Southerly by David Haywood

One of the great pleasures of writing on Public Address is the lovely people you end up corresponding with. In my case, none more so than musician and composer, Blair Parkes.

I've followed Blair's music for years: from his work with 'Range', '103', and 'Thomas-Parkes' -- to his current band the l.e.d.s. His songs have always struck me as particularly authentic. Although Blair's style has roots in the Flying Nun tradition, it has evolved and flourished through his own unique and idiosyncratic musical approach. He sings in a New Zealand accent; he writes appealing tunes with wry and intelligent lyrics; his arrangements are tasteful and understated.

A few months ago, after exchanging emails with Blair for several years (as well as the occasional random meeting in person), I plucked up the courage to send him a couple of pieces that I'd composed. He seemed enthusiastic -- or, at least, he was very polite -- and we agreed to get together for a few bottles of Monteith's and a "wee spot of music".

After only a few minutes playing together, it became apparent (to me, at any rate) that -- musically speaking -- Blair and I got on like a house on fire. In philosophical terms, we shared many of the same views on the way that music should be played and composed. Or, to be strictly truthful, Blair hardly disagreed when (at great length) I expounded upon my own personal musical philosophy. Now that I think of it, he may just be a very non-confrontational person.

To my surprise, Blair even remained unfazed when I declared that the frailing banjo was a sadly overlooked instrument in the New Zealand musical tradition (the banjo pre-dates the guitar in this country by several decades). And he barely raised an eyebrow when I produced an actual banjo and began to play. Not many people can maintain that degree of composure.

Most importantly, perhaps, it transpired that we both enjoyed the same type of beer. Our initial "wee spot of music" has turned into a regular weekly event. Each Friday night I grab my banjo and a few bottles of Monteith's, hop on the No. 84 bus, and trundle off to Blair's shed in New Brighton.

Above: Another successful evening spent composing music.

For me, music has always been emotional rather than cerebral. But, over the course of our Friday night Monteith's sessions, I've tried to analyse my musical emotions. Curiously -- and I am rather loathe to admit this -- I suspect that one of my formative influences has been that much-despised musical form: the New Zealand Bush Band.

Not, I hasten to add, that I want to break out a washboard or 'the spoons' -- but I must admit that there was something in the Bush Bands that I heard as a lad (they were in their twilight years during my early childhood) that resonated with me. A comfortable looseness in playing; a pleasant degree of unpolishedness; an almost unfamiliar New Zealand perspective and vernacular.

And incidentally, I'm quite convinced that some of my favourite Australian bands -- Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, for example -- have taken some influence (perhaps subconsciously) from the distinct bush band music of their own country.

Eventually -- and possibly as a result of spending too much time around German artists -- I wrote down my thoughts in the form of a musical manifesto. Though I say so myself, it's a pretty good manifesto; and Blair only disagrees with about half of it. Luckily for me, he is an easy-going character, and contents himself merely by occasionally murmuring: "Do we really need to write this down?" and "Don't you think a manifesto is, y'know, a bit rigid?"

None of this, of course, was intended for public consumption. But it so happened that I sent one of our beerier recordings to l.e.d.s fan, Russell Brown, just so he could hear what the l.e.d.s keyboardist got up to on his days off. To my astonishment, Russell declared that he loved the song, and expressed a wish to hear some more. He even went so far as to suggest that it should reach a wider audience.

Naturally, such a suggestion was anathema to Blair and me. Didn't Russell comprehend the concept of music merely as a means of private expression? Didn't he understand that we were sensitive artists -- who shouldn’t have our talents brutally exposed to the hoi polloi? Didn't he realize that his suggestion was a betrayal of everything that our music stood for?

"Well, I could pay you in beer," replied Russell.

And so here we are.

The E.P. of music presented herein is performed and recorded according to our (slightly disputed) manifesto. In short:

1. Playing should emphasize feeling rather than slickness.
   
   
2. Songs should be simple, brief, and to the point.
   
   
Recordings should be performed as live, and technology should not be used to hide the inadequacies of the musicians; but rather to reproduce -- as honestly as possible -- what a listener would have heard in the room as the tape (or rather, bytes) rolled.

As a consequence of the above, some of these recordings are more Monteithsy than others. In fact, some of them are nearly all Monteith's, and only a little bit musical. We admit that the singing on the song 'I Found Out', for example, is almost exclusively Monteith's.

The project is called, for obvious reasons, Bridle Path. As I mentioned before, none of this music was ever intended for public consumption, and will certainly not be to the majority of people's taste. But, at the very least, for those -- like me -- who have followed Blair Parkes's career, it will be an interesting view on a completely different side of his musical talents. You certainly couldn't mistake it for the electronica of the l.e.d.s.

Many thanks to Russell Brown and Monteith's Breweries for providing the raw materials to lubricate these recordings.

Download the 'Monteith's Sessions E.P.' as a ZIP file with MP3s and cover art (7.8MB) [right-click on the link and choose "Save Target As..."]

or:

Click here to listen to streaming audio of the 'Monteith's Sessions E.P.' on the Bridle Path MySpace page.

[Note: The E.P. is free to copy and distribute, but it is copyright, and Bridle Path assert their moral right to be identified as the author(s).]

Above: Bridle Path in action.

1. Hypothesis
   
   1. That the beehive-looking thing on the lawn isn't actually a beehive.
      
   
   
2. Apparatus
   
   1. Beehive-looking thing.
      
   Lawnmower.
   
   
   
Method

1. Apply lawnmower to beehive-looking thing.
   


3. Results
   
   1. Bees!
      
   
   
Conclusions

1. Bees don't like to be mown.
   
Despite my advanced years, I am still faster than 90 per cent of bees.

2. Ten per cent of a hive of bees is still quite a lot of bees.
   
Even as an adult, bee-stings are surprisingly painful.

I. PPP-adjusted GDP

You are not a
gross domestic product.
You do not have
purchasing power parity.
Perhaps we should change the subject
as you stand before me,
naked and ravishing,
on Midsummer's Eve.

II. Price Indices

When I see you
with him,
I want to pawn
my best pair of shoes,
and move to
a shit-smelling flophouse,
with all the other
no-good bums,
who gamble at racetracks
with dopers and pimps,
and two-time losers,
and women who look like
Anna Schwartz.

III. Reflections on Creative Destruction

A rival in love
is crushed beneath
the wheels
of a passing ute.
Happiness is ephemeral,
but economic growth
goes on
forever.

IV. Neo-Schumpertarian Economics

A strand of your hair
is the Solow Residual;
Your lips are an
endogenous zone.
Some day perhaps
we will lie on the shore,
making love
beneath the Pōhutukawa trees.

V. In Praise of a Decentralized Laissez-faire Economy

Black is the colour
of my love's clothing.
Black as the balance sheet
of Zhou Xiaochuan.
My love has long black hair
that spills over her collar;
a black necklace
that kisses
the nape of her neck.
Black are the tyres
of her boyfriend's wheelchair,
as she pushes him
from a white building
with a red cross.
I open the door
to my tan-coloured ute;
and her warm pink arm
brushes against mine.

VI. Dynamic Stochastic General Equilibrium Modelling

We are impervious
to the Lucas critique;
her dress now lying rumpled
on the floor,
her kisses now upon my mouth,
her thrusting nakedness warm
against my body.
Daylight finds a gap
in the curtains,
and illuminates her heavenly body;
the shafts of sunlight
caressing her breasts.
The bed-sheets are damp with
the sweat of our lovemaking;
and her boyfriend still slumbers on,
sedated in his wheelchair.

After the constant complaints about the "terrible young people of today", some might think it a refreshing change to encounter sociopathic old ladies. Speaking for myself, however, I found it to be a profoundly depressing experience.

We've spent the last month-and-a-half in Berkeley. It's a town that seems to be populated with an abundance of generous and friendly people. In fact, in numerous ways, it's a truly lovely place. My only real gripes are the poverty (as I've already mentioned here ) -- and, it has to be said, the astonishing amount of litter.

I suppose, to be fair, the actual quantity of litter isn't so appalling. But it's such a shame to see the playgrounds and public gardens of Berkeley made ugly with discarded cigarette packets and take-away wrappers. As a result of our dislike of this uglification, Bob-the-Toddler and I devised our own mini-campaign to clean up the town. Whenever we spotted any litter, we would immediately pick it up -- placing it into a plastic bag for eventual disposal in a proper rubbish bin. Our tidying was, of course, always accompanied by a suitably brain-washing commentary from me: "Look at all these McDonald's wrappers that some untidy person has left behind, Bob", "Imagine spoiling such a lovely park with litter", and so on.

We arrived back in Christchurch yesterday morning, and attempted to ward off our jet-lag with a stroll along the promenade at Sumner. Feeling virtuous after exercising, we then decided to treat ourselves to lunch at a café -- sitting at an outside table where, coincidentally, a car-load of elderly ladies had parked beside the curb.

These were not, I should emphasize, your typical saintly old dears. Each had a cigarette dangling from her mouth, and all three of them were shovelling Moro Bars (or similarly nutritious items) into their gobs as fast as they could. One of them -- who must have been 75 years old at the very least -- finished her food, wound down the window, and tossed the wrapper onto the ground. It lay there, ruffling in the breeze, no more than three metres from a rubbish bin.

I was astonished by her actions -- not only in throwing litter onto the street, but the nerve of doing so in front of a crowd of observers. It occurred to me that perhaps I should say something. But then I thought about the age of the woman, and I wondered if her actions had been simple absentmindedness. Furthermore, it has to be said that I'm a scruffy-looking guy, and I certainly didn't want to frighten or intimidate her.

Unfortunately, however, litter was now blowing around in the gutter -- and I was also mindful of the example that I was setting to Bob-the-Toddler. So in the end, without saying anything at all, I stood up, collected the rubbish, and meekly put it in the bin.

I've read about the 'killer faces' of gangsters and assassins, but I'd never expected to be on the receiving end of a death-stare from three old ladies. Apparently my little rubbish collection hadn't met with their approval. For the rest of our meal they fixed me with their beady little eyes -- clearly willing me to choke on my food and die in front of them. It was an enormous relief when we finally finished our lunch, and I was able to escape their gaze.

As we walked away from the café, I happened to glance back over my shoulder. The old lady litterer was winding down her window -- and she proceeded to toss out a real-estate newspaper. In the Canterbury breeze, the newspaper immediately started to separate into its component pages, and began to blow like tumbleweed down the street.

I handed Bob-the-Toddler to his mother, raced down the footpath, collected the newspaper, and stuffed it into the rubbish bin. Then I went up to the window of the car -- with, might I say, pretty remarkable calmness -- and said to the old lady: "This is a beautiful beach. Why do you want to ruin it with your litter?"

"Fuck off," she shouted at me. And both her evil old lady friends joined in as well -- and screamed a torrent of obscenities out of their respective windows.

It was a surreal situation. Faced with the astonishing scenario of elderly ladies acting like delinquent teenagers, I found myself somehow morphing into a scolding school teacher -- which led me to make the lamest possible proclamation, in title case (like this): "Your Behaviour Is Disgraceful!"

The old lady litterer's eyes bulged, and she opened her mouth even wider, and then she shrieked her rebuttal at me: "You're the one who's disgraceful -- picking up rubbish." And the evil old lady at the wheel gunned her engine, and they all roared off in their car.

I confess to being slightly shocked by the whole incident. For the first time in my life, the phrase: "What is the world coming to" entered my head. When little old ladies start throwing litter on the streets, and swearing like troopers -- you have to ask yourself: what hope is there for our society?

Perhaps -- it occured to me later -- they weren't elderly women at all, but rather space aliens disguised as old ladies on a reconnoitre of Planet Earth. It's true, certainly, that they bore more than a passing resemblance to Jabba The Hutt. But I suspect that real aliens would never be able to master the intricacies of the New Zealand vowel system; not to mention the more recondite forms of obscenity.

I'm aware that littering is hardly the worst crime on the statute books. Even so, I think you should have the grace to feel ashamed when you're caught doing it. And, alas, I feel that this encounter will hardly have made these people modify their behaviour in future.

Which leaves me with the question: what could I have done differently? How could I have communicated to them (and have them listen and understand) that it isn't okay to throw your rubbish in the street? Or am I just being ridiculously uptight about the whole thing? Even perhaps -- as they seemed to be implying -- depriving them of their right to litter.

If you have any suggestions, let me know...

Note: Yes, the author does realize that this is the second time in as many weeks that total strangers have screamed abuse at him.

It's been quite a while since anyone has screamed at me like that. His face turned the colour of beetroot. Flecks of foam sprayed from his lips -- showering the glass plate that separated us. I'd made him so angry that he was literally frothing with rage.

I struggled to my seat with a weeping toddler under one arm, and an unco-operative pushchair under the other. The tram-driver -- having exhausted his vocabulary of English insults -- spat a final sentence at me in Spanish. I'm reasonably sure that it wasn't: "I love you."

As I sat down, a fellow passenger caught my eye. "I think you've discovered why 'Muni' employees aren't really known for their politeness," he said.

The 'Muni' is the public transit agency that provides buses and light rail services in San Francisco. The word 'Muni', of course, being derived from an ancient Latin word meaning: 'We employ psychopaths to drive our trams'.

In case you were wondering, here's my tip for provoking a 'Muni' employee to within a hair's breadth of murder. It's quite simple: when they say to you, "Pay on the BART [Bay Area Rapid Transit]" -- you simply reply: "Pay on the BART?"

This is provocation for homicide because what they actually said was: "Pay on the box" -- which is a secret 'Muni' term for "Put your fare into the slot". So fuck you if you don't understand.

Normally I wouldn't let this sort of thing bother me, but frankly, another blow to my self-esteem is the last thing I need right now. The Haywood family has temporarily re-located to the Bay Area (of California) so that Jennifer can teach a course at Berkeley. During the day, I look after Bob-the-Toddler, which is great. During the evenings, I write and illustrate my new book, which is utter agony.

The concept of the new book is quite straightforward. My first book has done relatively well -- so it seemed logical to follow it up with a work that everyone will hate and no-one will buy. It's sort of the Sinclair C5 principle.

During my long California working nights, I toil away at illustrated compositions with titles such as: "Build Your Own Supersonic Nuclear Bomber", "Sex Secrets of the Reserve Bank", and "Why Peter Dunne Wants Your Soiled Underwear". Then later, I experience horrible moments of clarity when I ask myself: "Why am I writing this?", "Who will read it?", and "Have I finally flipped?"

Our visit to Berkeley has had a few surprises. This article in Werewolf Magazine describes my first day in the city. If you have any opinions on the design of North American toilets or brain-washed hippies, then please feel free to contribute to the discussion thread (shown at the bottom of that page).

In the meantime, I have either a book or a nervous breakdown to finish...

Above: Why would anyone waste their time writing and illustrating something like this -- let alone reading it?