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.

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