Smacked Face

Yet again it's all quiet on the Western front in Smacksville - the usual tales of drinking too much, spending too much money on records and getting told off for sniggering at experimental theatre.

Had a date last week with a jolly chap - though I almost spat my sauvignon when he explained how he liked to treat his body as a temple. As we all know my body is less a temple, more a human waste disposal unit, and a severely overtaxed one at that. Bless him.

Anyway, I digress. Here's my most recent bar review for wont of anything better.

Khuja Lounge

A long time ago, in a land far, far away, after many vodkas and absolutely ghastly singing care of the dreadful Eurovision Song Contest, my so-called ‘friend’ Quentin enticed me to skateboard down a flight of stairs. I accepted the dare – and promptly broke my foot.

The whole foolish incident taught me two things – don’t accept stupid dares and be careful around stairs, especially where alcohol is involved. (And never go to parties at Quentin’s house.)

The stupid dare rule has sadly gone out the window – I am presently sporting a perm thanks to a birthday bet from another ‘friend’ – but the stairs/booze rule remains valid to this day. Which is why I’m amazed that Khuja Lounge is still alive and kicking – or rather, that its patrons are.

I once tried to count the number of stairs leading up to Khuja, but if I did manage to count them all, the total was forgotten by the end of the first round. Suffice to say there are a lot of them (solid concrete no less) and stairwell horror stories feature prominently in many of the Khuja tales I’ve heard over the past decade.

But Khuja is much, much more than its stairway from hell. I’ve spent many a wondrous eve in its sultry confines, but usually have to piece together my night after calling in for ‘just one’ on the way home. Clearly, for reviewing purposes, this would not do. Thus I reconvened the Central City Booze Bitches in order to attempt to objectively sample Khuja’s delights in sober fashion.

We safely navigated the treacherous steps to find the bar heaving. On audio duty were a collection of funkateers I recognised to be one of the various incarnations of the Opensouls, and every creature in the house was shimmying like there was no tomorrow. Booze or boogie? Such is the Khuja dilemma.

After all, if there’s one place in this town that has genuinely earned the right to call itself the soul of Auckland city, it’s Khuja. House bunnies and gurn monkeys need not apply – Khuja has been the premier location for funk, soul, hip hop, world and afrobeat since time immemorial. The DJ line-up is all class, the local band action exquisite and it regularly plays host to some of the finest international acts to venture down under.

After an extended shimmy, I finally made it to the bar, which was five deep, and foolishly requested a mojito. Bless the barman, though – instead of rolling his eyes and telling me to get real, can’t you see all these people waiting, you idiot, he ripped into the mint and started muddling. Good lad. (The next time I returned to the bar I ordered a Tiger and the entire bar breathed an audible sigh of release.)

We danced and drank the night away as you do, and before we knew it, it was 4am and lord, where did the night go. Like many late-night bars, Khuja can often get a bit lecherous towards the end of the night, when drunken punters realise they haven’t pulled and time is running out, and this can leave a bit of an icky taste in your mouth. Mind you, I should probably just go home earlier…

Before we left to try to negotiate those stairs with our beer goggles on and make it home in one piece home to a well-deserved bed, we raised a glass to Khuja – an icon of the Auckland bar scene, a true old school funk classic. We may have stumbled in, but we souled out. Long may it lounge.

Since this blog is no longer a diarised record of SF's fun and games, but more a storage vault of nonsense for posterity, I thought I'd start posting my bar reviews for a certain Sunday newspaper, so I can look back at them when I am old and living in a cardboard shanty in some back alleyway. The natural place to start is Crow, though written a few months ago, since that is where I seem to be spending an inordinate amount of times these days. So see below. If you can be arsed.

I'm still sans MG - the panelbeaters have had it for weeks now, having swapped it for a rotten bung old courtesy car, a V6 which seems to cost me $10 in fuel each day, and only goes up to 89.0 on the FM band.

Joyous was the day I realised that 95% of the way between Mt Albert and work I am able to tune into the mighty but rather limited reception pirate station Fleet FM (88.3 on your dial). In an instant I swapped the all-repeat-workday dross of Mai FM only to stumble across three-in-a-row gloriousness from the Members, Franz Ferdinand and the Screaming Mee-Mees. God be fucking praised.

And it's the Turnaround tomorrow. Cannot bloody wait. Make sure you get in early to pre-order tickets for next month's monster session - master deep funkateer Keb Darge and graffiti legend Doze Green (graffing live) join Cian, Submariner and Manuel. One you cannot afford to miss, surely.

The Ed called on Monday morning with a desperate plea. “My other reviewer hasn’t come through with her Crow Bar review – you couldn’t whip us up one, could you?”

As several witnesses had seen me propping up the bar at Crow at 4am on Sunday, I had no excuse really. And the embarrassing flurry of bar receipts that fluttered out of my wallet like confetti when I went to pay for my morning coffee sealed the deal. I had the skills to pay the (bar) bills - now I just had to remember enough of my evening to write it up... Damn Crow and its strange memory-sapping qualities.

We’d been out for another Special General Meeting of the Central City Cocktail Sluts, a 30^th birthday celebration which ended rather prematurely when the host bar decided to shut its doors at 1am. There was only one thing for it - “dirty old Crow” it might be, but it’s always there for you, a dependable friend in times of need.

The DJ was spinning some dodgy 80s Madonna downstairs which sent me heading for the upstairs bar, but too late – one of our party had been lured onto the dancefloor, getting into the groove in true Material Girl style. It was a shameful performance too good to miss, so we ordered a beer and grabbed a ringside seat. One beer turned into many Jagermeisters, and we finally emerged blinking into the light as the birds started to sing, nursing the early stages of what would become a killer hangover.

Some regulars complain Crow isn’t what it used to be – but then, wasn’t everything better back in the day? The clientele may have become more ‘bridge and tunnel’ of recent times (tacky lingerie contests and Playboy Mansion parties don’t help), but Crow still can’t be beaten on a good night.

The bouncers are friendly, the lighting deliciously dim, the music (bar the Madonna) great – check rock’n’roll Thursdays and Dunc Tha Funk on Fridays – and the award-winning bar staff know how to mix a good drink. Sure, the men’s loos may become a health hazard later in the evening and the staff may be surly on occasion, but that’s only if you’re being an idiot. (The problem is that the anything-goes atmosphere at Crow makes you feel that, well, anything goes, so acts of idiocy are quite common, especially from this reviewer.)

Crow is more than a bar – it’s an institution. Auckland’s bar scene occasionally throws up a venue that transcends its role as a mere drinking den and becomes part of the city’s cultural fabric. The legendary Crow has been witnessing Aucklanders’ decadence and debauchery for longer than we care to remember - from VIPs to DICs, failed rehabbers to rock stars, everyone who has been through its doors emerges with a tale to tell. If only those walls could talk. (Someone should write a book on the place, if only they could afford the defamation lawyers.)

I respect my ailing liver and my bank balance too much to do the Crow experience too often these days – but when I do, a brilliant time is guaranteed. As bFM boy and myspace Crow Bar chronicler Simon Pound has written, “That place long ago did away with my dignity, sense, self-respect etc. But I love it like a sick, three-legged puppy.” I’ll drink to that.

Party was fabulous, cheers. So, so very good. Thanks to all who graced us with your presence, and huge thanks to those who played tunes, including my own personal highlights Ange Saunders and Sandy Mill rocking the mic. (FYI you can catch Sandy's styles in the latest gloriousness from SJD.)

For those who care but couldn't be there, in no particular order a selection of the tracks I can remember dropping in the two sets I snatched for myself (well, if you can't hog the decks at your own party, where can you hog them?):

• Shack Up - Banbarra
• Me And Baby Brother - War
• I Believe In Miracles - Jackson Sisters
• Stomp - Brothers Johnson
  
• Here Come The Girls - Ernie K. Doe
• I Don't Want Nobody To Give Me Nothing - James Brown
• Brand New Girl - Billy Garner
  
• Apache - Incredible Bongo Band
• It's Just Begun - Jimmy Castor Bunch
• I Wish - Skee-Lo
  
• Rock Steady - Aretha Franklin
  
• Movin' On Up - Primal Scream
• Rapture Riders - Go Home Productions
  
• Over & Over - Sylvester
• The More I Get, The More I Want - Teddy Pendergrass
• We've Only Just Begun - Lee McDonald
• I Can't Get No Satisfaction - Jose Feliciano
• Love For The Sake Of Love - Claudja Barry
• I Want You Back - Esso Trinidad Steel Band...

Surprisingly for a vaguely boozy set, I can recommend every single one of them, especially the Claudja Barry and Lee McDonald tunes for end-of-night scrumptiousness - hunt them down and melt, yum.

News just in... Some little sod rear-ended me last night. Er, let me rephrase that - some little bugger just rammed his big white vehicle up my arse. Erm...

I had another car accident. But thank god for British engineering - he came off worst. In fact, I was able to hand his bumper back to him from where it was impaled on my trusty MG exhaust pipe. (Exhaust pipe unharmed.)

Anyway, to matters much more important - it's SSS next weekend! Hurrah. And Ms G and I are on the bill. I've got a jampacked set lined up (although it remains to be seen whether a NZ crowd can accept the fact that I can't and won't mix - bo selecta!).

However I've been incredibly inspired by a fantastic night at the Turnaround on Friday - and suddenly all my tunes pale in comparison next to the magical funk'n'hip-hop'soul goodness laid down by Cian, Manuel, Submariner and friends...

Do YOU have a favourite Turnaround anthem you want to hear on Friday? Have you been to Electric Chair in Manchester recently and returned life-changed with a bevy of beats to make the angels sing? Mr Scruff been rocking your world? I want to know about it.

I am absolutely definitely taking requests, so hit me. Current Top 10 (in no particular order) looks a little like this, but as always, open to change without notice:

• Push - Pharaohe Monch
• Get Up - Elektrons
• Come On Get Dancing - Pride
• God Put A Smile Upon Your Face - Mark Ronson
• Be There In The Morning - Norman Connors
• I Wish - Skee-Lo
• Getaway - Salsoul Orchestra
• Last Nite - Jumbonics
• Take Me Out - Outkast BOB & Roses take
• You Got Me Thinkin' _ Tyra & The Tornadoes
  

A very jolly old time was had at the Big Day Out (note to overseas visitors: the closest NZ gets to any semblance of a truly international big-name music festival).

A generous boss once again gave us the day off work and paid for a table in the East Lounge this year, meaning we could deftly sidestep the nastier elements of the BDO (queues for toilets, queues for the bar, having to drink in shade-free, sectioned-off R18 pig pens for which you also had to queue to get in). It also meant we got to hang with some quality people (including our favourite Public Addressers Russell Brown and David Slack), drink champagne like corporate wankers and enjoy unparalleled views of the main stage.

Not that I stuck around for much of the main stage action. Nope, the Boiler Room was where it was at this year. As much as I love sitting out in the sun, smoke and drink in hand, good tunes abounding, sometimes there’s nothing better than cramming into a 50-degree tent with a couple of thousand others and getting your sweat on.

So hurrah for Lily Allen and Lupe Fiasco – far and away the top acts of the day. Ms Allen was a cut-and-dried case of ‘do believe the hype’. Though she hasn’t received anywhere near the same level of overkill here as in the UK, the Boiler Room was still packed to the rafters (although being a tent it didn’t actually have any rafters. Or did it? How the hell did it stay up if it had no rafters? Was there just a single pole in the middle, like a giant teepee? Look, I don’t know - I was focused on the stage, except when I had my eyes shut, getting shimmy with it like the crusty old festival dog I am. But I digress.)

Lily rocked, funny and feisty, with the charm and voice of an angel in hi-tops – she had a delightful way of making you feel she was performing to you, that she was your best friend who you couldn’t wait to meet up with off-stage and share a lager. In fact, my mate Kate and I are still fighting over who will become her new best friend (a competition I currently lead after cornering poor Ms Allen for a slurring, sycophantic schmooze session as I propped up the bar upstairs at Crow later in the evening).

And as for Lupe… Pure class. I would write more but it was getting pretty late in the day by this stage and I was a little on the giddy side, but hell, isn’t Kick, Push just one of the best hip hop tracks in years? And even better when an entire tentful of people join in on the chorus. God, I love him.

What else? Hmmm, the rest of the day was a series of 10 minutes caught here and there while wandering about (and back and forth to the East Lounge for wees and booze) – a little bit of Hot Chip (seen em, love em, briefly dated their old manager, but their fantastic blend of electronic rock was just too early in the day for my associates), a few minutes of the Vines (dull), a tasty chunk of Kasabian (who sounded incredible, but were definitely on the wrong stage), a snatch of Jet (waste of space), Muse (who looked like they might have been a contender), Violent Femmes (too quiet)… No Presets though, damn it.

It was a grand night. So grand that I’m still hungover nearly a week later and am only now finishing my write-up. Oops.

Well look who's back. Not sure why I've chosen this moment to relaunch myself on the blogging world, but there you go. It's been so long that I'm surely speaking to a vacuum, but that's OK. Vacuums can be good, as long as you're not having to use one. Housework is ever so dull.

Not much has changed since last I wrote. 2006 was a fairly 'meh' year on the whole, notable really only for being the year I managed to collect no less than three fag burns on my face - the last occurring in the final minutes of 2006, when an excitable punter at the Fleet FM NYE party cut loose with an almighty holler and hurrah, and thrust their cigarette straight into (or just above, actually) my left eye. No patch was required. A shame really, pirates rule. Unless you're Peter Blake.

What else? Well, I've had a payrise, bought a house, indulged in a couple of unsuccessful and uninspiring romances, kept my hand in with a few radio shows and parties, inherited a cat, not crashed my car, killed my iPod... All in all more of the same really.

The house purchasing thing is quite scary really, it smacks of being grown-up. Sadly I can't say the same for myself. I continue to be as alcoholically irresponsible as ever, setting a company record by turning up six hours late to work three times in as many months after over-indulging in the fire water. Oops. And me with half a million bucks worth of mortgage too.

Anyway, it's good to be back. For your trainspotting pleasure, below I've provided the tracklist from our George FM show last night (with the ever-lovely Miss Sandy Mill), which I may get round to podcasting next week if I can get a copy. I advise selling your grandmother to get the new EP from The Elektrons, the new guise of Luke and Justin Unabomber, and also the Wolfmyer Orchestra track is worth a listen too. Hell, they all are - would we play rubbish? Not on your nelly.

George FM Drive with Jen & Sandy, 5/1/07:

Ladies & Gentlemen - Fdel; Brand New Girl - Billy Garner; Save Der Soulz - T Samurai; Shake It Baby - Slow Supreme; Something Betta - Beatconductor; Boom Clicky Boom Clack (Mr Scruff Vocal Mix) - Jazzanova; White Label - The Gnomes; Next To Me - Wolfmyer Orchestra; I Got The Blues - Labi Siffre; Feelin Alright - West Coast Revival; Break The Chains - Sonoluca & Leena Conquest; Come On Get Dancing - Pride; Unknown - Ansel Collins; Last Night Bollywood Saved My Life - Bollywood Freaks; Pump Up My Doorbell - bootleg; I Know You Got Billie Jean - bootleg; 4 My Lover - DJ Nash bootleg; Light My Fire - Stevie Wonder; Get Lifted - George McCrae; This Time - DJ Shadow; Use My Imagination - Gladys Knight & The Pips; Get Up - The Elektrons; Summertime - The UBs; Going Back To My Roots (Danny Krivit mix) - Richie Havens; Singalong - Treva Whateva...

... But love those tunes.

As promised, our George FM Drive show is available to download here (pt 1) and here (pt 2).

(People say I love the sound of my own voice. They are so, so wrong.)