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…

Thursday, 18 August 2011

Issue 2




 Here's zine number 2 you parasites. As you will see this scene wasn't interesting enough to warrant a 2nd issue but fuck dammit I had shit to say...



 Zine 2:

Upon the release of the first issue of ‘Tauranga Music Sux’ the local losers after buying this piece of literary genius… turned, looked at themselves and their feeble, pitiful excuses for art and after feeling a little insulted and sorry for their sad selves and the time wasted on sub sub sub sub sub sub sub par efforts said ‘Ya know what? Why do we mope? Dude got a point. We do suck. We are all interminable, talentless, unoriginal butt cheek spreading marmite eaters. We gots to change.” And change they did. Weeks on from the release of the zine new bands were appearing out of the once deadly quiet burbs, dormant bands that might’ve had some potential before being killed by Taurangas disdain and the resulting apathy were reuniting with new and killer material in an effort to seek the glory that was surely coming, others from around the country were moving here to save this once moribund music scene, bands were finally bringing their tours to these parts or at least driving through on their way to Auckland to bottle old grannies on bikes for some mid road trip sport. Things were picking up. Cds were being released, good ones. New venues opening up, big ones. Fans were coming out, not moronic ones. Tauranga was fast becoming the next Seattle, Manchester, Wanganui. Actually I’m lying, it was as shit as ever. The bands didn’t change. They remained the derivative hacks that they always were. But ‘Tauranga Music Sux.’  had a soloution. If these stubborn fucks wouldn’t change. If they insisted on continuing to anally fist us with their poosic. And if the local music lovers gave them reason to do so by validating their inane attempts. Then fuck ‘em. So to those that actually like good music then let them, like Tony Sopranos mum be dead to us. And for us that want, yearn, long for a decent music scene in Tauranga then it is time for us to stand up and take action. It is time for us to invent our own scene. But don’t go out and start a band or anything, after all you are from Tauranga you’re music will be pretentious, weak, empty, shallow, spork, dross. Instead let your imagination take over and invent the scene that you want. We have…

Oh my god did you hear? No. There are so many awesome new bands moving to Tauranga. Are there? Yeah, I just said. Really? Yeah you fucken douche. Why, this place sucks? That’s what I said. So, Taurangas going to have its very own scene? Yuh. Tits.



The Jazz Festival

In years gone by the Jazz festival has been a fuken farce. An excuse for old dilettantes to hit the Strand, get their red face and booze breath on with some cheap wine which they would like to smell, swig and taste but they are far to simple, uncouth, and aged to be able to. They pretend that they know Jazz and that they were Jazz before Stan Getz was but in reality they don’t Jazz at all and infact they don’t even see that they are getting swindled each year when instead of Tauranga bringing in actual Jazz Musians to give their festival an authentic New Orleans feel they actually just get a bunch of faggy faux blues guys, ex Lenny Kravitz sidemen and soul shmucks. Blind Boys of Alabama, Trombone Shorty, Midge Marsden? Whose definition of jazz is this? Rubbish. But this year - 2011 it all changed. Sick of the ruse, the Tauranga District Council finally owned up to the fact that they had no idea how to organise a festival let alone a music one so they went to the only peeps that even knew jazz was a musical style and  invited them to run proceedings. And so it was that Tauranga Music Sux took over the committee and let it be known that if Tauranga was going to do as every other town in New Zealand that has no identity does and have a Jazz festival then they’d better do it correct. Using the finances that would otherwise be wasted by the council on essential infrastructure, lowering rates, improving traffic congestion Tauranga Music Sux decided to invest in the worlds best Jazz Musicians; Puke Smellington, Kungfouis Armstrong, Sarah Michelle Geller Fitzgerald, from T.V’s ‘Fraser’ Kelsey Grammers faux brother Niles Davis, super lungs Kill-ie Holiday, bass player extraordinaire Charles Dingus and and acid jazz master Cellphonious Monk  All the big names were invited and in turn they all said ‘Fuck yeah, we’ll be there daddy-o. We’ve heard of your little festival and it’s about time you invited some actual jazz musicians to validate the Jazz quota and know what daddy-o? Keep my appearance fee, Tauranga rate payers don’t need to waste more money on something that no one will appreciate on an artistic level, plant some more trees, get some more books for the library, kick out all the snu fucks from the historic village and restore it to its former beauty, pay those fat cat councilors more cause they really need it as they do so much.daddy-o’ and they did, they played and played. Jazz hit the streets of Tauranga. And in turn the residents of Tauranga responded, in unison, arms locked, as one, as a whole, a united force with bottles and glasses raised high in the air… ready to throw at the invaders. “Hey, oi old black guys, this aint jazz.” “Wheres midge, we want midge, we want midge” “Stop playing so many different chords. My tiny frazzled mind cannot keep up.” “Booo,boooo,boooo” “Oh fuck, I have shat myself because I’m an old incontinent fucker”. Scared of the crazed masses the jazz musicians hid in one of Charles Dingus’ massive double basses until the deluge of crap stopped raining down. Eventually they emerged from their cover, tears in their eyes and looked around at the streets of downtown Tauranga, littered with broken bottles, piss everywhere, windows smashed, bodies lying in the street and said to themselves “Tauranga finally got it right, they finally managed to capture the spirit of New Olreans, just a shame that it was the post Hurricane Katrina version but it’s a start.” And with that the jazz greats left arm in arm scat munching and beboping all the way to the next over populated, under cultured city in need of an excuse for a big piss up.  



The Tribute Acts:

Covers bands were once the worst aspect of Tauranga Music. Avaricious, no talent hacks playing a generic set of predictable wishy washy songs bound to please their mindless audience. See any covers band in Tauranga an they’ll all be playing the same pleb pleasing set list of  Exponents, Exponents and Exponents. Tauranga Music Sux despises them. And no you don’t have any integrity and it is not better to play than to not play at all. Money, crowd response, they really shouldn’t matter if you are a true self respecting muso playing for the love of your art. But if you don’t have the talent to write your own material then I wont deride you completely, not everyone is born as gifted as Jordan Luck. Go on play some covers but don’t marginalise yourself completely just for a little shrilla. Play what you want to hear, not what the average fat, drunk, pussys so wide it houses refugees cunt bitch on the strand wants.

But thankfully not every covers band is as soul-less as the majority. There is one that has bucked the trend for mediocrity. They are Taurangas very own tribute to the Beatles. The Meatles. But have they done what is expected and ripped off the Beatles wholesale? No the Meatles have done what every tribute act should do and injected some colour and personality into their act. Hailing from Lovetheirtools, Thingland, the Fabforeskin and their brand of penis inspired Meatlemania is sweeping Tauranga by storm. Lead by the songwriting team of Small Dickartney and John Bellend and accompanied by the talented guitarist George Hairyschlong and the below average, but a hell of a nice guy drummer Dingalingo Starr the guys with the foppish pubic hair bowl cuts have just released their latest album ‘Beat their Meatles’ to glowing critical reviews and public response. When asked if satisfied with their latest offering the laconic lads offered this “ Well, we think that we do but we don’t but we do think that it is as good as A Hardon Sprays White or Chubber Soul or Let it Pe-nis or the seminal classic Sgt Peppers Boner/Nuts Rub Hand. But we think that we do but we don’t but we do that it’s a good album in its own right.” At which point they ran off at an accelerated pace as I chased valiantly only to have the situation reversed and to be chased by them as comical music played all while being pursued by a dude dressed as Gorrilla.  When asked why it was that they bucked the trend of tribute acts and covers bands everywhere and decided to expand on the myth of the Beatles rather than outright copy? After doing some more daft, cute for the 1960s silliness they had this to say “Well most think that we do but we don’t but we do that we were disgusted with the banality of tribute acts everywhere and decided to inject some life into the whole thing but that was untrue” said Bellend in a slow whimsical pace. “You see this…” said Hairyschlong before getting cut off by Dickartney because he is the boring, marginalised one “….time we had a gig in at the Cavernous Vagina Club but we went to the wrong address and wound up at a mad scientists place.” Dingalingo didn’t say anything, he is a drummer, an idiot, a chump, a putz, he has a big nose and works at Tracs. “So the Mad scientist let us in anyway and offered us tea and scones and bangers and mash which was all very nice and then he showed us his latest experiment which was a portal that would allow human beings to travel to another location. So this scientist, Brundle I think his name was offered to transport us to where we were meant to be playing that night. So we all hopped in the portal but unbeknownst to us there was also a penis in the portal with us, so weirdly our DNA got mixed with that of the penis, turning us into part man part penis. A very similar premise to the plot of ‘The Fly’ come to think of it.

And like in ‘The Fly’ slowly the penis DNA was overwhelming the Meatles becoming stronger than their own, by the end of interview they had infact just become dicks. They would now truly fit in as Tauranga Musicians.   



The Saviours:

But tribute acts and touring Jazz greats are not enough to make a cities music scene vibrant. Really you need some good solid orginal bands but before that you need a venue for them to play in. And before that you need some people that might actually like music. Luckily things were about to change, though in some cases maybe not for the better.

The Fans:

Having gentrified every small town, suburb, city in New Zealand the hipster faggots had no where left to over populate with their hemp clothes, smurf figurines, fire twirling, unicycles and Jack Kerouac books. Till someone said, “Tauranga – I know we’ve been avoiding it as it is the black plague, there is no history, and what ever heritage they have gets obliterated with each new migrating Auckland businessman yuppie cock sucker or myopic, I’m still young, I’m still fresh, I’m happening, I’m living for the future not my imminent death retiree soil warmer. But ya know what fellow I have no creativity and ability for iconoclasm, ironic, retro, scene jumper they may have cheap houses with ethnic types.” “Oh goody then we can pretend we are poor, maybe even immigrants. Then our friends can do the same. And we will all be poor immigrants in our real expensive clothes bought from designer fashion boutiques. Then there won’t be any actual poor people left as we have made the housing costs rise, so we will get bored and have to move to where the poor people have relocated to. Won’t they be so glad to see us and our symbollicaly raised fists of solidarity.”

And so the artists, the musicians, the fashion designers, the students all moved here on mass. And they were all oh so happy in their ex state houses waking up each morning smelling the beautiful intoxicating meth fumes wafting from the open windows  of their Black power neighbours P lab. Waving at the elderly lady carrying her 12 bags of shopping without actually offering to help. Striking up conversation with their Indian convenience store owner using the few words they picked up from their 2 month stint at an ashram in India way back when they were going through their spirtual phase. But they weren’t content, they needed culture. They needed music….

The Venues:

So the hipster goons went to town but alas their was no club that would cater for their eclectic tastes so they pooled together and put in all the money that they worked so hard to get from their dads into buying a club of their own. But how do you advertise to other uber cool types that your club is the place to be? They needed a business plan. But luckily every hipster bar is the same. Get a venue a little away from the upmarket places, because the rent is cheaper and it helps the patrons develop their outsider, downtrodden, rebel mindsets. Decorate with only the oldest scungiest furniture possible – but don’t get it from the Sallies, no your dad has deep pockets or failing that why not burdedn the financial system some more and take out a real big loan that you have no intention of paying back or max out you’re 5th credit card so can you can buy the same furniture only 50 times more expensive from an antique dealer. Put some brand new but made to look fucken old framed pop culture posters on the walls. Hire some poser with studs, a tacky neck tattoo and bad dye job combed to the side to hide behind the bar. And then prepare to open. But you’ll need a good name. Something recognisable, something with history, something amusing. CBGB’s? Damn already taken. Hows about C.B.BEEGEES. Done. The doors have opened. Locals, out of towners, wannabe coolios have flocked. Regulars have shaped their asses on their recently appropriated stools. Bar tenders deified. Now all we need are some tunes.

The Bands:

I’m a Tauranga local. I play aggressive, original music with backbone and integrity in a band, I have no where to play I’m going to give up on the dream and just go back to playing my PS3 cause there is nothing else to do in this town. Oh wait….  

Miley Virus and Malajustin Beiber are two of the most promising bands to come out of Taurangas burgeoning underground music scene. Made up from locals. Genuine Taurangians. They have made it their priority to kick ass on mass. Rhymes are a gas. Their music is all their own, a vibrant mix of everything that doesn’t suck. They have mad style that you just want to adopt as your own but you can’t because you’re kind of fat, with a weak chin and you only look good in sweat pants and polo shirts, actually you don’t even look good in those. Their own identity and personality ooze through in a sound that is unlike any other. In fact it is indescribable. Though think of your favourite band and then improve on it ten fold. I have just described it. Their youth and vibrancy is incredibly refreshing in a town that is renound for its average age of 103. They have more fans than a shop that sells fans, yeah I did. Fuck you. And vagina sweats for them. Therefore they are everything that Tauranga bands shouldn’t be.

Last Friday saw Miley Virus and Malajustin Beiber play their 3rd consecutive sellout show at the aptly named Beegees themed bar and music venue C.B.BEEGEES. Residents of Tauranga that would otherwise be at home diddling themselves, playing online poker or at an old high school friends house that they don’t really like but use as a crutch due to their failure to make new pals watching the rugby were suddenly motivated to escape their banal lives for a few hours to discover what real exciting music was actually all about. And what a treat they were in for.

First up were the awesome Miley Virus. After starting at the advertised time and not diservicing their audience by playing their worst material first in an effort to build to a stunning climax at the end of their set. The Virus ripped and roared through all 6 of the songs that made up the material of their debut e.p ‘Hannarchy Montana’ plus several other new ones that the crowd responded to with equal unabashed positivity. Never in Tauranga’s sorry history has a crowd responded to a local band (let alone the opener) with such fervour, dancing, moshing, twirling, macarenaing, rattling and rolling from start to finish without walking off to the bar, macking on some uninterested bitch, taking an extended toilet break, going outside every 20 seconds for a cigarette or to answer imaginary texts on their really expensive cellphone that will be lost by the nights end. Hypnotic from start to finish the collective members of Miley Virus set an incredible platform for Malajustin Beiber to aspire to. Expect them to go far. Maybe to even get there own show on the Nickelodeon Network. Rockstars that just want to be normal kids god dammit. I’d watch it. But who’d play the father figure? Some ex mullet headed cock sucking country pop starsshole no doubt.

Like their support act, respectful of the crowd that had come to see them and the music they didn’t fuck round for an eternity setting up their equipment. They didn’t spend a few minutes extra getting liqoured up. They didn’t try lining up a semen squirt for later. They just hit the stage, no sound check needed and played. Having been whipped into a frenzy by The Virus, the crowd was rabid for the headliners. A deluge of knickers were thrown at the band, a deluge of drugs were thrown at the band, the usual deluge of tomatos, midgets and batteries were not thrown at the band. They played and played and played some more. And then abruptly stopped. But wait. Then they came back for an encore. Because it was demanded. No! Ordered. But the crowd wanted more. So they came back for a 2nd encore. Then a 3rd. Then a 4th. Then a 5th. Then a 6th. Then a 7th. Then an 8th . Then they ran out of songs but that was alright because the people of C.G.BEE.GEES were spent, but they had had their monies worth and had ample conversation for the water cooler on Monday. And with this one gig it was final. It wasn’t a fluke. The first 2 shows were no mistake. It was saved. It was on. Tauranga music was finally a force to be reckoned with. Imaginary Tauranga music no longer sucked. Shame about the real stuff though….


Issue 3: Letters to the editor, Tauranga music gets international publicity, the record labels come a calling and spork still smokes pole. 






Monday, 15 August 2011

Issue 1

Dear Tauranga Music Idiots.

I wrote this zine a number of months back - I was severly disillusioned with the Tauranga scene or lack there of so I took the old DIY punk route and wrote a crappy little zine covering the main points about Tauranga Music and why it sucked. Because my zine was banned from the retail outlet where I used to leave it for public consumption I have decided to reprint Issue 1 here so that you may read it and try to understand where I was coming from. As you will see, initially I didn't really want to slander any of the local bands outright by naming names and ragging on you fucks too much. It's not entirely your fault that you suck so much - most of my disgust was directed towards the sad state of the scene as a whole. We have no real venues, the fans that do come out and see local music only do so if they are already friends with the bands - these fans have really limited palattes, don't you strive to do something daring and original without these stunned mullet fucks gawping at you with the dumb fuck 'what just happened? play some GnR' eyes , out of town acts rarely make their way here anymore it's like they know that we have been tarnished with the musical plague and if on the off chance they do come then none of us go out and see them anyway, there are more covers and jam bands than those playing originals how fucking sad is that - is progress playing Rage Against the Machine covers? and why does it get a better reaction?, our original bands just aren't very original, I've been guilty of it - we don't just reference our favourites we seem hell bent on imitating them!, worst of all as bands we insist on glad handing each other and saying how great we all are and yet none of us go and see each others bands when we have a gig on because we all know how insipid it all is even if we are too scared and or polite to say so, and the media is a joke - you may hate my negative nancy thoughts but at least I'm actually writing about local music and not living in the past and or sucking up to my jazz fat cat pals. So yeah that's the condensed version of my gripes that spanned 4 zines and which I was just about to finish doing because I was sick and tired of this rubbish scene, my sanctimonious 'know it all' ideals (I am to blame just as much as anyone here), the understandable lack of readership (it is a very niche market after all) and all you whiny, faggot, overly sensitive musicians but now before I move to the country to strum my banjo and tend my cattle I might just have one more zine and a couple of baiting tweets left in me because you are all proving yourselves to be far queerer than what I originally thought but hopefully by directing your hurt feelings and hate towards me and my little zine you may be able to build towards something greater, you may access true emotion and originality, you may be able to build that scene in Tauranga that I always wanted but was to cynical and lazy to actually follow through.Go on kids, run out and play....  



ZINE 1:



Every music scene has some unspoken unifying bond. Seattle had a bunch of moaning, long haired poofs too gay to actually cut trees but still wearing logging attire playing a mix of punk and metal that eventually got diluted into the wank that is now known as Pearl Jam. L.A’s, semi, NO! fully retarded big haired, get laid psuedo musicians pumped out a party hard brand of metal that appealed to fat chicks and fags and sucks to this day and will continue to suck in perpetuity. In Manchester everyone called each other geezer and played in dance infused bands that would later go on to influence Oasis – cunts. No one had clothes in San Francisco and they all wore crabs in their pubic hair. Closer to home; Auckland bands wear Miley Cyrus jeans and think they’ve made it when their Kings of Leon sounding music video of them looking pensive in fedoras gets played on C4 and some fat chick at one of their concerts offers the lead singer a hand job ignoring the fact that C4 sucks and the chicks fat and a whore who would give your mum a hand job if she were in a band and a fedora. Wellington has a real bad infestation of gluten free, dairy free, taste free, talent free, muffin eating, cardigan wearing, bicycle riding, environment saving, miserable, liberal, pretentious hipsters playing a wide range of music that all manages to sound the same – ball-less and soul-less. Dunedins got history. All the bands in Christchurch have been crushed or are playing in a seismic crater. And Taurangas musicians are no exception….what’s their ‘unspoken, unifying bond’ you ask? Well Tauranga music just plain sucks…..





The bands:



Whether you’re in one of the many ‘I was a bullied geek in school but now I’m a respected tough guy because I have long hair and an ill kept goatee’ death metal bands or a mohawk weilding, 1977 dreaming, anarchy, espousing, stud brandishing  punk rocker sadly unaware of the true ethics of punk playing a horrible mash of 90’s skater punk with a John Lydon sneer or perhaps you might be the big bunch of saddos that don’t realise that even the grunge bands were ashamed by what their sound became or just some christian douche bag ripping off John Mayer, strumming his gay little acoustic guitar, pretending he is way deep and far more emotionally capable than what he actually is so that in a highly transaparent way he can get his dick sucked from some quixotic little piece of ass or alternately some old fucker failing to realise that his glory years have well and truly passed him by and still trying to rock out when he should just start playing jazz and blues or your some old cunt playing jazz and blues that doesn’t realise that he isn’t black and therefore not qualified to play those genres of music or you’re a no talent hack calling yourself a musician when you just play other peoples insipid songs to a bunch of booze fueled idiots yelling at you to play some ‘Exponents’ in a gay bar in a gay town on a gay Saturday night  and thinking you’ve reached the pinnacle of the music industry or your some fag one man band unable to find anyone willing to play your amatuerish  dross ripping off the entire history of weird outsider music in order to get your insufferable music played by someone that’s not your mum or your in a reggaae band – ‘hey REG you’re GAY’ or your just starting a band in Tauranga and you think that you have real potential and that your gonna make it big just as soon as the other musicians and music fans hear your derivative songs or your in high school and you have real talent but you know that you’re gonna leave Tauranga as soon as you get the chance so you never play in this sub par town therefore depriving those that would actually appreciate what you do from hearing it or you think you’re Mr Bungle but you actually just sound like Jethro Tull if they played an incoherant jumble of every genre imaginable in one song that goes for 50 minutes, progression nah just regression or you play in a garage and start a new band every two weeks that never plays live unless you count that party you put on that wasn’t really a party at all but a BBQ that no-one came to and those that did just talked over you anyway or you have a band with real potential and you debut but everyone is apathetic and you think it’s because your pathetic so you never play again but in actuality you were real good, the plebs just didn’t like you because you didn’t play any ‘Exponents’ songs. Whatever you play, who ever you are, where ever you do it if you’re a band from Tauranga you suck.   



The venues:



Every great scene has numerous venues where bands can play. Tauranga has 2, they are not great.



“Dear Editor, I’m new to Tauranga and I’d really like to see some fresh live music where should I go?”



Well if you like dubstep, covers, reggae, jazz, death metal then go to any bar on a Friday/Saturday night in the CBD and you’ll find something that should satisfy your limited tastes.



“Nah, I like good music”



Well, occassionally Brewers Bar has a touring band come through…we had Jimmy Barnes over New Years, yes the Jimmy Barnes!!!! Wow!!!! And about 4 years ago DIE! DIE! DIE! Played in front of a monster crowd of 5 people. 2 of whom were local alcoholics oblivious to the music and the fact that their livers are about to explode.



“Barnes sucks and what about recently, do no good bands stop in Tauranga? And what about the locals?”



Well DIE! DIE! DIE! Returned mid last year at this trendy, christain inhabited bum hole called Major Toms. Which would’ve been great but noise control spent longer writing their cease and desist notice than the band got to play. Other than them there was the Dead Moon in 2002 and the 3Ds in the mid 90’s. And the locals – ha!



“So if I want to see good music, what do I do?”



Move towns.



Album reviews:



Typical Talentless Crap by Just Another Useless Tauranga Band.



‘Typical Talentless Crap’ is the debut album from Tauranga’s finest exponents of reggae, dub step, jazz, death metal infused Exponents songs ‘Just Another Useless Tauranga Band’. Made up from members of the equally terrible ‘We Played, We Sucked and We Come From Tauranga’ and the atrocious ‘Tauranga Musicians United Against Musical Excellence’ features Dingus on Drums, Cunnilingus on Bass, Funnelingsemanintomythroatandnoseingus on Lead Guitar and Tunnelingintogapinganusingus on Guitar and Vocals. These hacks unskillfully and seemlessly switch between the incredibly untuneful to the absolutely embrassingly, painful, sometimes within the same song but mostly just within every verse. The lyrics are cliched, the production non existent, the members look and act like proto pastiches of your favourite rock demi-gods, the instrumentation has all the ability of a primary schooler playing a kazoo and strangely the album cover just features a warning label stating ‘Parental advisory recommened as this contains material that may offend the ears of those who appreciate music’. Unmatched in Tauranga by their sheer lack of power and talent ‘Just Another Useless Tauranga Band’ looks set to conquer the rest of the Western Bay of Plenty such as the musically deficient strong holds of Te Puke, Katikati and Maketu within no time. If tempted to use this CD  as a beer coaster, do not! It isn’t worthy.     





Gig review:



The Predictables with support from Heard It All Before live at Krazy Jacks.



Not wanting to spend a minute longer than what I absolutely had to in the dingey shit hole that is Krazy Jacks, Taurangas premier (by virtue of the fact that they are the only) live music venue I arrived deliberately late therefore missing nearly all of Heard It All Before. Two squat loser geek fucks that I probably stole lunch off in high school (not that they needed it by the looks of things) greet me at the door asking for ID. I offered my fist. Entrance was granted. I made my way to the bar but decided not to drink incase I got hepitits from one of the filthy regulars. Heard It All Before noticing my disdain and the audiences ambivalence to their musdick kindly finished without assaulting my ears for too long. I leant back and waited for The Predictables to set up. I needed a piss but figured I would probably get man raped in the toilets so I held it in. One of the members of Heard It All Before joined me at the bar waiting for service that would never come for his overpirced, borderline flat beer. He turned and looked at me for validation for his bands efforts. I couldn’t stomach the thought of such affirmation. So, I looked at the ground for awhile until I finally decided to give him some feedback. “Hey man I just wanted to tell you that your music is atrocious, no I mean that I’m not just saying that because I’m sober and haven’t been drinking. I truly from the bottom of the heart mean that. You are just the crappest band I have ever heard. Your songs sound like any pub band I have ever heard. You have top of the line equipment but somehow it fails to mask your many flaws. Your look is so generic and I just want to punch you for being such wannabe douche bags. Your songs have no hooks, no kick, no originality, no balls, all I hear is white noise. I think you won’t go very far and advise you to stop with all the bad work. No seriously I totally mean that – you suck, I hate you. Fuck off. Die.” And with that pep talk I slapped him on the back and let him go off to finally put an end to his teenage dreams and follow his true calling in life as a brick layer. The Predictables still hadn’t set up. An hour had past. Stadium rock bands set up in less time. Finally they started. The words rotting corpse, sewerage system, tokoroa and Jo Cotton immediately sprung to mind. Song 1 finished and the crowd of 3 people immediately sprung into a spontaneous chant of non-core, non-core, non-core. But unabated the Predictables continued. Till that is… I hopped on stage unloaded my now aching bladder all over their amps, sound board, power leads, faces so that their gear and gig was ruined. I fried my balls off. But took one for the team thus saving Tauranga from another band in a long line of bands that shouldn’t exist. Cunts.   







The fans: To have good bands, you must also have good fans, without the Dead Heads, The Grateful Dead would have just been Jerry Garcia soloing out of his gourd for 70 minutes each show, while everyone hit the bar. No Bromley Contingent to add substance and power to their vitriolic subversion of The Sex Pistols, well they would’ve just been the Yardbirds with worse haircuts. And Tauranga has its fans of reggae, dub step, exponents covers and jazz but there in lies the problem….



With no one liking good music in Tauranga, how can we expect there to be good bands being produced in this region? Why would the best bands extend their tour to here if no one is going to come out to see them? It won’t happen. How does the next generation of potential musicians get exposure to what’s  cool hip and wild when their brothers brothers still listen to Korn? They’re fucked.



Problem is that Tauranga is a city driven by psuedo yuppies who cannot make it in the larger cities like Auckland so they strive to turn what was once a lovely little beach town into a cafĂ©, mall, nightclub driven miniture version of the city they couldn’t make it in. Anyone with sense and intelligence leaves as soon as they are legally able to and they are not getting replaced by other enlightened types coming to this cultural utopia. Anyone else that remains probably falls into the category of drunk, dumb or thug – they have no room for music; good or bad. They are too busy producing ugly kids which they can then put in a washing machine or run over with a piece of shit V8 bought on credit in their own drive ways. The rest are at the beach or getting laid or both. Fuck them – good music is way more important.





The Soloution:



Young, usually tertiary educated types are the ones that are responsible for culture in a city, however if that means that Tauranga should have a fully functioning university replete with toga wearing, couch burning dick heads keeping me up all night with their cries of ‘lets go to town…come on lets go to town’. Then I’ll live without. The polytech is bad enough.  



If it’s actually dismal weather that is responsible for the music then fuck that, I like my sunshine and flowers.



If it’s a few old cunts that have seen the world, heard the sounds and want to pass on their knowledge to a younger generation then bah no one cares what the elderly have to say and fuck balls does Tauranga need any more hospital clogging, noise complaining, life endangering old people.



So the soloution? Well if your own scene sucks, invent one.



Issue 2: Tauranga suddenly has new bands, venues and poon up to our eyeballs. How? Imagination bitch…