauranga Music Sux boney ass right into the ground. And after publicising all these bands at his own expense T.M.S will be free, he will have done this town of Tauranga and the musicians within it a great service, he will have made them proud to be local, he will have made up for his earlier infractions, his conscience will be clear, he will have done good. Here on, free from his all consuming hate he will be able to take the tens of dollars in ‘Deride the Shite-Scene’cd sales profits netted from the hard work of the stupidly gullible rube musicians who didn’t even think to ask for a contract or a royalty point percentage because they play not for the cash or the kudos but because they ‘love music’ so much and buy a mega ghost mansion near the beach where he can now devote himself and all his future time to Swayze in Ghost apparition air fucking of that hillbilly cunt bitch for killing him rather than thrilling him, his other hobby; flag pole sitting and writing his new Zine ‘Hitler or Chaplin who did the half-stache better?’.


Fuck you all…..

Friday, 2 September 2011

Issue 4

Number 5: almost in the can, set the scene with this zine....





Zine 4:

Well I give up. We hated the scene we had and so we invented one, it was alright but even the imaginary bands, journalists, fans, venues were afflicted with an acute case of cocksuckeritis. And what’s more, after yearning soooooo hard for a music scene or in fact any sort of culture in Tauranga for soooooo long it has become apparent after my Charles Dickens like flash forward that I wouldn’t really care for what would happen to this town if it suddenly were to turn into a mini New York or London. You see I don’t want a community of glad handing, high fiving, mentally retarded musicians in my backyard, my hometown, my town which has my home in it with a backyard. Thing is for as much as I hate all the rugby playing, boy racing, sweater knitting, surf board waxing, beer drinking, night and baby clubbing scum of this town they at least fit the aesthetic. It is a beautiful city with rolling green sports fields, smooth asphalt roading, massive passive crashing blue waves, cheap beer and even cheaper women. They belong, whiny over dressed malnourished, anemic, oh so fay musicians don’t. You see even if the music created in Tauranga wasn’t utter pap its incongruity would still be glaringly obvious. Tauranga isn’t meant to be a cultured town. We are jocks. We are illiterate. We are wannabe Australians. We are jandals. We are Stubbies. We are Venereal Disease. Tauranga Music Sux can see that now. We are believers. And we apologise for our earlier infractions. Only one thing to do….make amends. We have to start again. We have to embrace our inner moron. We have to kill all and any aspirations for culture that may be lingering in the undergrowth and most important of all we must destroy what ever feeble attempts at music there are. You see, if there is nothing that even hints at something intellectually stimulating then we will want for nothing more. We will surf the waves of whores at the Grumpy Mole while waxing our pants boards dressed in our finest hand knitted cashmere sweaters before exiting town doing burnouts in our awesome lowered Honda V-tech Integra heading for a home where we can beat up our children while watching the All Blacks crush Russia at the World Cup and we will be happy, we will be content, we will be true Taurangians….

Dear crazy dude from Norway:

Hey, you vain, questionably good skinned, strong jaw lined yet off set by a gaping bum chin, Nazi Norwegian fuck! Like a Tauranga Musician you are a plagiarist of the lowest order….. Ya see. Dude stole our plan, though with his basic English language skills he misread some things. We here at Tauranga Music Sux don’t hate Muslims, we hate musicians. While a Muslim might blow up your bus, train, office block, plane and or camel. A Tauranga Musician will just blow! They will blow out your eardrums with really, really awful music on the most ludicrously expensive equipment that they have bought on an H.P they never intend on paying therefore burdening the financial system just a little more. They will blow up their own ego’s to unjustified and unwarranted levels after playing to an unpacked house at Krazy Jacks and then they will blow your camel – uninvited! How rude. Also I was talking about Tauranga not Oslo fag. And another thing, killing children that’s a bit low is it not Adolf Shitler? Killing musicians with child like minds however is ok. We did write that so maybe you got confused you poor ol’, crazy, right wingin’ gun lovin nut. But whatever here's the actual plan for the annihilation of Tauranga Music that obviously I can’t do now because I don’t want to be seen as a tribute act or anything….shudder.

Stage 1:

Start a fight club with your imaginary friend and sleep deprived self, get a bunch of curious on lookers hooked on you brand of self harm. They will watch and loudly cheer as you drink bottle after bottle of wine and beat yourself senseless – don’t forget to work the body. Confused heathen idiots will think you’re the 2nd coming of Jesus cause you can turn wine into blood and will follow your every word because Taurangians love a good old barney and a dude that loves to fight so much that he fights himself must be the hardest and most Tauranga of them all. But beware they will want to know what the first rule of fight club is - tell ‘em it is not listening to Tauranga music. Punch anyone in the noggin that does while doing a Brad Pitt impersonation with your shadow doing a Edward Norton in the background. Now you have enough numbers let your Tauranga Terrorism begin.

Stage 2:

Arm yourselves. While musicians are just puny, unathletic dweebs for the most part they all usually seem to have a thick necked, over sized, incontrovertibly inbred bass player that could probably swat a few planes with his gigantic paws straddled atop the Empire State building, Naiomi Watts in hand. Also they have heavy weapons in their instruments, not they will be able to brandish them with much force as their vodka and lime R.T.D’s are low in protein and their lungs are fucked from too much only in situations of potentially accrued coolness public  chain smoking – ‘Smoking Cools’…must be Norwegians. But don’t go apeshit and get a bunch of guns and knives or anything, Tauranga musicians are not your typical strain of human bacteria they are a more stubborn and harder to kill virus. They withstand bullets, they deflect knives, they laugh in the face of Muslim bomb blasts. Why? Answer: they are Vampires. Real Vampires. You hadn’t noticed? The signs are all there. Pale skin, moody, greasy hair, bad teeth, lisping, drawling, mentally never ageing, Anna Paquins always hanging around them, they only come out from their dark lairs late at night, feeding on the creativity of the more talented, sucking out all their ideas in order to self energize and while most forms of music will die the genre that is known as ‘Tauranga Arse’ is seemingly immortal. It will live forever. The signs are all there. Worried? So you should be. So get your holy water, your garlic, your crosses and prepare to incinerate some vampire arse and hopefully one of them is Robert Pattinson because the cunt needs to die.

Stage 3:

You will want to get all of the Tauranga Musicians in one place as ours is a city overwhelmed by an urban sprawl that would put Los Angles or Mexico City to shame. Our HQ is on the outskirts of town, I saw Auckland about 3km off in the distance the other day. Their music sux too. Door knocking and asking for anyone that might play an instrument and or wears plaid, tight black jeans and condom beanies pulled just above the ears would take years and by then they might be on to your crusade, they could even leave town infecting another city with their mucus music or worse they could stay here amongst us without their instruments walking as normals in squelching jandals, ball sack a flapping in the wind as it protrudes from their stubbolas. No we must kill them all in one swift go. We know it will be a test. We know that we will probably die or be killed in the struggle, we are out numbered but we must sacrifice ourselves for the greater good. WE ARE TAURANGA!!! But how to get all the musicians of Tauranga together in one area? While Tauranga has more crap bands per capita than any other city in the world we also seem to only have one of each genre. And because of these discernible difference in taste and sound, bands from Tauranga tend not to play with each other…they just play with themselves. They do not watch each other, even if they are on the same bill they will somehow conveniently miss each others performances, they don’t know each others names, they might facebook each other but that’s only so they can make themselves look like they’ve got tons of fans, they don’t hang out and there is no regular forum or venue for them to get together and gab. So how do you bring these disparate self obsessed pseudo people together? FREE LIME AND VODKA R.T.D’S.

Stage 4 :

“Dear Friends. Tauranga Music Sux invites you along to a night of wild entertainment that revolves around your awe inspiring greatness. You will get to play live because you are undoubtedly the best band that has ever existed and everyone wants to hear all of your awesome songs. THERE WILL BE FREE LIME AND VODKA R.T.D’S!!!! Come to the worlds best venue, with the best sound, the hippist fat cat fans, the classiest toilets, the one, the only Krazy Jacks this Friday night. It will be awesome and I promise that there won’t be any other musicians there that you socially awkward fucks will have to talk to. Love Tauranga Music Sux.”

Send out the above crock of shit to every original, covers band, busker, orchestra, bedroom bandit, one man, two man, 30 piece band you can think of. They will attempt to read, they will fail, some one else will read it to them, they will hear none of whats said except for ‘free RTD’s’, they will be there.

Stage 5:

But don’t forget it is not just the local musicians of this town fucking up music for us. It’s also the journalists, the fans and the snobbish bands from elsewhere far too good to grace our town with their fedoras and big city sheen so they can play in front of hipper, less yokelfied, attention lavishing dilettantes and industry types in yuppie-ville – the outrage. So let me address all these fuck like fucks… I’ve said it before but we’ve got no real music journalists outside of ourselves and to think we are just as much of the problem as everyone else but don’t fear we are self aware and we will disappear and become one of the happy morons who have no cares and drinks lots of beer but only once it is definite that no music shall we hear. But what masquerading dipshits we do have could be enough to stimulate some sort of interest in music post Tauranga audio apocalypse. So the two we have must perish too. Graham Clarke, do you not remember getting aurally raped by your Grandparents as a young man with their never ending stories that were worse than the movie of the same name. Word to the wise no one cares about the past especially when it involves Tauranga Music. If you could chuck in a mass murder, rape, and a potato famine or two we might feign interest but with the facts you have your readership is going to number in the single digits – kind of like this zines, dick – eat it. Winston Wapoosi on the other hand lives in the present but sadly he is a hack and doesn’t offer a valid alternative. So stop pretending you are the voice of Tauranga music when you’re nepotistic articles never cover anything from musicians other than those you are buddies with and that big nosed, talentless Jew fuck Bob Dylan. I can’t believe you get paid to do your articles – how much jism have you swallowed, get it pumped bro before ya drown. And the fans limited numbers there may be get my goat as well. Stop complaining about how crap the local scene is, stop reading our poorly written zines and start your own bands, better yet fuck off to back to Wellington or where ever it was that gave you the idea that Tauranga was fit for your scenster ideals, make your own changes and or shut up. In fact, just shut up, stop turning up to gigs all together, we’re on to you, we know you don’t even like music, we have never seen you in the music stores, your cd collection probably consists of Gin Wigmore and we know that Ramones shirt you wear is just for reasons of style. So we presume you just want to befriend the musicians because they might offer some of that highly sought after big city introspection, creativity and culture in a town that has none, well newsflash even in the big cities musicians are among the dumbest, vacuous, unaware pieces of shit you’ll ever meet. Yeah they’ll have cool clothes and mastered, superficial tastes in all the books, movies, albums that the cool bible dictates that they should have but try scratching the surface and all you’ll get is some regurgitated crap from various media outlets that they try to play off as their own. And fannys, the dancing, moshing you idiots insist upon unleashing at every outing - no one wants to see your multiple sclerosis like moves when trying to send a text on the dance floor and we in the crowd don’t want to get hit the face with your hair as you metalla’mosh yourself into a frenzy. We just want to see the bands. And maybe pump a fist or two while inaudibly singing a mistaken lyric or 3 or 4. And you faggots, you rubbish bands from Auckland, Wellington, Christchurch; reason why you fucks never pull any crowds here is because you seem to steadfastly refuse to advertise your gigs. Ya know there are music stores you can send your posters to; newspapers that advertise gigs, local bands that can support you that will bring with a ready made crowd, bars that aren’t in the industrial anus of Tauranga, crap journalists that might give you a brief sentence before rambling further about Bob Dylans seminal classic ‘Dud on all the Tracks’, fans with M.S that will give you a shakey hand job if you be their friend for the night. You fuck yourselves over with your poor promotion then write off Tauranga to all and sundry as a town with no potential. You make your own death beds and while there may have been a time when we would have optimistically argued with you now we don’t care – stay away. We don’t want you near us and hey, we do know, even if you won’t admit it that you all came from tiny towns and stifled cities like ours. So you live in Auckland now and only listen to the Velvet Underground but I can remember when your fedora was a baseball cap your cardigan was a hoody your tight jeans were baggy jeans your chuck taylors were globes and your long but not too long hair was all gel spikes and your favourite band was Limp Bizkit. Fuck you frauds. An example needs to be made. A warning shot needs to be fired. So here's how it is… Tauranga music fans and journalists will only come out and do some serious posing when out of town big media validated bands like the Midnight Youth, I am (a) Giant (penis) and the (scrotum) Feelers come to play so we must invite these 3 bands – these paradigms of New Zealand musical shiteness to come play here. The die hards, the casual fans, the needy, the friendless, the pen pushers will come out in force to see these bands. Hold the gig at Brewers Bar for this Friday. They will come. Spastic dance moves will abound, poorly written prose will flow, garbled pontifications will emanate the soon to be cock filled mouths of moron musicians, hair will get in the faces of text obsessed people behind, drinks will sink, rubes will be unawares of whats to come. The plan will come together.

Stage 6 :

We like music, we really do but if we are serious about our manifesto then the music retailers have to go as well. Which is a shame but sacrifices need to be made. Tracs is probably New Zealands finest independent CD store after Slo Boat records in Wellington but does anyone even know it exists? Since that super duper fuck your family chain JB HI FI moved into Bayfair anyone that might have had some predilection towards good tunes have headed in droves to this piece of shit mega store. These are the same people that if in a big city, all wide eyed and smiles plied would see a store like a Tracs that has been around for years and say how quaint it is and tell all their friends how unique the city is because it still has mom and pop stores – fuck globalisation. But in Tauranga they would see this same style of shop and call it ratty, ugly, they would rather save a few pennies by heading to internationally owned JB Hi Fi. Fuck that, support the little man but not Marbecks because they are a chain of arching jism. Because of these fucks Tracs is dying a slow painful death, it saddens me – but like Old Yeller frothing at the mouth something tells me that it needs to be put out of its misery, even though we don’t want to do it. And JB HI FI? JB HI FI just needs to be put down – rabies or not.While we are at it fuck the Rockshop, Music Planet and Bay City Music for selling the instruments that started this whole mess. They are the enablers, the pusher men. They need to go too…

“Dear Music retailers of Tauranga. Tauranga Music Sux invites you to a special presentation by world renowned Motivational Speaker Anthony Robbins at Taurangas equivalent of the Sydney Opera House – Baycourt. You won’t hear much as the P.A is crap and the acoustics are shocking, you’ll probably get a sore back from the crap seating but you might just get some tips to beat the recession and save your business from bankruptcy. Failing that FREE WINE AND CRACKERS because I know you old cracker businessmen love wine and biscuits. Baycourt. This Friday. Come. It’ll be fun. I’ll save you a seat or two for your middle aged paunch…

Stage 7:

It’s Friday night, everyone is soooo excited and just a wee bit nervous. The bands are waxing their goatees -  they look well tough,  they are warming up their fingers with mild stretching for a night of monster goat horns and teasing their hair into a calculated ‘just woke up’ scruff, not that they are trying to look good – they are musicians, they are insouciant, they don’t care what you think…unless you don’t like them or mock them. The Multiple Sclerosis music fans decide not to take their worm tablets for the evening as it may give them an extra bit of slither but they do get pumped with some Wigmore and practice some vapid conversation about their real expensive Indie Music endorsed frames which they don’t actually need as they have 20-20 vision. The retailers are drying their eyes with their depressing account ledgers, help is on its way thank gawd. The journalists aren’t doing their jobs very well and are listening to Bob Dylan while reading a thesaurus so they can use some really big, incomprehensible adjectives for their next review. And we at Tauranga Music Sux are grinning maniacally, while taping garlic to our bodies, sharpening our crosses and putting our holy water vials around our necks. Then we had a coffee and watched some Ellen cause it’s gonna be a long night…

Stage 8:

Krazy Jacks is filling up, RTD’s are menacing the musicians livers, Jack is unsure how to cope as it is for the first time in the bars history it is actually living up to its moniker…it’s Kraaaaaazzzzzzy. Across town at Brewers Bar, The Feelers are opening up with some old verified classics off Super System, Winston Wapoosi decides that instead of describing their sound as being powerful he will say it is thunderous, he is glad he read that thesaurus. The idiots are dancing in full spasm, they are glad that they didn’t take their medication though their anus sure is starting to itch; could they talk about that with the musicians they wonder? A bunch of Christian bands are playing at a scout hall, we forgot to invite them to Krazy Jacks but really no matter how many cds they might sell Christian music doesn’t count. A few hipsters too cool for Brewers and Krazy Jacks have congregated at Major Toms to listen to David Bowie on constant repeat, they don’t notice as they are too busy talking over each other with stories about how they once had tea with the guitarist from Blur in Camden, strangely they are all telling the same story but no one is listening to each other though their strangled chortles and fluid head nodding would say otherwise. The retailers have spent their last few cents on a programme from the Anthony Robbins Fun Fest at Baycourt, if they don’t get any decent tips tonight they are selling their vital organs, it has been decided. Tauranga Music Sux minions have surrounded and barricaded the doors of each venue of note awaiting the arrival of their leaders, The Writers…..

Stage 9:

The great music journalists ChildMolester Bangs, Nick Cunt, Johnana Peel and Munter S Thompson had gotten together one day over peppermint tea after realising the sad state of affairs Tauranga Music had fallen into. They ruminated aloud that they could continue to write about Tauranga Music and pretend that their was no great epidemic, they could try and convince the masses that the bands that currently existed were top notch or they could stand up and take account for music in their town by being honest. They trusted their instincts and went on a moral crusade slandering everything in their sight. Nothing was sacred. They hoped that by being so bleak, so blunt that the musicians, the fans would in turn be honest with themselves and their terminal lameness and either retire from playing/listening or return, motivated with a new improved, self respecting style that wasn’t just a hopeless pastiche of everyone and everything else. It didn’t work. Tauranga Music Sux was criminally overlooked, these sensitive souls wouldn’t take the criticism on board, they got defensive at these slights and if anything started making worse music to less people. The writers grew more despondent. If the zine wasn’t the answer they again brainstormed then what is? “Genocide?” Munter offered. “Yay Genocide” they all cried in unison. And so here we are on the Friday night, for the end of the Tauranga Music world.

The Christians are incongruously and ironically singing positive, life affirming lyrics over Death Metal songs, the Major Tomsters are now showing off the sweater they bought from Save Mart – they are all wearing slight variations of the same thing, the Krazy Cats at Jacks have started fighting over who gets to sing Rage Against the Machines – Killing in the Name Of for the 678th time that evening, Winston Watusi decides that while he could use the term exciting to describe the Midnight Youth he could also use exhilarating – he does! How exhilarating. The retailers are jotting down notes as Anthony Robbins babbles they are soooo happy, their business is saved they can keep their kidneys. Everyone is having fun until….



Stage 10:

A message suddenly comes blaring out of the P.A’s cutting off the music, motivational ramblings of each venue, the peons are shocked and think god is talking to them and in a way he was…

“Dear Music oriented idiots of Tauranga you had your chance to evolve but like the Dinosaurs you continued to live uneventful lives with your scaley skin, gigantic tails and small sharpened teeth. Time has now come for you to all die. We apologise for the inconvenience but we at Tauranga Music Sux can no longer take any more belated Nu Metal, any more covers bands – we hated the Exponents, we didn’t want to hear someone else playing it,  the complete lack of jazz at the annual jazz festival, the twat kid on Devenport Road busking with a sign saying he can play parties – god  I hope he is here playing tonights party – did someone invite him? Tell me someone did, all the metal – you losers aren’t tough, you aren’t hard you are the geekiest fucks ever and we all know that you grow your hair long and wear it over you faces because you have self esteem issues and that you only grow a goatee because a full beard would be too patchy and maybe even a dreaded neck beard, you fag punks – got me a mohawk, got me a studded jacket, got me a sneer, got me some unoriginal tunes, punk was about non conformity idiots, reggae – if you smoke dope you will lose braincells, experience some memory loss but worse you may start to like reggae, if Jah were real I’d punch him in the face though at this point I’d just settle for Damien Marley, you dickheads who run the jam nights but don’t actually jam on anything you just play covers straight, song for song, no variations, jam is malleable, think about that when spreading some on your burnt toast in hell fuckers, you pussys in garage bands that never play live – who cares if you have no talent, some of the best music came from people that really should not have been allowed any where near a musicial instrument but you’ve had your chance, you over produced slick packaged losers that think that if you have a glossy sound we won’t notice that your music has no substance, the venues – get a better p.a, hire a booking manager who understands that if you get in bands from out of town you will have a better chance of pulling a crowd, don’t wait for some untested local to come to you then complain when their music doesn’t live up to expectations, what did you expect, the music fans – buy some cds, don’t download everything just because it’s easier, have some sentimentality, support local business not some Steven Jobs type,  the retailers for not moving with the times – incorporate technology into your businesses, have downloading stations if that’s what people want, sell coffees, have more pop culture shit if it gets people through the doors, in store demos, album release parties, 2nd hand sections- people love thrift during a recession, the journalists – learn how to write, stop your cronyism, realise that Bob Dylan blows, the hipsters- shut up and get out of the op shops – I want to buy some cheap cutlery but you keep taking it all before I can get any because you think it’ll look cool on your wall cause its old, what am I going to eat with now, my fingers? Can’t afford the new stuff, the out of town bands for ignoring us on your nation wide tours – check your maps Magellin, there is an east coast. And finally us – the smug, portentous, vitriolic, all knowing yet knowing nothing, cynical yet oddly optimistic, tall poppy, small poppy, opium poppy seed syndrome carrying writers of Tauranga Music Sux. We are the worst. We need to die too. But y’all first….Goodbye.

The people inside each venue started screaming and rushing for the exits, when they found that they were all sealed some broke down crying others persistently tried to ram the doors but to no avail. They were trapped. Oh why, oh why had they persisted with drinking low in protein RTD’s they screamed. The Christians prayed to their imaginary friend. The hipsters prayed over each other while casually smoking a Malboro Light and bobbing their heads at nothing in particular. Winston Watusi was scared until he corrected himself as he realised that a better term was terrified, the out of town bands at Brewers tweeted to all on their NZ ON AIR paid for I-phones that Tauranga was now a music free zone in hopes that they would be spared – of course they wouldn’t, the retailers were relieved as they had been dying piece by piece on a daily basis with each decreasing day of sales, at least this would be swift. The muso’s at Krazy Jacks started to feel woozy and realised that the RTD’s were not infused with lime but garlic, they were cross with themselves for being so stupid as to let their drinks be spiked until they remembered the symbolic power of the cross, they looked each other and screamed, they could not escape the power of the cross, it was every where, they were immediately incinerated at which point the holy water sprinkler system kicked in eradicating any that remained – the Musicians were dead, ding dong the witch is dead. And while this was all happening the writers stood at the window of their 17th story apartment looking at the destruction as synchronised bomb blasts went off leveling the buildings of all the former Tauranga musical retail and nightlife hotspots along with the fans, journalists, out of towners, hipsters and Christians inside. They all smiled. Then someone said “Hey, we should play Where is My Mind by the Pixies” “Nah that’d be plagiarism! Oh fuck it who cares”. Then they woke up. It was all a dream. The end.

Monday, 29 August 2011

Issue 3


Friends, fans, foes, fags. Lets recap. Issue 1 dealt with the fact that Tauranga Music sux. Issue 2 dealt with the fact that Tauranga Musc (still) sux. Issue 3 deals with the fact that Tauranga Music Sux Sux Sux Sux Sux Sux in a perpetual echo. But for first time readers you may ask ‘Whys its sux yo’? Well in #1 we established that every band in Tauranga past or present due to a variety of factors have shown no discernible talent, originality or any more of their penis than just their sad flacid tip- inexcusable. And like Neve Campbell were flat chested and not very good at performing. The venues were like body hair and non homsexual clothes on a male member of Generation Y – non existent and the general public were all fans of Zumba, had blue rinse perms and were looking forward to Russia vs Japan at the Rugby World Cup - idiots. Zine #2 decided that the Tauranga scene wasn’t worth dwelling upon anymore because like a Friday night at that party your friend was having while his parents were out of town that was going to be real happening because he had ‘invited’ heaps of people but in actuality it was just you, him, your shit kicker mate Brett and that fat mildly retarded chick from next door – nothing was happening nor was it going to. So we invented a scene. It was awesome. Shit was going down like that of the compressed fecal matter in a splayed, skinny, effeminate, white, recidivist convicts colon. Bands were forming, fans were foaming, venues opening, age, apathy were no longer a beastly burden. It was sweet like the tender kisses of your gigantic black cell mate as he fondled your ball sack and nibbled on your ear while you tried to fend him off without really trying that hard as you kinda like it but you’re not gay yo. So as issue 3 begins, we ask, has Tauranga music changed? No! It still sux ‘uh huh huh’. Hey Ho, Let’s Go back to the dream and see what happens to the scene.

The Record Label   

With the sudden appearance of so many awesome bands on the Tauranga scene brightening the hearts, minds and taste buds of the patrons of Tauranga’s premier music venue C.B.BEE.GEES it was inevitable that within time someone would step in to try and document these tasty tunes by releasing their albums under a collective banner. And so it was that the two failed musician friends but more importantly true music fans, who we shall call Jonathon Poneman and Bruce Pavitt but not the ‘Jonathon Poneman’ and Bruce Pavitt’, decided to start a record company that wouldn’t ape the self serving capitalist scourge paradigm of the corporate giants but instead help expose the wide range of awesome bands suddenly coming out of Tauranga to the world in a nicely packaged, recorded format at their own cost and without financial expectations. Why? Because they really liked the music, strange huh. They named their label Sub Pop but not the ‘Sub Pop’. Bruce and Jonathon quickly signed up the cream of the crop, from highly sexed Buddhist noise merchants Dalai Lama Sutra to sore throat ameliorating Delta Blues master Blind Lem’sip Jefferon to law enforcing rock n’ rolla Robo Cop Diddley to prog punkers the aptly named Punk Floyd and seminal groin hair rap crew the Pubic Area-nemy. They got their friend Jack Endino but not the ‘Jack Endino’ to produce these bands because he worked cheap and unlike every other faggot producer in Tauranga didn’t record everything digitally while demanding 57 takes for each song and another 58 over dubs for every guitar line and vocal melody while barking orders at you not to touch the mixing desk as he positions his 59 microphones in various locations around the studio while clutching his ear and doing hand signals at no one in particular. Cock. But with Endino’s crusty analogue techniques; record it with a dictaphone onto a cassette that used to have some Nana Miskouri on it, his No-Fi style managed to create a sound that for the disparate genres being recorded was rather similar in dynamics. For the album art the pair asked their friend photographer Charles Peterson but not the ‘Charles Peterson’ to do the photography because he had a grimey feel to his work that was lacking in the saccarhine bollox of all the ocean, baby, whale, tree, sunset, picture taking pap other camera happy fanny fartists persisted with . Upon combining all the music, recordings, photos, bands they realised that they had something, something worthy of the growing scene, something that was a musical point of difference. Yet, something that was similar in sound, similar in aesthetic, similar in ideals. They had their own style. But what to call it? They thought and thought until Bruce turned to Jonathon and said “We shall call this music coming from Tauranga, this sound like no other, with ideals and aesthetic all our own – Grunge. But not the ‘Grunge’.” And to that Jonathon replied “Perfect, it sums up the whole scene….”  Then they made out.

The Journalists  

After steaming up their window glass Titanic style, Bruce gazed into his lovers twinkling eyes and verbally ruminated. “Our bands all have C.D’s out, their concerts are packed like sardines in a sardine can that has one too many sardines in it, our Loser shirts but not the ‘Loser’ shirts are selling like hot cakes yet we and more importantly the bands aren’t getting any publicity from the media. What the fuck? This is a spirited ground level explosion unseen except for in overly maudlin documentarys made by annoyed directors who due to being square rubes missed the actual initial, dizzying, exciting events of whatever they are filming and so are trying to rewrite history so that they have a more active part, filmed so it seems far greater in importance and relevance  than what it actually was thus validating their epoch, the one that they sorta, just, kinda were involved in as the bestest ever so they can laud it over future generations that their time was not worth their time. Yet they pay us no attention. Could it be because Taurangas sole music journalist, if you can call him that is a Bob Dylan obsessed hack more interested in covering the lame events of his over the hill cronies in their gay, jazz, electro blues, ‘please die’ bands than anything from people that have a chance of succeeding in the music industry or building some thing of far greater importance than Blues Brews B.B.Q’s,  R.S.A covers gigs or some arse fucken over produced performance at Baycourt by some touring gimps from the big smoke, Whoopee, Auckland, Wellington. Yay. Well. Fuck him! Fuck the man that we shall call Winston Watusi and I do mean the ‘Winston Watusi’ for his lazy attempts at music journalism. And might I say your taste in movies sux too. And your alias blows. And my dad tells me that your blow jobs blow. So what we need to do is get some one who isn’t going to be partial to cronyism, old age ennui and with actual credibility that doesn’t just write a trash once weekly article in a newspaper so badly written they have to give it away, yet still no one reads it except for maybe my highly educated, Harvad graduate yet to be house trained puppy before it squats and takes a steaming shit all upon their piece of shit newspaper therefore playing a game of shit jenga that they are going to lose because they are shit, so shit flies won’t even land in it. Sheeeeeeeeit! Maybe if we were to pay a journo from a big time publication to fly to Tauranga and see what is happening with their own eyes maybe they could be persuaded to write an article exposing this amazing scene and then the world can read about it and our bands will become rich, famous and covered in the latest in groupie fashion ensembles. Plus our our duty as facillitators for others, the bands, people that are far more talented than ourselves will be fulfilled. Yay.” And so Bruce and Jonathon contacted Melody Maker but not the ‘Melody Maker’ and offered to pay for one of their writers to come to Tauranga for a week or two to see their bands and then write about it. The Melody Makers office were only too pleased to send one of their authors and for this job they specially chose the young, annoying, gets on the bosses tits with too much talking about how great he is and forcing his way on stage to play his own insufferable music when at the gigs of the bands he is supposed to be reviewing because he is a drunk, egocentric, mango man. His name was Everett True but not the Everett True. For Everett this was his first time out of England but not the England and was instantly taken with the smooth, exotic accents of the people of Tauranga and their strange delicassies like ‘fush n chups’. Obviously years of attending gigs minus ear plugs had ruined his hearing. He liked, loved, masturbated into a sock over the music he heard, mostly because he was drunk and the bands treated him like a god because he knew how to read and write. Woaaah! He could also magically create fire with something he called a Lighter. Double woaaaah! And when he ate he closed his mouth and used a knife and fork. Triple Woaaaah! Everett didn’t ever want to leave, he loved Tauranga, its bands and the sunlight that he had heard about but never seen before leaving England. He loved how he was treated like a god and that when he played his horrible punk covers with an out of tune guitar and atonal voice people still egged him on and applauded his performance as it was still way better than anything else ever seen in Tauranga. But he had an article to write and a future history to create in which he can hearld himself as the Captain Cook of the Tauranga music scene and not just some rotund, little douchebag who happened to be in the right place at the right time...


The Expolsion   

Well Everett flew home and wrote his little article and did as journalists do and used more synonyms than a thesaurus, with more grandiloquence than Dennis Miller and so impressed and confused his poor brain fogged readers with his hyperbolic tales of awe that the people went gaga but not Lady Gaga over the Tauranga Scene. The bands were welcomed as heroes when invited to tour Europe. C.D’s flew off the shelves, literally as Sub Pop but not the ‘Sub Pop’ had put wings on them and little propellors so they could reach distant lands quicker. Bands looking for a piece of the action moved to Tauranga en mass and changed their style of music to fit in with the desired sound. Everyone, from bands to fans to fashion designers adopted the Tauranga dress code, Jandals, Stubbies, and a novelty T-Shirt with an incredibly unfunny slogan on it like ‘I love Vagina as long as it’s not my Grans but even then if I hadn’t had any in awhile I might be tempted if I’d had a couple and the room was dark and she didn’t smell too much like moth balls on that particular day’. Hollywood took notice and all of sudden films were being set in sunny, artificially beautiful towns, with dying C.B.D’s and poor traffic management. Their actors played the parts of uneducated, pre-teen, parent hicks dressed in the perpetual summer garb ubiquitous amongst the aforementioned musicains and fans. The premise of these films dealt with such Tauranga-centric themes as more DVD’s and Playstation games in the Public Libraries than books, Noodle Canteens every 200m’s and the lack of anything to do that isn’t defined as spousal abuse. Magazines from the Womens Weekly to Rip It Up and Tetris Monthly all either had articles or entire magazines devoted to Tauranga music or they wanted to but most probably couldn’t get access to, as let’s face it these bands were now big time . Big labels from Sony to EMI  swooped in and attempted to sign away all of Sub Pops but not the ‘Sub Pops’ acts with mega money, multi album contracts that the bands who being disloyal, ungrateful, avaricious scallywags jumped at. And advertisers were having a field day raping the integrity of the scene to sell every thing from Tampons to Wontons and Plankton. But due to over exposure everyone was starting to get a little tired of the Tauranga Music Scene. Yes the music was still good and it was better than anything else heard in the preceeding years but it was every where and the lustre was starting to go. But then, from above….

The Band

When the initial seeds of the Tauranga Music Scene were planted the members of Nirvana but not the ‘Nirvana’ or the other ‘Nirvana’ (you know, the psycadelic folk fags from the 60’s) were still sifting for gold in the streams of the once prosperous mining town of Waihi. Playing in their parents garages with what little spare time they had before having to leave their houses pick in one hand, pipe in mouth, pan in the other early next morning. So while the musicians of Tauranga got better and better, famous and famous-er, herpes and herpier Nirvana continued to hone their craft in their tiny corn bread eating, banjo strumming town. Until one day they realised that they were better than all those big smoke, yuppie, you’re so flash in your stubbies and jandals bands from Tauranga. So they sold their ingots of gold bought a van and relocated to the mega city. Their sound was just the injection the scene was in need of. Fresh, loud, powerful with strange dynamics and interesting lyrics the band quickly ascended to the top of the musical pile. Members; introverted, angst filled, guitarist song writer Kurt Cobain but not the Kurt Cobain, goofy funny guy bassist Krist Noveselic but not the Krist Noveselic and powerhouse drummer and soon to be faggot frontman of another integrity-less commercial cunt face band Dave Grohl but not the Dave Grohl were heralded as the greatest band on earth. Their first single  Smells Like Teen Spirit but not the Smells Like Teen Spirit went straight to number 1, it was instantly hailed as a classic and an anthem for that generation. Kurt Cobain was lauded as a hero, spokesman and icon  for youth everywhere. They were the new Beatles, bigger than Jesus, bigger than god, bigger than the being that created God and way bigger than they being that created Gods, God, God. But the fame would become too much. Kurt sensitive soul that he was couldn’t deal with his new found celebrity status, the intrusion into his private life and the plethora of morons and trend hoppers that now liked his music. On April 7th after becoming increasingly depressed and suicidal he blew his head off with a gigantic burst of semen built up in his wang from years of abstaining from sex because he didn’t want to pump his filthy, whore, aids carrying bitch wife Courtney Love but not the Courtney Love, while sucking himself dry after surgically having a rib removed the day before. He was 27…

The Aftermath   

With the passing of Kurt Cobain but not the Kurt Cobain the musicians, fans and scenesters turned, looked at themselves and said was it all worth it? We all wanted a scene in Tauranga so bad we forgot to look at the bigger picture and the potential ramifications of having good bands, labels, clubs, publicity, fans. We killed Kurt Cobain. We invited in the media, advertising, hollywood, music label vultures. We killed the music scne. Everyone felt so guilty that they tried to forget the Tauranga Music Scene straight away. The advertisers went back to milking nubile hot chicks in wet white shirts. The directors went back to spending millions on CGI effects and big trucks that go bang and muscle headed meat sacks that go ‘DANG’. The music press found some other sound that was just a rehash of something that happened 20 years earlier and lauded it as the next big thing. Bruce and Jonathon forgot their ethics merged with the major label that killed their scene and started releasing music for money from a real shit musical comedy duo called the Flight of the Concords, I repeat the Flight of the Concords, the Shite of the Concords and some indie wank. The fans grew up. The labels left. The venues closed down. And the bands broke up. Everyone was demoralised. ‘God we just wanted some good music to see on a Friday night without having to go out of town and maybe enough prestige that bands might deign to tour through our woods, but this we didn’t want this’ they said. It was a sad state of affairs and left many wondering if it might have been better if there never had even been a Tauranga Music scene. And maybe they were right. They also wondered if music would ever prosper again on the streets of Tauranga. And for a long time it didn’t but within time the sweet sounds of Exponents songs, Reggae, Dub Step, Nu Metal began to emanate from the amazing night clubs and bars on the Strand. The status quo but not the ‘Status Quo’ was back and everyone was happy. Idiots.

Next Issue

If I can be arsed…