I went to a gig at Record Crate the other night and an old friend told me a woman I knew, Astrid, had died, at the age of 52 from a brain aneurism. He said a few people spoke about me at her wake and I couldn’t figure out why as we hadn’t had much contact over the years
|French's in the early '70s, not so punk but very underground.|
Peter Carrot eventually became a govt. minister, (many of his songs were anti-establishment i.e. against Uranium mining, saying it feeds the nuclear war machine, then as a Labor Party huckster was made Environment Minister and given the job of opeing up a Uranium mine!!!) twenty years later he feels he has the kudos to rewrite history, the spotlight is owned by his kind, winners and cheesy grinners, he wants his $200,000 a year pension, his are kissed because he made it so far in the public eye, plus the cachet of being “Punk” and therefore cutting edge. He's greedy, he wants everything, both sides of the tracks. Many another is also rewriting history in their favor as they all want the hot rep of having “been there, done that”. I didn’t do that much but I still feel to correct the misrepresentations.
A friend of mine, Brian, recently visited Troma Headquarters in Long Island, New York, he only recognized the down market building by the graffiti of "Toxic Avenger" spray-painted across a roller-door. Inside the dinky offices he found a shoe-string business model, no fancy decor or whiz-bang techno equipment, just a few volunteers working hard to keep the cheap-skate shlock enterprise afloat. He met Michael Hertz, co-captain of the BAD ship Troma, and again got the impression it was a business on the skids.
Brian mentioned he was a good friend of mine, Toby Zoates. "Who?" "The fabulous creator of Virgin Beasts." "Oh yeah," agreed Michael, "that guy is very talented!" "Well, he's been so egregiously disillusioned by the movie industry, he's given up and not interested in doing more. He's been busy ever since starving!" "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that!" commiserated Michael, no sign of a royalty check appearing on the horizon.
In the middle of this assassination dear Kevin refers to me as a "professional artist" = WRONG! I rarely got paid for my art, not enough even for a day's living expenses. I gave my work away, did the labor for free or got ripped off. I've lived off recycling garbage from dumpsters and govt. hand-outs and when I couldn't put up with that any more I went back to palliative-care nursing and gave up the pretense of doing art. If Kevin had his way I'd never have a paid job. In the face of "High Capitalist" greed, pollution and exploitation I'm happy to be a bum. In contemporary "western society" Art is a syphilitic old whore who has been fucked to death
I also painted a boy basker playing guitar, a bum eating out of a garbage can, a punk run down by a Mercedes Benz and a woman stranded on a traffic island, circled by sharks. As I climbed the tall ladder to paint the graffiti I turned to Karl and said, “Maybe I should change the title to ‘My Darling Hurts’?” “Nah!” he said, “Darling It Hurts!” is much more telling and punchier. Do it!” So for a few hours I climbed up the ladder, painting a bit of the title, then down to a Super 8 camera to take a single frame, then back up the ladder to paint a bit more, on and on, to keep the title writing itself, magically.
The reason I believe it was me who came up with that title is I’d hung around the area for a few years and didn’t think I’d heard it before, and I had a burning protest, about all the gay-bashing I and my kind had received in our lives, Darlinghurst being a gay neighborhood. But even more, along with prostitutes, I wanted to cry out my remonstrance at being fucked up the arse when I didn’t want it, or when my fuck-buddy was too rough doing it, “Darling it hurts!” It had really stuck in my craw all these years and I just had to get it out of me.
Where ever the dangerous rock’n’roll action was there was I jumping to the music, sound-surfing the BAD waves. My favorite band was Chrissie Amphlet and the Divinyls, I adored her and chased them all over New South Wales. The same goes for 'art' sites like The Tin Sheds, The Piccolo Cafe and The Gunnery, I'm like a moth to the light of a strange attractor.
P.S. It seems deadbeat freaks don't have a right of reply as nobody's interested, few read this particular Blog. I must come across like a whinging ass-hole and nobody gives a flying fuck, but I had to get it out of me, it's a big part of my story, important to me, for the Akashic record. Considering the SHIT going down, I'm a light-weight, it doesn't matter what I say, it's just the ravings of a fallen angel.