Sleaze Part 1. Sveta: Phenomenal…Potbelleez: Crap.

OK it’s Wednesday and I’ve recovered from a big long weekend.

Saturday night was Sleaze Ball – the second big gay dance party on the Sydney calendar and small sibling to the Mardi Gras dance party in February/March. This year, breaking with tradition, only one hall at Fox Studios was used – The Horden Pavillion. Usually there would be the Horden plus one or even two smaller spaces used to accommodate people with different music tastes. The “headline” act this year was the Potbelleez, a Sydney electronic/DJ group who had a top-10 hit earlier in 2008 “Don’t Hold Back” which was catchy all over commercial radio and in the mainstream clubs. Other DJs were Alan Thompson (UK), Mark Murphy (Sydney), Simon Caldwell (Sydney).

Alan Thompson I’d heard play before and was glad that he was relegated to the 9-12 “warm up set”. My ambivalent thoughts regarding his music didn’t change. (Boring, relentless, hard-ish minimal house).

Mark Murphy I’ve heard play lots of times and tend to either really get into his music or feel left a bit cold by it. He is a good, experimental DJ, playing a mixture of fairly hard underground electro-house and sometimes tribal sounds. He played a brilliant set at Mardi Gras a couple of years ago (after Boy George’s masturbatory set). He also recently played really really well at the tiny underground Saturday Night “Handle Bar” that we sometimes venture out to. At Sleaze, he played some god tunes, but overall the set was a bit of a mess. Too eclectic – i.e. not the kind of “musical journey” one likes to be led along by a good DJ – and some pretty bodgy mixing.

Simon Caldwell was a complete unknown quantity – and remains so since we left to go home to bed half an hour into his set. (Not because it was a bad set I might add, but because we were tired and the artificial energy and serotonin flood had worn off by then

That leaves two. Potbelleez and Sveta. I wish the Potbelleez played for considerably less than the hour that they were on for, and I wish that Sveta had played for at least an hour more than her all too short two-hour set.

The Potbelleez were worse than 4am drunk karaoke. Their singing and rapping (at a gay party!?!?!?) wasn’t in any key – let alone the wrong one. Their attempts at hyping up the crowd “Helllllooooo Sleeeeaaazzzeee We’re the Potbelleez…..” was met with bemusement and polite golf claps from all except those whose drugs had kicked in early (not mentioning any names…Baba…). The false hype reminded me of my mis-spent pentecostal youth. lol. Some of their backing tracks were actually quite good pumping tech-house but the moment the goose on stage was handed a microphone, the floor emptied.

Thank God, come 1am my favourite DJ in the whole wide world, the smiley, diminutive, sexy, lezzo Local girl Sveta rescued the night. She read the room and the mood beautifully and played all the right tracks at all the right moments. The set was typical Sveta for these big parties. A hard and slightly twisted edge with driving and funky basslines and seemless mixing. Lots of teasing and building without cliched “ecstatic” drum machine buildups, but instead a second of silence then sudden infusions of even more hot, powerful basslines. I may be a tragic groupie, but I couldn’t help getting right down the front and dancing before the throne of such talent. I love that kind of visual interaction between DJ and punter. There was also surprisingly a nice bit of space there where baba and I could dance like lunatics, as is our penchant. It was a F’n brilliant set.

No doubt a lot of the Oxford St madonna-kylie-mariah-remix fans would have been rather like fish out of water with the harder sounds, and the trance heads had absoulutely no where to go and listen to the lasers and see the music floating about the room; I expect Mardi Gras will cop some flack over not being all things to all people. For me Sleaze 2008 (my first sleaze ball) was a pretty ordinary party, made very memorable by a great set from 1 DJ in particular…who even blew me a kiss

Need more proof that Estate Agents cant’ right english proper?

…here you go. (This was a response to a recent email enquiry).

“Good to hear from you again.

Unfortunately this apartment has being sold, and yes it is the same as the one you inspected with me bar the stair case and yes it has larger out door area’s.

You have to be quick with the better buildings, it is very hard to see number 413 at its best with the way it is at the moment, if it was clear and your own furniture in you would be surprised, don’t discount it.

I will send you an email of the new apartment’s we have to offer you, please let me know if you would like to inspect them.”

I should mention this has nothing to do with the agent being an immigrant or from a NESB. He was as true blue, dinkydie an aussie bloke as one would ever meet. Clearly I wasn’t exagerating in my earlier post!

See what I mean?

and I quote….

Giving new meaning to the word “designer”, Garland Lofts features voluminous 2 storey voids to the living area, saw tooth roofs to bedrooms and a totally unique indoor/outdoor bathroom with its own private balcony.

Bali meets New York!!”

WTF?!?!?!?!? a “Voluminous void”????? at least the spelling and punctuation are decent.

Trying to buy a flat…

…is a real pain in the bum. Getting a mortgage approved was very straightforward, but dealing with real estate agents is getting to be quite trying. There are the ones who don’t answer emails. There are the ones who can’t seem to fathom that there are 7 days in a week and that some prospective buyers might NOT be able to inspect properties on a Saturday morning. Then there is the whole slippery slide of quoted “asking price” versus real value versus what the vendor is willing to accept.

My biggest gripe however is the dreadful spelling, grammar, punctuation and realestatespeak in all the online adds. On principle I’m not going to buy a flat from an agent who advertises “A spacious residence in a quite area with stainless steal appliance’s, big balcony’s, built in’s off the bedroom…” (sic) I exagerate…but only very slightly. Obviously getting past about 5 or 6th grade primary school English isn’t an essential criteria for the job.

Illegal t-shirts

Wearing any of the 300 odd t-shirts listed for sale on This Website in Sydney over the next couple of weeks could get one arrested…..It’s a bit frightening that these laws coincide with the visit of His Malevolence Benny boy who apparently was a member of the Nazi Youth as a youngster…

Life-long love…

…is it a reality?

So anyway, lots of people I know have been breaking up recently. In fact among my circle of friends and acquaintances, this breaking up bizzo has been going on for a few years. The gays are doing it, the straights are doing it…everyone is breaking up! Of the couples I knew when baba and I first started courting, off the top of my head, I can only think of one that’s still together. (Ms L and the Welshman, take a bow). By law of my straw poll averages, couples that get married are just as likely to break up as those who don’t. The ones who aren’t strictly monogamous seem to fare a bit better than those who are (or at least claim to be. There’s something to be said for distancing Judeo-Christian “morality” from issues of the heart – and the pelvis). Recent statistics say that the average Australian marriage lasts 9 years; hardly a lifetime! And of those who do make it as far as dribbling through dementia together, I wonder how many are still genuinely in love.

Baba and I are still plodding along and dare I say, still in love 7 years down the track. I can’t think of anything right now that is likely to cause us to want to break up. It’s all just too lovely and comfortable. Routine? Yes. Exciting? Not particularly. Deep? Yes. Genuine? Yes.

No one can tell what the future holds. Baba could up and walk out on me tomorrow with a rich, dashingly handsome replacement – or I could do the same. Love is like that. The human heart is fickle. I hope not though in our case. We often talk of growing old together and I’d say that there’s a fairly strong chance that will happen. I find it very hard to imagine anyone else that I could connect with on as many levels as I connect with baba.

…having said all that, baba did remind me last night of that Indian fortune teller who soothsayed that I’d have three wives…

Pope business…

…is just getting silly now. New laws were passed in NSW yesterday permitting police to strip search and issue $5500 fines to anyone interrupting or causing annoyance to the catholic “pilgrims” who are starting to converge on Sydney for their bout of mutual masterbation and kiddy fiddling. Among activities specifically outlawed are wearing “offensive” T-shirts and handing condoms to Catholics.

bah humbug. thank mother mary that baba and i are flying down to taswegia for the days that this whole circus climaxes.

If there was a “straight pill”…

…I wouldn’t take it. I still sometimes find myself reflecting on my “struggles” as a young gay church-goer 10 or 15 years ago. I cringe at the futile and ill-fated attempts to turn straight. If I knew then what I know now about the rightness and freedom of accepting my sexual identity, the joy, security, love and satisfaction that my 7 year (and counting) relationship has brought, then I most certainly wouldn’t have put myself through the torture of trying to deny such an intrinsic part of my being.

We went to a really fun and interesting party last night. After my recent rant about the rotten state of the gay scene in Sydney, it was so refreshing to be at an event that had a kind of more underground, friendly, non-meat-market feel. The event I refer to was called Non-Scene, A Winter Solstice. The venue was a bar called the Loft at UTS on Broadway. As the event’s name would suggest, the crowd was a bit different to the normal gay bar scene. There was very little preening and posing. There was very little sleazy cruising going on. Apart from a few joints being passed around, beer was about the only drug in evidence. It was just a congregation of couple of hundred people of every gender imaginable (and then some), misfits, friends and lovers and a very funny interpretive dance/mime routine set to Hotel California.

What has a good night out got to do with being queer? Well a lot really. At these kinds of events I always find myself thinking how fortunate I am to view society from outside the mainstream. To be in a room full of other “outsiders” where there is acceptance of diversity and where creativity and individuality can be expressed without fear of ridicule or judgement. Where men can walk around in frocks and makeup if they so choose. Where women can wear a tux and army boots. Two boys can kiss in one corner while two girls grope in another and none of this behaviour turns heads. Let and let live is the reigning philosophy.

I think of the millions of folk in whitebread suburban homes watching So-you-think-you-are-an-Australian-big-idol’s-dancing-brother or whatever inane shit is on channel ten these days. I also find myself thinking of the repression of sex and sexuality that mainstream western culture still imposes, and am thankful to be part of a community that challenges those norms. I’m glad to be able to dance like a lunatic if I want to. (There is something primeval and essentially human about dancing – maybe that is the “earth sign Taurus” in me speaking). Even though most of the people at these events are strnagers, there is a bond as we shrug off the mantle of the outside world and celebrate together.

Being an outsider in day to day life, as I move though the mainstream, I also think is advantageous – at least in a society like Australia where there is at least a modicum of tolerance for “my tribe”. I can see things from angles that others perhaps struggleto. I can empathise with other outsiders in the community. I think to be a gay man with my feminine and masculine sides in ying-yang-like balance is like being psychologically ambidextrous. There is balance.

True, these things are not the exclusive domain(s) of queer folk – far from it; but I would argue that if I were straight, I would be far less likely to be exposed to such alternative ways of thinking and living. And even if I was exposed to them, I wonder whether perhaps I would have inherited sufficient societal predjudices as to make me discount such experiences as the folly of complete fruitloops. I would also concede that there are many many gay men and women who wouldn’t identify with the sort of scene baba and I enjoyed and felt such an affinity with last night (and at other events like Kooky and Tropical Fruits at new year). Horses for courses. But even those in the thick of mainstream gay, those who pimp and preen and go to Oxford street venues several times a week, week in week out, those who get emotional watching Will and Grace, those who ring up and vote for the token gay “character” on the latest reality TV show, those who love their broadway tunes, and all the other cliches (some of which I must admit to holding dear), even those folk are set aside from their heterosexual bretheren by the very fact that biology has made them (us) different.

Here endeth the lesson

Just for good measure, here is Yet Another Article on the loonies over at Mercy Ministries. Interestingly, it has been reported that a significant number of companies have withdrawn their sponsorship of the cult and distanced themselves altogether.

In the news

This Story is just depressing.

and This one is just f’kn wierd. I quote selectively below.

Larry Sinclair, a gay man from Minnesota who alleges he snorted cocaine and had sex with the Democratic nominee, held a news conference.

His allegations have been sloshing around on the internet for six months, ever since he posted a YouTube video. But after he took a polygraph test and failed, he has struggled to get mainstream media interest in a story he said began in the back of a limousine in Chicago in 1999.

On Wednesday Sinclair booked a room at the National Press Club to produce the evidence and try to capture the national spotlight for his claims. But he spent much of the time answering questions about himself. He has what is called a colourful background: a 27-year criminal career which includes convictions for fraud, forging cheques, and stealing credit card numbers.

Sinclair was accompanied by his kilt-clad lawyer, Montgomery Blair Sibley. Sibley has had his own problems: a Florida court struck him off for vexatious litigation, most of it directed against his former wife.

“I don’t mean to be impudent,” said one reporter, “but why are you wearing a kilt?”

Sibley explained: “It has to do with genitalia. If you are on the smaller side, then pants are not uncomfortable.”

“Action” at the Arthouse hotel…I smell a gay cliche

Apparently it’s the Queen’s birthday this weekend and HRH gave all her loyal subjects in the colony of New South Wales a day off on Monday to celebrate. Harruh!

Baba was going cold turkey having not put on his dancing shoes for quite some time. Seeing as it’s been a cold, wet, miserable weekend, I was rather inclined to stay in with a nice cup of tea. On Saturday night I prevailed and that’s exactly what we did. On Suday however we ended up going to the abovementioned party. While the music was fairly good (UK Hard house DJ Steve Lawler) and it suited our preferred tipple at such parties (Head Candy pills, aka legal e), I was quite underwhelmed by the shirtless, muscled clones shifting their weight from one foot to the other on the dance floor (doing the muscle mary shuffle as I like to derissively call their excuse for dancing), fists clenched, chest out, stomach in, dilated pupils scanning the room for trade. Baba kept saying “niku-ya dane…” (it’s like a butcher shop). Niku-ya indeed.

Obviously this is one gay subculture that baba and I simply don’t fit into. It’s a shame, because their parties often have the best music. Which brings me to my next point…there are so many gay “subcultures”, and bars and clubs that appeal to different tastes but I’m feeling somewhat adrift at the moment. I live 50 metres from Oxford St, but now almost never frequent any of the bars on the strip:

Stonewall – highcamp, tedious commercial top 40 remixes, hissy queens, too much cologne.

Colombian – decent music much of the time but ruined by too many patrons on Crystal Meth

Midnight Shift – Upstairs: (echo echo echo…) Downstairs: plenty of eye candy for those of us who like to perve at oriental men, but it’s got even worse music and it’s even more hissy than stonewall. All that with the added bonus of incest….or so I hear from friends who frequent the place and by 6 degrees of seperation have probably slept with everyone else who frequents the place.

Slide – Not bad, but having to run the Oxford Street gauntlet past teenagers spewing in the gutter and leering Lebanese guys in souped up cars hurling abuse at anything without tits – and shouting far more offensive things to those with tits – makes it a bit too much of a mission to get there. Once inside music can be good. Shirts tend to stay on (bonus) but that’s because they’re all fucking designer brands which cost their air-kissing owners hundreds of dollars….not unlike drinks at the bar. It can also go from completely full to practically empty without a moment’s notice.

Oxford – I’m old, but not quite THAT old yet but already way too jaded to go there.

Arq – Gay super club my ass! The place smells horrible, has sticky floors, is usually so packed with product-enhanced twinks that it is an absolute fire hazard, and it seems to be attracting an increasingly unsavoury crowd. Too many dizzy girls, not yet over the novelty of hanging out with their gay friends, flicking their hair about too much. Oh and who cares what the music sounds like (that’s if you can hear the old gramaphone-era speakers set to a slightly too sensible volume) when you’re 19 and so pumped full of drugs that you can’t remember who you were snogging 2 minutes ago.

From time to time it is possible to have a good night out in this town – see my earlier post on club kooky. But unfortunately, a lot of those non-mainstream events are often on a school night and even they tend to blend into each other in a dope-smoking, gay is passe, queer haze.

I think I’m going to put the kettle on.