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 5^th 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 3^rd 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 2^nd encore. Then a 3^rd. Then a 4^th. Then a 5^th. Then a 6^th. Then a 7^th. Then an 8^th . 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.