Melbourne I Love You, But Your a Bit Too Hip- Top 8 Hip Melbourne Terms.

Whether it's a term on endearment, a payout to an edgy "over the river" decked out scallywag, or as a point of reference that suggests the measurable coolness of long lost era; The Cheech and Chongs or the wannabe Jim Morrisons and the stream of deralict salmon that only flow up happening street are all "Hip" in their own way. Times they are a changin' but the term hip is still around. And so I bring to you the Melbourne guide to "Hip".
1. Hip-hop. The term hip-hop; a slanting groove to one hip, and then an interchange to the other, refers of course originally to the Afro-American genre synonomous with MCing, DJing, breaking and graffiti writing. But Melbourne, we are not Americans are we?  No we had to imagine a new kind of hip-hop to  be understood on drovers terms. Sure we have an array of homegrown graffiti, we bump the odd end and everyone is a fucking DJ, but it appears we cannot rap. Oh we can rhyme yesseri, but Bpay with Ebay? Socks and sloshed? Trumpety chorus's and obnoxiously monotone lyrics about deep & meaningfuls, summertime and Falls Festival. Have you ever listened to real hip-hop? Or am I missing the point? Whatever I'm missing, it is not your music that's for sure.
2. The Hip-hopping jukebox. I swear if you bring him to any party I am leaving. The hip-hopping jukebox or the HHJ is my mortal enemy. I've mentioned the HHJ's over-the-top "I feel this music so much" flailing before. You feel it that much? Really? You are feeling the music so much that you throw your limbs in random directions out of time to the music completely unaware of everyone else. How can a person be so unaware that everyone in the room is watching them and thinking what a fucking douche-bag they are? The band is the centre of attention, not you! I will pay you to stop your incessent body pangs and leave before you poke my friend in the eye, again.
3. Hippies. Look, I like you for the most part. But please understand this: I don't buy vegan beer. So next time you ask me if the beer at my house is Vegan, and then you drink my Melbourne's anyway, please just think, that maybe you should bring the beer.
4. Hipsters. Does anyone actually know what this term means anymore? Everyone is a fucking Hipster. Everyone rides a fucking bike. Everyone drinks fucking coffee! Everyone is trying to be hipper than the Hipsters. The Hipsters are trailing and chasing. They are on the backbone chewing the scraps of your extra-vegan organic super postulating anti-oxident enriched meal. Hipsters are like hairdressers: always a couple of years behind and trying a little too hard to be unusual. Atleast the phase of standing against brick-walls looking dreary and wistful is over.
5. Hipstamatic. For the most part people don't even know what this word means anymore; replaced by Instagram, Hipstamatic still paved the way for aggressive vintage filters on the most mundane of photographs. My kids having an asthma attack, quick which vintage filter should I use? #cantbreathe
6. Hip-hop hurray ho. Hopefully you're the kind of person that avoids the kind of places I'm about to talk about, but, if your anything like me and have been forced to work late nights is shitty bars on brunswick street or you're still in touch with your high school friends, you'll of heard Hip-Hop-Hooray-Ho-Hay-Ho far too many times. Somehow this chorus always draws an onslaught of white man wolf-whistling and out of time clap alongs; whether its the Provincial on Brunswick street or nowadays the Retreat; be sure to keep your hands to yourself as the lights come on and the giraffe necks come looking to take you home and cop some.
7. Hip to be Square. Boy is it hip to be mutha fuckin' square. Somewhere between clear-ray bans and sharp do's makin a comeback, we also decided to shove the footy asshole jocks aside and make way for science. That's right, science is back baby; whether your a quantam man or a virusy kinda girl, you bout to become the king of the cool square, square! And don't let it stop there, if science ain't your bag baby, how about literature, history, or social science; basically the bigger your capacity to stimulate my senses; the more likely the feeling will be err reciprocated.
8. Hippopotamous. A wet fat animal that eats more people per year than most biggest loser contestants; not to be confused with half of the population of Melbourne.

What we are really going to lose this election.

I went to see an international cover band last night at the Corner Hotel to write a review for a local street press. What I couldn't divulge in the accompanying text was my realisation that crowds really do match the music they are attracted to; in this case essentially cheesy and uninteresting, wanting to have a good time but for the most part disconnected. And it's true about all types of music if you really think about it, there is a strong correlation between yes, dress sense and music, but beyond the simplicity of 'dress', the entire existence of these people can in a sense be generalised; what are we searching for, yearning for, standing up for, standing up against? And in that sense music can create a vacuum into which people uniformly are sucked into a life of okayness; which I promise you they are not happy about, they just don't know any better. It's like a loss of their essentiality, and this leaves them lost and tired. 
What are we looking for then? In all honesty what we are truly looking for is the essence of our nature, our tribal ways and kinship; and it is the kinds of music that can more accurately provide these that produce the kinds of humans that are more "in touch" and more radiant in the spotlight of life. People criticise hippies for their dreadlocks and dirty clothes, but admire and photograph the eclectic-ness of tribal peoples elsewhere in an arrogant exchange of money for dignity. Hippies are merely attempting to connect to the tribal roots of Western Civilisation; more closely replicating what theirs and our ancestors would have looked like thousands of years ago. The Western world has aggressively ripped this connection between our soul and roots and we see more and more every day examples of this disconnect creating further distance from freedoms and the earth. 
The music of expression, whether it is Psy-Trance, Psych, Punk, Rock'n'Roll, Garage, Roots just to name but a few, that causes us to look within, explore, challenge, rescue, rebuild, identify, embrace, defy, and create is the future of Western Civilisation. If only we would look more closely and see the true loss of soul in the manifestation of compromising beings in powerful places; we could work to reconnect the soul with the skin and prevent an inevitable decline in the soul and skin of this planet.

Melbourne I Love you, But leaf me to be.

It's autumn time in Melbourne and by golly ol' chap, those leaves are falling. Brown. Red. Yellow. Other colours. Wandering through Princes park is a sight to behold, and my fresh new self is hit in the face by two realities; where the hell was I last autumn? And how can all these runners breathe when it's so damn cold? Recently I just woke up from a self induced coma one can only describe as a whirlwind of hallucinagens, amphetamines and booze which aimed to destroy my ability to keep things from not breaking, and to remember where I was for a whole season last year. I look at those leaves piled like snow flakes and I wonder why it feels like an eternity since I've seen anything this beautiful. Well, when I'm not tripping balls. And it occured to me that in these times of poverty when one cannot afford such luxuries as lying in a gutter laughing at an odd shaped crack or dancing up and down parliament stairs pretending to be a chorus girl, we can stop and smell the err leaves. So I was standing in princes park smelling a leaf, when I "awoke" to the stare of a super fit annoyingly outfitted young runner who goggled me with that "you wish you looked like me" kind  of look. It was then that I realised that being poor has given me a well needed mind holiday from that sweet pull of the "other world". And I basked in that glorious moment of not being that girl. I bet she hasn't stood in Princes park smelling leaves.
I can assume that the runner at this point was thinking a number of things about the oddity of my situation, which I might add is not really that odd for the north side, but I'm going to go with this: "keep going, nearly there, wierd girl, keep going nearly there". Because as much as we like to think that others really care about what we are doing, or might write about us in a blog, the truth is that people care more about themselves, and rarely will stop to smell the person smelling the leaf.

Melbourne I love you but Brunswick street is not cool, so shut up.

Brunswick street is not cool. So Shut up. The Night Cat is not cool. So Shut up. House Tequila tastes like shit. So shut up. Phat is too expensive. Savers is a co-orporation. Situations are only awkward because your being awkward. So shut up or stop being awkward. Weird is good, not weird. So shut up about shit being weird; that's what makes it so good. Music in melbourne has no balls. So shut up or grow some. Seahorses are the only males in the animal kingdom that become pregnant. NOT frogs for fuck sake. Lemon should not come with fish. So stop putting it on there. Fries are the skinny chips. If the menu says fries, I expect them to be half a centimeter in diameter at their fattest. Anything else is a chip. Drive through fish and chips is a good idea. Some one do it. Lygon street shopping district is expensive. So don't go there. Fruit and Veg shops are cheaper than supermarkets. So shut up and stop being lazy. If you are over 25, baseball caps are no longer allowed to be an item in your wardrobe. and if your over 40, that, is not even up for discussion. Cd's suck. Vinyls are and always will be better. Even though they are trendy, they are and always will be better. Don't judge a person on their cd collection alone; find out if they have had a good enough income in the past 3 years to suppport cd gain. If so, judge away. If not, give them a cd. If you like a band, please dance. But do not make a point of dancing so obscurely, just to make a point. We've got the point. You can't be feeling the music so much that it throws your body aggressively around the room, and blinds you so that you accidently bump into everyone else in the croud. And who does the fishing dance these days? But you were just feeling it weren't you. You were weren't you. You didn't even notice that the small child you've been so eagerly obsessed with teaching high fives to whilst flailing your limbs in time to the bongo blues, is not even liking the fact that you keep making gaga eyes at him teamed with a high five'esque "I'm gonna kill your teddy's while you sleep" kind of smile. He's a small child for god's sake. But hey, thank god he's learned to recognise douchebags like you at an early age. Maybe I should take you to all the primary schools around Melbourne. I'll bring the bongos and I'll introduce you as Stan, and then I'll start playing. No doubt you'll select the first kid who accidentally looks at you a little to long. And we're away. Saving Melbourne together Stan. Is that what you want Stan? Is that what you want?

Melbourne I Love You, But Your Under My Skin.

Since when did we become so bland Melbourne? Just because you have an effect pedal or two and lovely little echo on that soft Scotch College purchased sound of yours, doesn’t mean that you will remain in our brain for any longer than the time you stop playing. Hey little Velcro foot, you can’t buy our love. You can however purchase a bio and a slot in line at the “I’ve been told to like you” awards; one condition though: you must write to please.

Please don’t be disheartened though. It’s easy enough to write mundane lyrics that cater to the masses of tasteless zombies that answer every call of the media and pine for the next “release of the year”. But they don’t think clear. There is a melanomaesque sound that can only be seen from the outside as a little black dot, but Melbourne, it’s crawling under your skin and feeding off everything you think is healthy and pure. You know what; it too is healthy and pure. You just choose not to admit it, or acknowledge it. It’s fucking there alright.

There’s anger and aggression and veiny neck pulsations, driven by inner sensations and the ridicule you once endured. Don’t deny that part of you Melbourne. Since when did we lose that urge to push boundaries, innovate, create and show those scarlet tears that pervade into our songs. Why do you hide it Melbourne? We are all fucked up. Don’t think that that slick school-boy appearance hides the fact that you are a burning flame that will not be put out. Do you want your fire lit? Then come out come out wherever you are. There’s still time.

Leave your assumptions and predictability behind and visit a place that seethes with hopeless yearning, mockers and rockers and the living dead, fuckers and fighters and rutheless lyricists, of victims and learners, of challengers and addicts, of beauty and sexual engorgement, of terrible nightmares and hearty laughter, and thereafter, you might wake the fuck up Melbourne.

Melbourne I love you but we're all a bit alien.

Thinking about the possibility of the existence of extra-terrestrials and the likelihood that man is yet to walk on the moon, I light a cigarette and sit in my underwear, feeling a little Eadie Sedgewickesque. Creativity is not something you can force any more than I can force an alien to walk through my bedroom door. Creativity now feels a bit alien to me; it has been awhile old friend. For, in the city of hopes and dreams, of music and indivituality, some days the need to survive tends to over-ride the need to express; and a tension in my limbs starts to quake. There is a distinct realisation that old friends don't understand, that a post-code no longer determines your identity and comfort; and that your ideas need to be handled with confidence and charisma, lest you fall to the bottom of the pile. It all seems a little daunting really. If aliens are indeed real, then on the grand scale, worrying about whether people will like a lyric of mine seems a little, well selfish. But. Are we all not essentially selfish beings? We want to be seen; wearing the right clothes, the right make-up, watching the right gigs, sipping coffee at Minor Place, riding fixies, being more alternative than another, not actually listening to, or making conversation based on your self image being far more superior than what you think of mine. If aliens are real, or even if they are not; what is the point? What is the point in competing, to be more creative, better looking, more "thrown together" and more popular. We on the North side are all in this pickled ratio of money:creativity. Something we cannot avoid. Something that we all share. As I suck the end of this cigarette, I think to myself that there are bigger things out there; I think to myself that I am  going to see the best in you, if you see the best in me.  

Melbourne I love you, especially when I'm in Geelong. Fuck yeah I love you. I hate Geelong. And the Nutbush. (Except the Nash)

I'm not so small minded that I actually think Geelong is the only guilty town. There are,without a doubt in my mind, people in other towns, other citys, and most definately in Melbourne somewhere; places on brunswick street are guilty of supporting, nurturing and providing a safe environment for people who don't have any taste in music; well people who don't really have any taste at all. And by people, I mean women. And by women I mean annoying women. And also by women, I mean girls included. They shop at womens stores, and throw together outfits with purchases from womens stores. "Oooh that must be nice because it came from a womens store, and I'm a woman, it must fit me". Actually its not nice at all, you look the same as every other female, you have the same hair as every other female, you have the same make-up and shoes as any other female who shops at Rockmans or Susssan (insert relevent shop to class catergory: ie Bourgiouse to David Jones). The younger generation of Sportsgirl shoppers who think their unique "indie" style is so alternative and not-the-same when actually, you look just the fuckin same. Somewhere in the middle, in-between Sportsgirl and Rockmans, the need to look like a hotter yet same version of your friends starts to shape those little tiny braincells, that believe it or not, you do have. And you start to constantly think about your weight, what your wearing, what your being seen listening too; and eventually you follow other people so much that you willl find yourself on a dance-floor wearing Sussan's summer collection dancing to the Nutbush. You make sure you can still remember all the song titles off Libertines Up The Bracket which you memorised the other day so you can be seen to have somekind of taste. Remember, you tagged along to Cherry Bar to "run into" a friend of a friends brother to whom you wanted to show off your knowledge because you didn't get a chance to at some party a few weeks ago where he was saying he wished he could be Pete Doherty, which is funny because you didn't have any knowlede of Pete even if you got a chance to talk, so you giggled, and then googled and found out who Pete Doherty was. And you were all like "awesome! I always wanted to be Kate Moss". 

So then you all look the same. Party the same. Have the same short conversations that don't really have any substance. Even compliments feel like payouts. Even dancing, or dressing up ,or laughing is out of the question. Unless your laughing at someone of course. You had better pay someone out to start a conversation, none of this "hi. I need your help, I'm doing an opinion poll on cookies and how you feel about them: Anzac or Choc Chip? It's an old debate that has been going on for, well obviously only a century of so, not really any longer because of the whole "meaning" behind the ANZAC "cookie"".
YOU'LL HAVE NONE OF THAT THANKME VERY MUCH!! It goes like this: "Oh you look so good", "Oh so do you", "Thanks, how are you anyways", "So good. You?", "So good", "How's ....?", "So good!! How's....?", "Yeah he's good. He's over there!", "Oh I might go say hi", "Yeah good. Oh. So. Good. To see you." "Oh you too. Love you".
So we've got rid of unique dress sense. Done. Unique music taste. Done. Unique ways of having fun. Done. Hmmm, The confidence to be unique? nope, done. What about unique conversation skills? Nope, Done. Unique topics of conversation. Done. Unique ways of thinking? Look, I'm going to say done. For fuck sake, these people are not individuals. One giggles, the other giggles. One loses weight, the other loses weight. One likes a top, the other gets it in black. Get it?

Good. So you want to be a certain kind of style, person, music lover, or whatever. But when someone of that style actually makes conversation with you, you have nothing. Nothing. You like stuff, apparantly, but you don't have opinions about what you like. You just like it. What did you really think about that album? What do you think of this solo album? What about the lyrics make you cry, laugh, feel something?????? Do even have fucking feelings?

You're going to end up dancing to the macarena, the time warp, the nut bush, dressed in sussan, or david jones, because you just do what the group does. I actually heard one of you last night say to herself: "I don't know why everyones getting up and going over there, but I'm going anyways". Fuck you.