The Speedway Experience (International Midget* Series USA vs. NZ)

BY LYDIA CHAI

If you visited my home city, Kuala Lumpur, you would probably be struck by the comparative lack of hoons on the roads. Less roars of souped up cars, more drones of the likes of reliable Volvos, Beemers and Toyota Harriers.

Malaysians. We just don't have a need for speed. Wildly out of character, then, that I spent my Saturday evening at the Speedway, Western Springs!

Robert Crumb once described Harvey Pekar's life as being so ordinary as to verging on the exotic. In this vein, out of curiosity and fascination, I invited my Aussie ex-pat friend E. to check out the rubber-meets-dirt subculture with me.

The hoi polloi did not disappoint. Can we say full marks for ambiance? Consider this: a glorious afternoon with a lingering lilac sunset. Well-prepared oldies with their deck chairs, munching peanut-butter-on-celery-sticks. The smells of hot, fatty foods. Even the burnt petrol smelled sweeter than usual.

I scanned the terraces of heads for an audience demographic (though, this is pure guesswork):
Male/Female ratio: 50/50.
Old/Young ratio: 20/80.
Kids: Mostly boys.
Asians: 5.

If you ask me, the sprint cars stole the thunder from the midget cars. These are larger cars with Z-shaped wings on their tops so as to create downforce round the bends. They grunt more deeply and sound great, but someone needs to improve the aesthetic of those adhoc-looking wings.

The event culminated in a 50-lap midget car race with New Zealander Michael Pickens finishing first, but getting bumped to 3rd place for driving on the in-field a couple of times. 1st place thus fell on the cheeky American Brad Kuhn who had spent all 50 laps hot on Pickens' heels. The boos of nationalistic protest went past our Aussie and Malaysian heads.

I am no petrolhead, but if there ever will be a demolition derby, I am so there. I'll plant a tree today.

*referring to the cars, not drivers. I made that mistake, too.


***

BDO

BY AMBER EASBY

We made it to the stadium in good time. We arrived a little before 4pm, having missed the traffic and spent $20 on a car park close to the front gate. The security was more relaxed than I remembered – a quick glance in the bag, no physical pat down. As a teen, I hid a cask of wine in my underwear to avoid confiscation. My brother once went to the grounds a week in advance to bury a bag of weed and a bottle of Jack Daniels. This time, I was happy to make it through with my water bottle.

Dizzee Rascal had just started in the Boiler Room. The tent was packed and like stepping into a steamy shower of sweat. For the first time, those bikinis and bare chests made sense to me. I was expecting to see a skinny little kid but Dizzee was totally buff! It was a fun show and overall, the best sounding performance of the day.

We queued for the next 45minutes for the Immortals Lounge. It was only worth the wait for the use of clean, flushing toilets. You could also drink beer from a bottle. I tried Steinlager Pure for the first time and was disappointed. Sure – it’s natural but so is urine.

If I see a band I like at a festival, it usually makes me wish I were seeing them at their own (indoor) show. This was particularly true of Arcade Fire. The barricading of the main stage floor made it impossible to see or hear anything, unless you were the die-hard Rage Against the Machine fans who staked their claim (I am watching a lot of Deadwood) early on. I have seen this system work well overseas but here, it was poorly implemented. Long lines and confused security guards meant the flow of the crowd was heavily restricted. I was stuck on the periphery and might as well have been listening to the radio.

We ditched Arcade Fire to see Battles. They were a little too techy for me but Henry loved them. Maybe it is a dude thing. Gemma and I sat at the back and were still able to hear well. I had hot dogs and chips with the good tomato sauce - delicious! Henry sent me text message that I got four hours later, saying “Believe it or not, this is their hit song."

Determined for a more satisfactory main stage experience, we made our way to Bjork a little early. We caught the end of Shihad, a band that must organise their entire year/career around playing the Big Day Out. We managed to secure a slightly better spot. I stood on my tiptoes for as much as I could for Bjork. The marching band of Icelandic teenagers, the costumes, Bjork’s spidey hands – it was an amazing show. Unfortunately the creep factor was growing in anticipation for ‘Rage’. One guy was yelling, “You suck” throughout. I was stuck behind a loud stoner couple who thought they had lost their weed. If I had been at the movies, I would have ssshed them. When they finally found it (in their pocket), they started to roll a joint. One dude wedged himself between Gemma and me, hoping to catch the joint as it was passed back. Another apologized for pushing in with a slow, inappropriate rub of my arms and a “sorry babe”.

We made our way back to the Boiler Rom for LCD Soundsystem, which was everything you would hope. T O T A L D A N C E P A R T Y. Still, I couldn’t help but worry about the muddy ground ruining my shoes or the young girls wearing t-shirts that said, “I am with the band”. During North American Scum, a sixteen year old pushed me out of the way in excitement and I realised, I no longer have the ability to enjoy the festival for what it is. We skipped The Clean to avoid the traffic and were in bed by midnight.



***

Happy New Year

BY HENRY OLIVER





***

Merry Christmas

From all here at Review. We'll be back in the New Year with more local profundity and enthusiams.

With love,

Department Of Conversation



***

My Chemical Romance Vector Arena

BY SRIWHANA SPONG

The 6th of December is predictably dark and miserable. It rains and my feet get wet, which is not a good start. But on the corner of K rd and Pitt street Niki gives me three picture discs: Teenagers, Famous Last Words, and I Don’t Love You, and when I see Stevie dressed in a red and black tuxedo jacket I know it’s going to be the only night in the 07 calendar. I then spend a long but rewarding time drying my shoes and inner soles under the hand dryer in the Carlton Hotel/Club/Arms……who can remember? Its name is as innocuous as its décor.

Downtown the merchandise caravan looks like it has been invaded by a thousand teenagers with their mothers’ eftpos card. There is nothing left, but as Justin points out, ‘that logo makes everything look shit’. Which is true. It is pretty desolate outside the arena, but I am beginning to realise that I might be a late twenties minority. Justin buys beer, and gets ID’ed. The guy even checks the back of his drivers license??? I always love entering the Vector Arena, emerging into that warm blackness latent with expectation. Our seats are entry D, door 2, row P, seats 16 and 17. In front of me is a mini black parade of 12 year olds in tour t-shirts. The stand out, and my envy, wears a black and gold marching jacket. Someone I met for the first time earlier that night at Gambia Castle has ended up in the seat next to me. I can only conclude that some strange magic is crackling in the air tonight. We are to the side of the stage, and very close. Through my monocular we can read the set list, and Justin and I pass the time by texting my siblings downstairs that Gerard is whispering the song order in my ear backstage.

The lights get cut, and darkness prepares to crawl onto the stage. When the band finally begins its ascent Gerard waits at the bottom of the stairs, his long white fingers clutching the balustrade, head bent. Waiting. The new king of rock theatrics takes his sweet time before ascending to face a dark landscape full of screaming girls. And then a stream of profanities, flames bursting from the stage with a searing heat, fireworks so loud that every time they explode I jump. For a Guy Fawkes baby this feels like the day I was born.

Mama we all go to hell, but tonight it feels like the doors of heaven have split wide apart. Thousands of outstretched palms appear like daisies opening to the sun, and Gerard Way master of the dark and theatrical, snarls, spits and swears on all. High points are everywhere, the graph flatlines against the roof of heaven. Ray Toro gives a guitar solo, and Justin and I are blinded by a shard of light that explodes from his axe. A moment full of so many clichés, it somehow feels like genius. The night is one big anthem. When I don’t Love You grips the Vector Arena in its bitter embrace, thousands of cameras spontaneously puncture the darkness, and Gerard leads his underage parade to the stars, with the mother of all melodies. Cancer, which is surprisingly good live, envelops the arena in a hush so soft you could almost hear the grim reaper drop his scythe. The Black Parade, ‘the Bohemian Rhapsody of our generation’ (Justin), storms to an end with a fall of blistering auburn fireworks that rain down like tears.

MCR weave an hysterical gothic tale, unafraid in the face of a blinding melody, and as consciously over the top as Lisa Minellis’ false eyelashes in Cabaret. For all their blackness, these orchestraters of lyrical doom, are still good catholic boys, and what they inspire is more ethical hedonism than Rimbaudian tabletop antics. Like true showmen they save the best till last. Famous Last Words is a storming, scornful ode to the end of something you hoped might just last forever.



***

The Trough

BY ASH KILMARTIN

University - a term which conjures images of quiet leafy avenues, tweed blazers with leather elbow-patches, and dusty shelves of well-thumbed copies of the great works of world literature. The reality, as many of us know, is a far cry from such picturesque notions of Academia. Nothing has proved this to me more, than my experience at the Trough.

The Trough, known properly as the General Staff Morning Tea, is the stuff of snacking legend. Now, every school and every department within the University have some form of Christmas party (or, should I say, 'end-of-year party' - on that note, has anyone else noticed the non-denominational nature of the festive decorations on Queen St?). But The Trough is the mother of all paid-for spreads. Being a young Library Assistant - just a juniorburger - the walk from Fort Fine Arts down to Old Government House for my first Trough was one of high anticipation. I'd been told about the jabbing elbows, the viscious use of sensible shoes, and the napkins-full of booty being ferried back to offices. And I was not disappointed.

From across the rose garden, I could hear the din coming from the usually genteel, hallowed halls of the OGH common rooms. The slurps of tea from polystyrene cups, the satisfied laughter of successful hunters and gatherers, and the occasional gasps when a fresh platter of those prized asparagus rolls arrived at table.

The Dining Hall, to the left of the foyer, held the biggest spread. Three tables of various platters, plus juice and a tea table. The Common Room, to the right, held only one large banquet table and (the result of ill-timed speeches, and the presence of the VC) fewer hungry public servants. However, both rooms were packed, as was the patio outside. Attendees were staff of all descriptions. Academic staff, library slaves, admin bullies and those jovial property services gents. Some looked as though this was their one big outing of the year; others appeared to have "eyes bigger than their stomachs", as my Dad would say. The strangest aspect was that, despite the massive and enthusiastic turnout, I only spotted three people I have met before. Sure, it's a big institution, but having studied across departments and visited every building on the campus in my recent quest to photograph the University's art collection, I expected to recognise a few more faces. Alas, only Doug (who delivers our Interloans crates), Kelly (from behind the desk at NICAI reception), and the Russian lady from the School of European Languages and Literature, who had given me the master key for all the rooms in her deparment (only one painting spotted).

But - to the important part: the food. After all, that's what everyone was there for.

Asparagus rolls (x3)
Fair. Both white and wheatmeal bread, no sign of butter/margarine. Not too dry, in fact, a little soggy. Asparagus of tinned variety, should have been better drained.

Chicken tortilla rolls (x2)
Fair. Very dry and quite salty with small amout of shaved roast chook. However, a good balance to the sweet snacks.

Chocolate almond tarts (x1)
Good. Probably the most sophisticated snack available. Chocolate, cakey outer with almond filling and slivers of almond atop. Perfect size, about the same at base as a 50c coin. Dee-lish.

Christmas mince pies (x1)
Couldn't fit any in whilst on site, but reports were good. Disappointed when tried leter in the day, faint taste of vomit(!). Would not trade again.

Club snadwiches (x3)
Fair. All white bread, with thin fillings. No good egg versions, disappointing. Again, good savoury balance for all the sweets, and the shadows of tomatoes constituted my "5 plus a day".

Cinnamon Brioche
Did not try. Too sickly-looking and big enough to prevent hoarding other snacks.

Cupcakes (4 varieties: mauve-iced, mint-iced, white-iced, double chocolate) (x1)
Again, had to take off-site. Chose the white iced (passionfruit), badly disappointed. Too dense and cakey, icing not tangy enough (more lemon icing, please. On everything).

Custard tarts (x1)
Good. Classic sweet tart, with star-shaped squeeze of bright yellow faux-custard and chocolate-lined pastry base. Substantial slices of strawberry (x4) and the obligatry gelatinous glaze.

Orange juice (x1)
Arano, from bottle. Good tartness and perfect pulp:liquid ratio.

Sausage Rolls (x5)
Good. Optimum temperature - warm, but not burney-hot at sausage centre. Tomato sauce was provided, but these rolls needed no additives. Would trade again.

Savoury muffins (2 varieties)
Did not try. Looked dry and gross.

Tea
Make-you-own, Twinings English Breakfast. But who has time to brew when there are asparagus rolls to be stock-piled?

All under the watch of Goldie's potrait of some-academic/politician-or-other, so began my weekend of snacks. After this, an exhibition opening and a sock hop provided all necessary snack-action, then a day's rest before the next Christmas do: this time with architects and much Belgian beer. My congratulations to the organiser of the sock hop, whose asparagus rolls topped the Trough's, and deserve a full review themselves.



***

Rosy Parlane / Sweetcakes : Compact Listen

BY HENRY OLIVER

Rosy Parlane:

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo00000000000OOOOOOOOOO0
ooooooooooooooooooooooooo00000000000OOOOOOOOOO0000
oooooooooooooooooooooo00000000000OOOOOOOOO00000000

ooooooooooooooooooo000000000000OOOOOOOO00000000ooo
chip/click … chip/chip/click/chip … chip/chip/chi
ooooooooooooooo000000000000OOOOOOO000000000ooooooo
krCH/CH … CH … chchch … sh/sh/ch/ krCHHHHHHHHHHHH

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo00000000000OOOOOOOOO0
oooooooooooooooooooooooooo0000000000OOOOOOOOOO0000
oooooooooooooooooooooo00000000000OOOOOOOOOO000000o
oooooooooooooooooooo0000000000OOOOOOOOOO00000000oo
ooooooooooooooooooo0000000000OOOOOOOOOO00000000ooo
ooooooooooooooooooooooo0000000000OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
oooooooooooooooooooooo0000000000OOOOOOOOOO0000000o
oooooooooooooooooooooo000000000000OOOOOOO0000000oo
ooooooooooooooooooooooo0000000000000OOOOOO00000ooo

ooooooooooooooooo000000000000OOOO000000ooo
chip/click … chip/chip/click/chip … chip/chip/chip
ooooooooooooooo000000000000OOOOOOO000000000ooooooo
krCH/CH … CH … chchch … sh//ch/chip/chip/churp
/////////////////////CHIp//////shhhhhhhsssssshhhhh
oooooooooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO000000000
oooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO000000
ooooooooOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO000
oooooOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
oooOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

SSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHSHHHHHHHH
churp/churp/chip churp/churp/chip churp/churp/chip
SSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHSHHHHHHHH
churp/churp/chip churp/churp/chip churp/churp/chip
SSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHSHHHHHHHH
churp/churp/chip churp/churp/chip churp/churp/chip


ddddddddddddddddddddddddAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
DDDDDDDDDDDDDDuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM
ddddddddDDDDDDDDddddddddAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDuuuuuuuuuuuuuuMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM
ddddddddddddddddddddddddAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDuuuuuuuuMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM
ddddddddddddddddddddddddAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDuuuMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM
ddddddddddddddddddddddddAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDuMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM
DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM

Hussh…

Applause


Sweetcakes:

Shshshshshshshshshshshshshsh…
Shshshshshshshshshshshshshsh…
huhhh
Shshshshshshshshshshshshshsh…
Shshshshshshshshshshshshshsh…
Huhh
Shshshshshshshshshshshshshsh…
Shshshshshshshshshshshshshsh…
huhhh
Shshshshshshshshshshshshshsh…
Shshshshshshshshshshshshshsh…
huhh
Shshshshshshshshshshshshshsh…
Shshshshshshshshshshshshshsh…
Beeeeeb
Shshshshshshshshshshshshshsh…
Chick Chick/Chick
Shshshshshshshshshshshshshsh…
Chick Chick/Chick
Shshshshshshshshshshshshshsh…
Chick Chick/Chick

bbbbbbbbbbbbuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrBBBUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR
rrrrrrrrrrrrbbbbbbUUUUUUrrrrrrrrrBBBBBBUUUUUURRRRRR
Crash/crash/bang/bang/crash/thud/thud/thud/shh/hhhh
bbbbbbbbbbbbuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrBBBUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR
bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbUUUUUUrrrrrrrrrBBBBBBUUUUUURRRRRR
Crash/crash/bang/bang/crassssh/thud/thud/shhh/shhhh
bbbbbbbbbbbbuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrBBBUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR
bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbUUUUUUrrrrrrrrrBBBBBBUUUUUURRRRRR
Crash/crash/bang/bang/crash/thud/thud/thud/shh/shhh
bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbUUUUUUrrrrrrrrrBBBBBBUUUUUURRRRRR
Crash/crash/bang/bang/crasssh/thud/thud/shhh/shhhhh
bbbbbbbbbbbbuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrBBBUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR
bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbUUUUUUrrrrrrrrrBBBBBBUUUUUURRRRRR
Crash/crash/bang/bang/crash/thud/thud/thud/s/shhhhh
bbbbbbbbbbbbuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrBBBUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR
bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbUUUUUUrrrrrrrrrBBBBBBUUUUUURRRRRR
Crash/crash/bang/bang/crssssh/thud/thud/shhh/shhhhh
bbbbbbbbbbbbuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrBBBUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR
bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbUUUUUUrrrrrrrrrBBBBBBUUUUUURRRRRR
Crash/crash/bang/bang/crash/thud/thud/thud/shhh/shh
bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbUUUUUUrrrrrrrrrBBBBBBUUUUUURRRRRR
Crash/crash/bang/bang/crasssh/thud/thud/shhh/shhhhh

Click/Click

Hussh

Applause




***

Auckland Chamber Orchestra

BY FIONA CONNOR

Auckland Chamber Orchestra
Summer
Auckland Town Hall on Sunday the 25th at 6pm
(breaking up is hard to do)

Tonight I sat in the first row next to Ben at the Auckland Town Hall
and watched the show. I had seen the poster near K Rd on Saturday and
was impressed by it's cool graphics.

I bought two tickets over the phone for nineteen dollars each. We
were close enough to see sweat beads and eye movements. It was
intense Ben said he could smell grandmas. We were as well lit as the
players I closed my eyes to hear better. It was really beautiful
and we came out better off I think.



***

Fair Go

BY AMBER EASBY

The Auckland Vinyl Record Collectors Fair took place at the Polish House, Morningside on Saturday November 3rd. The fair ran from 10am to 3pm. Henry and I were driving down McDonald Street at 10.05am, when I saw a fat, bald, middle-age man running to his car with a stash of records. We had arrived.

There was a $2 entry fee into the hall. The doorman asked if we were looking for anything in particular. We answered, hoping he might point out a few sellers. Nothing. He asked how regularly we bought records. We answered and he responded. “Really?” The $2 token was also a raffle ticket. “Make sure you hold onto that. There are some good prizes.”

The Polish House is a small hall but there was a decent amount to look through. I was surprised at how many people there were, though I was only one of three women. I saw a friend flicking through some magazines. “Its all fucking junk. Same shit as last year” he said. I asked what he had looked through. “Nothing. I can’t fucking be bothered.”

Henry and I split up - Henry was on LPs, I was on 45s. My first purchase was a lot of fifteen singles – mostly Motown and Disco, all in good condition - for $20. The seller was eating a sandwich and took a good ten minutes before he noticed me. I later saw him staring into the distance, picking his nose, while another customer waited to pay.

My next purchase was from a nice elderly man. His singles were expensive but when I showed him what I wanted, he cut the price in half. I bought six 45s for $10, including a great Marlene Dietrich E.P and a Dolly Parton/Porter Wagoner (R.I.P) duet.

The proceedings were interrupted by the first, probably last, competition of the day. There was a small stage and the doorman had a microphone. If you guessed the record playing, you won a $5 lunch voucher. Not a single person tried. I could hear my friend calling “turn it off” until the song finally ended.

My third transaction was a mistake. Riding high from my previous scores, I hastily chose some 45s from the stack. I misheard the seller and ended paying twice as much as I wanted. I was too shy to say anything, having just been introduced to the seller by another friend. I am still suffering from post-purchase remorse after spending $20 on three singles I wasn’t even that excited about.

I bought another sixteen singles in my fourth and final acquisition. 1960s Beat, Rock and Pop – all for a buck apiece. Three grumpy men sat behind the table. They were like Statler and Waldorf, the guys who heckle form the balcony in the Muppets. I overheard them critiquing my browsing technique. “At that rate, she is going to be there all day.“ Annoyed, I called for back up. Henry checked the condition of each record as I flicked though more.

I was down $66 but had nearly forty good records to show for it. Henry found five LPs he considered to be a bargain. In true Henry fashion, he spent $40 dollars but saw a $50 return on an HDU album he sold on TradeMe later that day. Maybe we should have stayed for the raffle. GRADE: G+/VG



***