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.
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...
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….
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…
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.
If I can be arsed…