Issuu

ISSUE #7

ONE STAR PRO

SEAN PABLO

VANS.COM.AU

Grassfires DPS CB August 2021.indd 1

CREW NECKS CROPPED TOPS FACE MASKS HOODIES ONESIES POLO SHIRTS SINGLETS TANK TOPS TOTE BAGS & T-SHIRTS SO MANY T-SHIRTS

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19/8/21 2:12 pm

CONTENTS

Illustration— Pat Rogasch

Ed’s Letter______________________________________ 08

Beastie Girls — Feature Article ____________________ 54

Imprint _________________________________________ 09

Rattletrap — Feature Article_______________________ 60

Jalessa Vincent — Feature Article__________________ 10

The Moses Gunn Collective — Feature Article �� 66

Miles Away — Feature Article_______________________ 20

The Deli _______________________________________ 72

Filthyratbag — Interview___________________________ 30

Trent Riley Forever — Photo Essay_________________ 74

Tropical Fuck Storm — Feature Article �� 40

Consent is Rad — PSA____________________________83

The Most Fun Thing — Personal Essay �� 48

@globebrand_skateboarding

EDITOR'S LETTER.

bout ten years ago, I moved to Canada to be a snowboard bum. Money was tight and my hair looked like a dirty bird’s nest. I slept on the couch of a sharehouse until one of the other dudes who lived there broke his collarbone and left town, at which point I graduated to a bunk bed. By day I’d go snowboarding and by night I washed dishes at a restaurant for $8.50 an hour and a free dinner. Then, if I could afford it, it was onto a dive bar called Rakel’s, where conversations were slurred and then forgotten. On the last night of the season, I started a snowball fight, which quickly turned serious, and ended with some guy repeatedly punching me in the face. He had me pinned by the back of the neck over the bonnet of a parked car and the punches kept coming.

on the cover. We also spoke to Celeste Mountjoy, better known by her alias, Filthy Ratbag, whose drawings are both personal and comical, addressing mental illness, insecurity and sexuality. On the music front, meet Gareth Liddiard, the Australian musician and lyricist who you might know from The Drones and now Tropical Fuck Storm. Gaz is a great raconteur, ranting about the pandemic, the news cycle and the evils of the internet with a good mix of misanthropy and humour. Then there’s The Moses Gunn Collective, who were prompted by three waves of Melbourne lockdowns to finish an album they’d been putting off for five years. It’s a record about a potentially sinister love doctor. And The Beastie Girls, a trio of drag queens in Melbourne who are fabulously fun, outspoken and once depicted a dramatised act of bestiality on stage.

The next day I packed up my stuff and hitchhiked back to Vancouver with a black eye. I got picked up by a truck driver who spent the next six hours snorting prescription amphetamines. He told me stories about fights he’d won over the years and about how much he loved his wife and kids. All the while, he drove full speed ahead through a gnarly snowstorm, traversing a colossal mountain range in a big white cloud. At some point, I fell asleep in the passenger seat and woke up at a petrol station on the outskirts of Vancouver. I was glad to be out of there. It was time to do something else for a while.

You might be thinking at this point, I thought this was supposed to be a skateboarding magazine? We’ll, we’re not exclusively a skate mag but the old wooden toy does have a way of seeping into much of what we do here at GF. For example, author, academic and skateboarder Kyle Beachy gave us the privilege of publishing an excerpt from his new book, The Most Fun Thing, which is full of philosophical insights about the subculture-turnedcommodity that we all know and love. And finally, we’ve published a handful of Curtis Hay’s photos of the late Trent Riley, celebrating the life of one of Australia’s most beloved skateboarders. Trent was out fishing in Moreton Bay back in April when he went missing, without a trace. It rocked everyone around him and the skate community at large, but we’re stoked to be able to share some of Trent’s previously unseen gold here.

For this issue of Grass Fires, I interviewed Sam Wilson, a filmmaker who told me he’d also moved to Canada in his 20s, “with a backpack and shit-all money”. Sam lived through a similar kind of youthful, self-destructive carnage, but instead of a bad haircut and a blackeye, he ended up making a really beautiful black and white film, loosely based around his experiences living in Vancouver. He’s the director, writer and lead actor in Miles Away, an experimental, low-budget anti-love story which takes some cues from Larry Clarke’s cult classic Kids. Centred around skateboarding and jazz, it’s an arty film that feels at once surreal and hyper-real. Scope that feature on page 30.

I hope you enjoy Issue 7 of Grass Fires. As you’ve no doubt figured out already, this magazine is 100% FREE. That means it’s accessible to anyone and everyone, including you, so thanks for reading. — Nat Kassel

Lots of other yarns in this mag too. We tracked down Jaleesa Vincent, a tap-dancing, free-surfing artist from The Sunshine Coast who’s been quietly raging through the pandemic, painting, making jewellery and getting waves. She’s the one

Done something stupid and reckless in your time? I'd love to hear about it. Email your words, photos and illustrations to nat@grass-fires.com

SEPTEMBER, 2021 — ISSUE #7

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Chris Bradley

EDITOR IN CHIEF / ART-DIRECTOR / FOUNDER

ILLUSTRATORS Pat Rogasch Brett Randall Marty Baptist WRITERS Ali Klinkenberg Nat Kassel Eddie Zammit Kyle Beachy Peta Petidis Gemma Clarke James Bourbon Curtis Hay PHOTOGRAPHERS Jess James Holly Hawkins James Bourbon Jamie Wdziekonski Charlie Hughes Curtis Hay Aidan Calabria

The views expressed in this magazine are not necessarily those of Grass Fires. Copyright of articles, photographs and illustrations in Grass Fires remain with the contributor and may not be reproduced without permission. No responsibility is accepted for unsolicited material. The content in this magazine is intended for poeple over the age of 18 and is not marketed to minors. <<< OUR WEBSITE 'N' THAT ISSN 2651-8791

JALEESA VINCENT

WORDS — ALI KLINKENBERG P H OTO S — J E S S J A M E S

JALEESA VINCENT

FROM FREE SURFING TO TAP DANCING TO PAINTING AND JEWELLERY DESIGN, JALEESA VINCENT IS JUST TRYING TO EXPAND HER MIND.

aleesa Vincent writes “lifeguard” on her immigration forms—or she did, a couple of years back when there were regular opportunities to travel—but she’s generally a professional freesurfer. She’s one of only a few women who are paid to surf non-competitively. But aside from surfing, she paints, makes jewellery, writes poetry and dances Chicago-style onstage with her band, Cupid and the Stupids. It’s this whole package, along with her ability to do it all with style, that makes her such an interesting character.

There’s a mysterious quality that makes people stand out, regardless of the crowd. It’s a hard-to-define trait, but one that’s coveted and largely absent, especially in the art, surf, skate and music worlds, where being contrived is the cardinal sin and 99% of participants are certified sinners. No, it’s unknown what one does to be blessed with this elusive je ne sais quoi, but Jaleesa Vincent has it. Whatever it is, she’s got it in abundance. Jaleesa’s known to some as “Jellybean”, as she’s apparently also blessed with the gift of being able to accurately estimate the number of jelly beans in a jar. When I caught up with the 22-year-old Bangalow resident, she was back where she grew up, on Queensland’s Sunshine Coast, visiting her parents. Jaleesa blowing back into town coincided with another lockdown, so she had time to chat. “I guess growing up on the Sunny Coast was a pretty chill environment,” Jaleesa tells me. “Lots of surfy groms, so I got into the surfing and did all the classic boardriders stuff and all that. But then I’ve got a group of friends who are all creative and into art and music, so they guided me into that.” Surfing has had a long and sordid relationship with art. Surfers have painted their crafts for decades, and plenty log their tax returns under “surfer/artist”. From surf art’s psychedelic origins with artists like Rick Griffin, through Australian interpretations like the early Hot Buttered offerings, Mambo, Lost… and then more of the surfer first, artist a close second, in the style of Ozzie Wright. There’s a difference between those who can make art, and those who can’t not make art. Jaleesa tells me that she’s always been in the latter camp.

“Even in kindy I was trying to perfect the self-portrait,” she says. “It was a big part of my life even before I started surfing. I haven’t been to art school or anything, but I had a really amazing art teacher, Miss Robinson. I hated high school, but she inspired me heaps and I used to spend break times in the art [rooms].” Jaleesa says that going to art school one day is not completely out of the question, but admits that the main thing holding her back is the “fear of staying in the same spot.” As for the art practice in her current life-work balance, Jaleesa says that consistency is the key for maximum peace of mind. “Putting bones back together, fashion, sewing, writing, poetry, it all informs part of who I am,” she says. “If I do a little bit each day then I feel good. It makes me feel productive, but it also clears my mind and makes me excited. I like going to sleep with a new idea for the next day. That’s how my brain works. I can’t not be doing anything.” When it comes to surfing, Jaleesa’s a member of an elite squad. “Elite” because of the surfing pedigree required to join and the highly selective nature, but not in terms of how the word’s regularly used. If anything, you’d call RAGE antielite, but that certainly doesn’t mean anyone can join. It’s the grip company started by surfers Noa Deane, Creed McTaggart, Ellis Ericson, Beau Foster, and filmmaker/Skeggs bassist Toby Cregan (with Shaun Manners and Jaleesa and her brother Jake as the additional teamriders).

“PUTTING BONES BACK TOGETHER, FASHION, SEWING, WRITING, POETRY, IT ALL INFORMS PART OF WHO I AM.”

JALEESA VINCENT JALEESA VINCENT

“I FEEL LIKE I’M ONLY JUST STARTING OUT, AND I MAINLY GET NERVOUS BECAUSE I FEEL SORRY FOR PEOPLE STANDING ON THE BEACH. I JUST TRY SURFING LIKE IT’S A FREESURF. WHICH IT IS.”

JALEESA VINCENT

The RAGE mob is more akin to the blueprint of a skate company than your usual surf squad. It’s rider-owned and the only place to get a grip, leash or hoodie is on rageragerage.com. Their hallmark output is their films. Jaleesa made her debut in the latest, RAGE 3, which saw all the gang board a boat to Indonesia’s Mentawai Islands for a week of straight raging.

Jaleesa’s surfing in the film was refreshing. As well as being the only female on team RAGE, she’s also the only goofy. Her surfing’s everything we’ve not come to expect from the few females surf companies allow to enter the freesurfing space. In short, Jaleesa doesn’t just go straight and look great, she rips; throwing fins, chucking buckets with signature laybacks in the pocket and hunting any left tube breaking throughout the archipelago. It’s a brand of femme thrash not before seen, reminiscent of Ozzie Wright’s career defining performance in seminal classic Seven Days Seven Slaves.

“I’m so lucky to have such a sick crew to inspire me and push me,” Jaleesa says of the RAGE gang. “I always want to surf with them, but I mainly have fun and don’t like to put too much pressure on myself.” Filming for a surf film can be fraught. Far more time is spent in the car, plane or boat than in the ocean, and when it’s go time, the pressure to perform is often overwhelming. Jaleesa says she tries to focus less on banking clips and more on having fun, then hoping it translates. “There’s no point me filming and having a shit time,” Jaleesa says. “I feel like I’m only just starting out, and I mainly get nervous because I feel sorry for people standing on the beach. I just try surfing like it’s a freesurf. Which it is.”

Below Paintings by Jaleesa Vincent

JALEESA VINCENT

“Originally the band was called Israeli Chicks, but they had to change the name,” Jaleesa says. “They figured they may as well start a new band, and my brother was keen to join and I can tap dance. It’s seven of us all up. We play rock and roll love songs, and it’s kind of a cabaret show.” The pandemic’s obviously slowed Cupid and the Stupids from spreading their raunchy live show as widely as they’d like, but Jaleesa says that they’ve managed to squeeze in a few memorable gigs between the ever-changing Australian restrictions. “We played Forest Fuzz near Bribie Island, that was super special,” says Jaleesa. “But heaps of gigs have been cancelled. It seems like whenever we organise something, COVID pops back up, so we’ve been working on an album as at least we can do that in our own time. Then we’re definitely doing a tour.”

“IF I’M AT HOME I TRY AND STAY OCCUPIED WITH PAINTING, CAMPING, READING A BOOK AND LEARNING SOME NEW WORDS. AS LONG AS I’M EXPANDING MY MIND, I FEEL PRODUCTIVE.”

Jaleesa keeps the purse strings tight and survives from her modest surfing pay-cheque, but music’s becoming more and more a part of her life. Currently she sings and dances—mainly tap dances—in a band called Cupid and the Stupids, which also features her brother Jake on rhythm guitar. The band’s on-stage presence is pure Rocky Horror chaos. There’s an army of them all dressed up like ‘80s glam vampires, and the songs are high energy and catchy. Jaleesa holds down the percussion section, shaking the tambourine and stomping and clacking at the tap dancing board. She also joins in on the vocals – many of Cupid and the Stupids’ songs contain a mishmash of harmonies and layered vocal tracks.

From the outside, you’d be forgiven for thinking that someone like Jaleesa is absolutely cruising through the current period of uncertainty. In some ways, it has been a ripe time for creatives like her to hunker down and be productive. But then again, music touring is on hold, art shows are hard to organise and you can’t travel for waves. That makes it hard. When your job description’s broad, the fear that the rug’s going to be yanked out from under you at any point is ever present, and during the pandemic it’s been all-consuming for some. Jaleesa, however, seems positive about it all. She’s still ticking along with her various projects, staying patient and learning what she can along the way. “I’ve never really had a plan,” she says. “I’ve been trying to get some good waves and would love to make a surf film. Other than that I’ve been working on some paintings for a show at the end of the year and recording music. But even if I’m at home I try and stay occupied with painting, camping, reading a book and learning some new words. As long as I’m expanding my mind, I feel productive.”

W O R D S — N AT K A S S E L P H OTO S — C/O S I Z E 8 S T U D I O

MILES AWAY

am Wilson was working the grill at a Vancouver taco joint when he started writing his first feature film, Miles Away. The taco joint was more like a nightclub though, and Sam usually worked until four in the morning, cooking drunk food for a steady stream of people par t ying on Granville Street. He’d moved to Vancouver from Melbourne, with a brief stint in the mountains of Norway in between, and had spent the previous decade hopping between acting gigs and hospitality jobs. “I had a bit of a rough couple of years in Melbourne, chasing film work,” says Sam. “The whole acting thing’s pretty tough – just lots of rejection and inconsistent work.” Sam initially headed for the mountains of Norway, planning “to get away from the film industry and get away from everyone,” but after six months of isolation and negative temperatures, he knew he wanted to make a film. With little more than a backpack, Sam headed for Vancouver, which he soon found to be “a beautiful city full of starving talent”. Before long he was in a relationship, then going through a breakup, and all the while, trying to get work as an actor, flipping tacos and writing his own script. He was also surrounded by way too much cocaine. “That was the low of the low,” he says. “But it was all that rock bottom that really inspired the film.”

The film, Miles Away, is an experimental, indie creation, touted as “an anti-love story set between the worlds of jazz and skateboarding”. Shot totally in black and white, it somehow feels both stylised and hyper realistic. It took four years to make and was shot on a shoestring budget, funded mostly through Sam’s labours at the taco bar, and later, at a Jamaican food truck. Sam wrote it, directed

it, played the lead role, then edited and produced it. But perhaps more impressive is the fact that he somehow convinced between 200 and 300 people to work on it for free, with little more to offer them than free beer, courtesy of a beer sponsor. When I catch Sam on the phone for this interview, he’s sitting on a headland in Port Macquarie, where he grew up, looking out at the surf. With a hearty chuckle, he tells me his mother has been doomsday prepping for the latest lockdown, but that he’s glad to be out of the city, staying with his mum on a farm that’s been in his family for a couple of generations. Miles Away is just about finished, which is a relief. “I thought I was going to die quite a few times during the making of this film,” he says, somehow without sounding too dramatic. “I was actually amazed that I made it through the stress, the exhaustion. It was week after week of getting pushed beyond your limits. We were about three weeks into shooting and I would wake up in the middle of the night and I couldn't breathe. I felt like something had crawled into my throat. I’d get myself out of bed, not breathing, and I’d stumble through my house to make sure someone was there, in case I passed out. I’d find someone on the couch or go into my housemate’s room and then all of a sudden I’d feel the breath coming back in.” He exhales deeply. “That was the level of stress.” The film tells the story of Miles (Sam Wilson), an Australian skateboarder in his 20s who moves to Vancouver to spend the summer with a girl named Lulu (Nalani Wakita). Miles and Lulu fall into an intense relationship, cocooned by a handful of mutual friends and a steady flow of booze and recreational drugs, which creates a slow-boiling tension that builds throughout the film. While Lulu goes off to work, Miles spends time with his best friend Sid (Theo Jones); they spend their afternoons skateboarding and their nights partying, seamlessly moving between jazz bars, comedy clubs and skate shops. It all feels very familiar.

MILES AWAY

The film’s most amusing character is probably Charlie, a comparatively older guy who owns a jazz club. His lines are delivered like slam poetry and he snorts coke like a maniac. He’s got a drug-addled intensity that mostly adds to his charisma, but towards the end of the bender, feels increasingly dark and nauseating. Sam describes Charlie’s character as “the personification of drugs. He's this cool, fucking elusive, mysterious, all powerful, omnipresent beast.” With the exception of a few of the stars, Sam mostly recruited non actors to play themselves, or variations of themselves, a technique made famous by Larry Clarke, the director of seminal hyper-realist films like Kids and Ken Park. Much of the dialogue in Miles Away is ad-libbed, which has the effect of making the viewer feel like a voyeur, looking in on a series of private moments between lovers and close friends. It makes for intimate viewing. “I only used a handful of actors – the minimum really. Actors are hard work, they ask too many questions,” Sam laughs. “But real people, if you cast the right people, they're good at being themselves. They’re fucking better than anyone else in the world at being themselves.” Sam attempted to create a shooting environment that blurred the lines between film set and reality. He asked the cast to start calling each other by their character names for weeks before they started shooting, setting them up to inhabit the roles they were playing. A bar and restaurant called The Reef was one of the major shooting locations, and the producers made an effort to make it feel like a regular bar for everybody on the set. The actors and extras could go up to the bar and order a drink, or go outside to smoke, and it wasn’t always clear whether shooting was in progress or not. “It was a real wild head fuck,” says Sam. “I was trying to create this really live environment so people would really forget that we were shooting. That comes with its fucken challenges as well, because you have maniacs walking on set and all sorts of craziness going on.” That craziness culminated to breaking point when a fist fight started to break out on the set. Some of the skaters, who were essentially extras playing themselves, had a beef with some of the actors who were playing Lulu’s colleagues. These two groups actually have beef in the plot of the film, so Sam says he’d been encouraging the tension as a conduit for method acting. It was supposed to add authentic tension to the scene, but he admits that it got out of hand. “A full-on fight broke out. I was screaming at everyone to cut. I had to grab Nate by the back and pull him off,” Sam explains. “That scared the shit out of me.”

MILES AWAY

He continues: “I gave a speech and everyone came good. There was no bad blood. The skaters just laughed about it. For them it was just a new experience where they were allowed to get rowdy and it was all fun and games, at the core. It was the actors who were really scared. No one got slogged in the face, but it was close. It was really close, and that scared the actors. They didn't know how far it was going to go, or how far these skateboarders would take it. They out-acted the actors.” When Sam talks about the skateboarders on the set, he sounds a little bit tired, as if they were a pretty challenging group to please. He says he lured them onto set with free weed and a steady supply of beers, supplied by the beer sponsor. Sam also had some directorial support from the legendary Stacy Peralta, who watched some early footage that ended up in the film and offered encouragement. Stacy’s involvement in the film was pretty minimal, but his name alone earned Sam some trust from the skaters involved. The longer I talk to Sam about his film, the more it sounds like a clear case of art imitating life. The conflicts, relationship breakdowns and instances of substance abuse were all very real for him. One of the major tensions in the film is that while the male characters are mostly hedonistic, selfish and content to just skate and party, the female characters in the film tend to want something more, whether it’s a greener pasture, career progression or simply a holiday. Though every character is flawed in their own ways, the women on screen seem a little more ambitious. In one scene, Miles and Sid are sitting on a stoop drinking beers and smoking cigarettes when Miles cautiously enquires about Sid’s relationship with his girlfriend. “The thing I never realise is I’m always like, significantly more drunk than she is, and I don’t think I ever realise that while it’s happening. So, it’s fair enough, she’s going to get bummed, obviously, when I come banging on the door at whatever time… She also has a way better job, so she cares a little more.” While Sid seems aware that his girlfriend would like him to be more present and respectful, he speaks with total nonchalance, as if it doesn’t matter at all. “It’s great,” he says finally, “I don’t do shit.” Miles laughs this off, making no effort to encourage Sid to do better.

Sam explains that in the film, he’s playing a younger version of himself, which meant confronting his own issues with substance abuse. Evidently, this was a difficult character to play, not because it was unfamiliar, but because he had to lean into his flaws and feel them viscerally, addressing some of the carnage from his past. “It was very confronting for me to put that down on paper – the alcohol and the drugs and stuff – but it’s helped me immensely, doing it. Having to edit that film was a fucking nightmare for me. It was like sandpapering my ego.” My final question for Sam is what he wants people to take away from the film. What was it all for, this beautiful, jazz-infused, black and white semi-autobiographical film that took four years of his life and, by his own account, nearly killed him? His answer boils down to authenticity. “I didn't build these characters up to make them super likeable or anything, it was more important that they were authentic and real,” he says. “I was sick of Hollywood’s ideals of love that we’ve been fucking suffocated with our whole lives. They’re just not the love stories that I know.” Rather than providing a clear message or a social comment, Miles Away, seeks to authentically represent a group of friends and their subculture on screen. It’s a story of minimum wage retail and hospitality jobs, of drinking and drugs, and of the tensions that arise in friendships and romantic relationships. Of course, real life events rarely end with neat and happy conclusions. Real stories are usually messy and complex and open to interpretation, with a bit of beauty and humour along the way. And, in the case of Miles Away, that’s infinitely more interesting than a happy ending.

WATCH THE TRAILER >>>

MILES AWAY

[FILTHYRATBAG] CELESTE MOUNTJOY IS A CONTEMPORARY AUSTRALIAN ARTIST WHO GREW UP ON THE INTERNET AND IS BEST KNOWN BY HER INSTAGRAM HANDLE, @FILTHYRATBAG. WITH SOME PROMPTING FROM OUR RESIDENT ART GUY, EDDIE ZAMMIT, CELESTE LETS US IN ON THE THINGS THAT INSPIRE HER, MAKE HER VULNERABLE AND MAKE HER LAUGH.

P H OTO S — H O L LY H AW K I N S INTERVIEW — EDDIE Z AMMIT S H O OT D I R E C T I O N — E D D I E Z A M M I T

ALL ROADS LEAD TO SOMETHING, SOMETHING.

Left to Right I’m the fool. 2019 All roads lead to something, something. 2019 I do not think. 2021

eleste Mountjoy is articulate, smart, talented and troublesome all at the same time. She is a young, contemporary Australian artist and illustrator who uses social media to her fullest potential to express her news and views to the world. On Instagram, Celeste’s moniker is @fithyratbag and her 400k followers are already ahead of the curve, recognising she’s half artist and half writer. Her anecdotes, comments, sarcasm and wit all create Celeste’s unique tone and voice. She has a lot to say. Not much rattles the cage of @flithyratbag. She’s confident and empowered and her voice shines through in her combinations of illustrations and words. Mountjoy agrees, explaining, “I’ve always loved the mixture of writing and drawing as a form of storytelling.” Her story—at the tender age of 21—has hardly been told. Celeste knows all too well that people judge any good book by its cover. But she also knows that the real juicy content is in the middle. Remember her name. Celeste Mountjoy. She’s as memorable as her Instagram handle. And for her, the best is yet to come.

FILTHYRATBAG

“I’VE ALWAYS BEEN RIDICULOUSLY DRAMATIC AND EMOTIONAL, SO CONCEPTUALLY IT FELT LIKE I COULD POUR MY HEART OUT WITH ART FROM A VERY YOUNG AGE..”

Dare I ask, where did you get your name, Filthyratbag, from? It was thrown around when I was little, kind of an innocent scold. I used to cut stuff up and draw on walls a lot, like a little shit. Most kids are total ratbags. I decided to use it as my social media handle when I was around 15 to give me some sense of anonymity to sign off on my art with. I felt it made it a lot easier for me to draw what I wanted to draw and say what I wanted to say. I remember posting a photo of myself on Facebook after I’d grown a bit of a following and I received all these messages from people saying they thought I’d been a bloke all along; I thought that was interesting. I’m happy with signing off as Celeste Mountjoy now, but I’m thankful I’ve had Filthyratbag as a bit of a comfort tag.

Step back for a moment. How did you get to this very point in your career? I’ve been drawing ever since I can remember, and it’s been my one consistent love – storytelling and drawing. Dad had an old school dial-up computer at his house so when I’d go over to his as a kid, I’d muck around on MS Paint and talk to strange men on the internet. Having access to the internet as a kid is kind of mind blowing, it shows you how big the world is in a totally different light than books do. When I was a teenager, I started uploading my drawings to social media and I really enjoyed seeing that people found what I was doing relatable or interesting. It encouraged me to make more until eventually I was lucky enough to take it on as my full-time job after school finished.

How did you develop your art style? It’s been pretty consistent for several years now. I’ve never had much patience with drawing, I’ve always been a fan of instant gratification and the imperfection that comes along with it and I think that gives my drawings a certain look. I’ve always been ridiculously dramatic and emotional, so conceptually it felt like I could pour my heart out with art from a very young age. As I grew into a teenager, I think I found humour a good way of coping with sensitivity and what I was experiencing. You have to be able to laugh at yourself and the sad shit around you otherwise things get disastrous! I think when you’re making art that is so personal it has no choice but to develop a style. It’s so much a part of me.

FILTHYRATBAG

“THE INTERNET AS A WHOLE WAS SO INFLUENTIAL TO ME AS A KID, IT’S HUGE. OBVIOUSLY, THERE ARE TOXIC PARTS OF IT, BUT I FEEL VERY LUCKY TO HAVE HAD ACCESS TO IT THEN AND NOW.”

In my opinion, women are dominating the art world. And yes, clearly, it’s about time. Who are some female artists on the rise? There are so many girls doing so many different things. A couple that I’ve loved looking at this year [are] Alex Graham, a comic artist whose comic book Dog Biscuits is a masterpiece; Tilly Lawless is an Aussie writer who’s just made a beautiful book called Nothing But My Body; Lele Lopez makes [textile] art rugs using a huge gun and you can hang them up on your wall; Sarah Hagale makes drawings that are fine lined and hypnotising. I could go on. I love your low-brow sensibilities. I am under no illusion that you are serious about what you do though. How do you strike a balance between piss-take and thoughtful observation? I think seriousness has been a problem for me! Every small anxiety or heartache I have makes me feel like my world is on fire if I allow it to. Humour is soothing, and so is relatability; communicating what I need to through art is therapeutic. I can decide where the balance lies depending on what it is I need the work to communicate. You recently posted an illustration that boldly stated, “Your turn to be looked after.” Is that you in this artwork? If so, it begs the question – who looks after you? Kitt Bennett cooks me dinner most nights and today he packed me a lunchbox to bring into the studio. He’s a paint genius and a roast chook master. We really can have it all.

When do you struggle with your art practice? Do you struggle? And how do you move forward from that? If I start struggling, I take a break. No point forcing anything. It never comes out right if you do! Tell us about your artwork ideas. Your work reads like a journal of personal observations. Where do you find your own personal inspiration? Obsessing over feelings and experiences. It’s super self-indulgent, but I go over things again and again. When I was 11, I started doing this compulsively and it resulted in full blown nervous meltdowns. My dad used to tell me to “change the record” I was playing on repeat in my head. At that age it was really hard to make sense of things like I can as an adult, or at least find the humour or the meaning in “the record”. Now I’ve gotten better at doing that, and it results in less nervous meltdowns and more art. It would be remiss of me not to talk about your social media following. How important is social media to you and your craft? It’s essential to me in terms of having a job as an artist. The internet as a whole was so influential to me as a kid, it’s huge. Obviously, there are toxic parts of it, but I feel very lucky to have had access to it then and now.

FRB

FILTHYRATBAG

Left to Right Your turn. 2021 The box. 2019

Right Page Leopard variety. 2018

“IT’S LIKE WHEN YOU LOOK BACK AT YOUR DIARY ENTRIES FROM HIGH SCHOOL AND CRINGE SO HARD YOUR EYES START WATERING.” I love your brashness in your concepts; your ideas are raw and honest. Have you ever created work that pushed the boundaries too far – from your own perspective? Nah, not from my own perspective. I know when something’s probably going to get a bit of a negative reaction from certain people, and I’ve definitely had certain people kick up a fuss about a few of my drawings, but that’s just expected when there are lots of people watching. I don’t want to censor myself for the comfort of others, and I would never set out to make a drawing that was offensive for the sake of being offensive – that’s lazy and boring. For the most part, I trust myself and what I put out into the world. Who is Celeste Mountjoy? The real Celeste Mountjoy. Per fect body, per fect mind. Completely OK at all times. Gums are in perfect health. A vessel of youth and wellness. Very much not concerned.

You’ve recently applied your artwork to limited edition prints, totes and T-shirts. Money aside, where else do you want your artwork to be seen? For the most part, my drawings live in A5 sketch books, so it’s always a bit dreamy to go bigger and experiment with scale and different mediums. At the moment I’m working on my first book, which is also very exciting. I’m not used to my stories being long form, so it’s been fun to muck around and see where it takes me. Do you ever look back on your ideas and change your mind? Or do you standby all your observations? I do! It’s like when you look back at your diary entries from high school and cringe so hard your eyes start watering. Things are changing all the time. I’ve had to learn not to look back and cringe too hard. You’re always just doing the best you can. It’s a good sign if your old work doesn’t cut it for you anymore, it means you’re growing.

“It’s not peer pressure. It’s peer encouragement.” You wrote these words in 2017 and it has dawned on me that you’re a bit of writer. Is that your original creative outlet? I could draw before I could write, so when I was little my mum used to go through my sketchbooks with me and I’d tell her what I wanted the characters to be saying. I’m still doing the same 15 years later but I no longer need mum’s help – thanks mum. What’s next? Where is Filthyratbag in five years from now? My doctor said at the rate my gums are receding I won’t have any teeth left by 30, so I assume I’ll probably be on a liquid diet. Other than that, I’m looking forward to being able to travel again, I feel like there’s so much I want to see and explore, and being able to travel with art is a huge joy. I’m also excited to see my book go out into the world!

TROPICAL FUCK STORM

W O R D S – N AT K A S S E L P H OTO S – J A M I E W DZ I E KO N S K I

“Y

ou know what?” says Gareth Liddiard, Tropical Fuck Storm songs, it’s the getting on a bit of a roll. “Fuck humans!” argument that the Internet has fucked It’s a Thursday morning, just after 11am, the world up. and Gaz is a little bit hungover. But he’s laughing as he says this, getting animated and “You can put any bullshit on Facebook outrageous. “You know about human rights? How and call it non-fiction,” Gaz explains. about this: Humans are the fucking scourge of the “And some idiot over the age of 55 will earth, they shit on everything else. If you inter- go, ‘Ok.’ They don’t realise that it’s viewed every other living thing on the planet, they not what it’s being labelled as. Everywould say that humans are fucking scum. So body is not on the same page, and don’t talk to me about human rights.” everybody has their own set of bullshit facts… everybody thinks they’re These words will look heavy in print, but they the first person in history to finally get are spoken with an odd mix of cheek and it right. And they’ve got a platform to sincerity. Gaz is a great interviewee, equal parts fucken preach that crap. amicable and intense. I get a sense that he enjoys offending people, or at least shocking “The only good thing about humans, them. Having listened to his lyrics, starting with the only thing we have over elephants The Drones records, then his 2010 solo album or chimps, is teamwork. We didn’t get Strange Tourist and now three Tropical Fuck to the moon because we’re smart, we Storm records, my guess is that Gaz actually got to the moon because we could cares deeply for humans and human rights. work as a team… I think the Internet is Maybe at times he cares so much that it hurts, undoing that fabric, the fabric of teamto the point where he’s frustrated enough to say work. No one agrees with each other. outlandish and misanthropic sentences like these. “Look at the way we reacted to the We’re talking on the phone about Tropical Fuck pandemic. You’d think that would Storm’s most recent single, ‘G.A.F.F.’, which bring everyone onto the same team stands for “give-a-fuck fatigue”. It’s a song replete and would make us all fight it, together, with the crazy, layered noise and grooves that but people don’t even want to fuckTFS have become known for, defying a single ing get vaccinated, and people think genre but spanning art rock, noise, post punk it’s fake.” and psychedelia. It’s difficult to describe the TFS sound with words, except to say that they don’t Gaz has a lot to say about the Internet. sound like any other band. Their lyrics are always In a song called ‘The Future of History’, captivating to decode, with all sorts of obscure from the first TFS album, A Laughing references and social commentary. ‘G.A.F.F.’ Death in Meatspace, he laments, “If IBM is here takes aim at everything from the pandemic to to make your dreams come true / It can probably Antifa to QAnon conspiracy theorists to the do the same thing for your nightmares too.” 24-hour news cycle. It’s about being exposed to so much bad news that you’re too fatigued While it’s easy to see the Internet as a sort of to engage with it. Post 2020, it feels painfully ungovernable no man’s land where anything relevant. goes, Gaz points out that there are people designing and profiting off pretty much everyAt one point in the song Gaz spits, “The body thing that you see online. In the press release cam’s live / the body count’s dead / next to that came out with the new album, Deep States, people making babies on the World Wide Web.” there was a quote about “super yacht dwelling He’s contrasting internet porn with the Christ- tech barons” who “monetise our indignation”. church shooter, Brenton Tarrant, who lives- When I ask about this, Gaz clarifies, “It’s just a treamed himself massacring 51 people in a business… That’s just so Mark Zuckerberg can mosque. The song acknowledges the absurdity earn advertising dollars and sell your personal of how the Internet allows us instant access to information for money.” both these things, side by side. And if there’s a single overarching theme that carries through ***

TROPICAL FUCK STORM

Along with Gaz, TFS is made up of three women: In a 2018 interview Gaz told the journalist Mahmood Fazal, “I look back on The Drones shit and think, ‘What Fiona Kitschin, Erica Dunn and Lauren Hammel. a load of fucking wank.’” I wonder if die-hard Drones fans—of which there are more than a few—find this diffiFiona joined The Drones in 2002 and has been cult to stomach, and if Gaz still sees The Drones as a wank. “Ah, not really,” he laughs. “Mahmood’s a really in a relationship with Gaz for almost 25 years. good friend, so I probably just said it to make him laugh. I mean, I guess what I was getting at was I wanted In Tropical Fuck Storm, she plays bass, sings, TFS to be a bit more simple and direct, a bit more punk. Less Bob Dylan, more Circle Jerks or Black Flag.” writes some of the lyrics and manages the band. Erica Dunn is a former community radio host and Where The Drones songs were often personal and sometimes emotional (see: ‘Why Write A Letter That Melbourne music scene staple, playing guitar and You’ll Never Send’), Tropical Fuck Storm songs tend to address larger contemporary issues, like the singing with bands like Palm Springs, Harmony effects of the Internet, the pandemic and the storming of the Capitol building, to name a few examples. and MOD CON. Gaz and Fi already knew Erica “When you’re younger, you’ve got your head up your arse and you think about yourself a bit more than before forming TFS, so she was an easy fit. They you think about everything else,” says Gaz. “And that’s reflected in The Drones a bit more. So rather than headhunted Lauren “Hammer” Hammel, after looking inwards, TFS is looking outwards. And there’s so much to look at, especially in this day and age.” seeing her play drums with her other band, High Tension, citing her as one of the best drummers in town. When they get asked about the three-quarters-female line-up, TFS tend to play it down. Gaz was once quoted: “Honestly, having Hammer and Erica would only be political if they were crap at what they did.” In other words, the three women in TFS are there because they’re super talented and they all bring something unique to the band. During our phone interview interview, I can hear Fi in the background helping Gaz with some of his answers. At one point Gaz says that all politicians are stupid and ugly, with “heads like robber’s dogs”. Fi suggests: “What about Jacinda Ardern?” “We’re a fairly low maintenance couple,” says Gaz. “We spend 99% of the time together – more so than other couples. And then we offset each other well, like when we’re writing music. I’m a little bit more prone to get scientific and try to experiment with stuff and see how weird I could get. Then Fi’s always saying, ‘Well, you know it still has to have some sort of emotional clout.’ So she’ll pull me back in that direction.” Gaz and Fi clearly have a successful dynamic for songwriting and their relationship seems to suit their lifestyle as working musicians. Gaz explains that The Drones eventually broke up because the other two members were buying houses and having kids, while he and Fi were still keen to spend their time making records, partying and touring the world. “The whole point of a rock and roll band, as opposed to a symphony orchestra or something like that, is that you can move quick. You can chuck the shit in a car, drive to the airport and fuck off on short notice. We couldn’t do it with them. Plus we’d been doing it for ages and really hadn’t done anything different.”

*** Gaz says he didn’t write a single song for the first six months of the pandemic. He and Fi live in Nagambie, a town between Melbourne and Shepparton, so they had to endure successive lockdowns. “It was just depressing,” he says. “The wheels fell off and it didn’t seem like there was any point to anything, really. Everything was such an unknown. It was just a lost six months.” He eventually pulled himself out of the doldrums though; TFS spent the following six months working on the new album, Deep States, much of which was inspired by the news cycle. “Yeah, I read the news too much,” says Gaz. “It’s just fascinating to see everybody’s reactions to stuff. I especially like the Murdoch press, reading the letters people write in – just a bunch of whingeing idiots. I find that entertaining. I’m looking at the comments on Twitter – dumb fucks out there in the world.” “Dumb fuck,” seems to be Gaz’s favourite slur. It’s how he describes QAnon conspiracy theorists, anti-vaxxers, flat earthers, climate change deniers, the hard right and the hard left – they’re all dumb fucks, according to Gaz. One song from the new album, ‘Blue Beam Baby’, is about Ashli Babbitt, the 35-year-old woman who was shot and killed by police when she stormed the US Capitol building on January 6. She was part of an angry mob who were demanding that Donald Trump get a second term, even after Joe Biden had won the US election. Babbitt was an air force veteran who got deep into various conspiracy theories, including QAnon, which is based on discredited claims that the world is run by a secret cabal of Satanic paedophiles who operate an underground sex trafficking ring.

“She’s obviously just a dumb fuck,” says Gaz of Ashli Babbitt. “She climbed through that window, towards a dude pointing a gun at her, so she’s pretty stupid. But yeah, there is still compassion there. The song is basically about Q and it’s a fraud.” Gaz (and many others) reckon the whole conspirac y was probabl y started by Jim and Ron Watkins, a father and son who ran an online message board called 8kun (formerly 8chan). Their website has been a hub for the far right, frequently used as a platform for hate speech and violent extremism. It was also where the QAnon conspiracy updates appeared. “This is a guy who’s bringing Nazism 2.0 in,” Gaz says of Watkins. “Just this insignificant fucking idiot, and so she [Ashli Babbitt] died for him, so that’s sad.”

admire Antifa for many reasons, but at the same time it’s like, ‘Go into politics if you want to do something, don’t just go and fucking punch someone. That doesn’t change the world.’ Do you think Martin Luther King went around punching people? Or Nelson Mandela went around punching people?” This sentiment comes through in ‘G.A.F.F.’ when he sings, “Nazis hate pinkos hate MAGAts in the park / when they’re killing one another you can tell them apart”. But of course, it’s a song about not giving a fuck, pointing out that this kind of violence leaves us feeling both disturbed and apathetic. We’ve become too busy and burnt out to care: “Don’t wanna die a martyr / I’m just looking for a latte and a fucking phone charger.” When it comes to writing lyrics, Gaz says that with TFS it’s a collaborative process. “It’s a lot of work writing lyrics, so it’s more fun if everyone helps. Generally everyone pitches in,” he says, explaining that with The Drones, he would do most of the songwriting by himself. “I think I was maybe a bit more of a control freak back then, but now I can’t be bothered being a control freak so everyone helps me,” he laughs.

Gaz has long been outspoken in his criticism of the radical right, but he’s no darling of the left either. With the left’s tendencies toward cancel culture, pseudoscience and, in some cases, physical violence, he seems to hate them both in almost equal measure.

It might come as a surprise to some, but Gaz says TFS have become more popular than The Drones ever were. They’re signed to Flightless Records, the niche and highly respected label run by King Gizzard, and just before the pandemic hit, they’d booked a string of international tours that were set to be their biggest yet. It was all happening for them, more than it ever had before.

“Right wingers deny climate science, and that’s fucked, but then left wingers deny all sorts of science, like medicine. They’d rather use a crystal to cure cancer,” he laughs. “I

“People are finally picking up what we’re putting down,” he says. “I think that comes down to the fact that the world’s anxiety levels have finally caught up to the anxiety levels in the music that we’ve been putting out for 20-odd years.”

The Most Fun

K.B “I HAVE BEEN TOLD THAT I TAKE SKATEBOARDING TOO SERIOUSLY,” KYLE BEACHY WRITES IN THE INTRODUCTION TO HIS

FROM A SKATEBOARD LIFE. THEN, IN THE NEXT PARAGRAPH, AS IF TO PROVE THIS POINT, HE CONTINUES, “VIA A LONG SEQUENCE OF QUESTIONS OF SELFHOOD AND PERFORMANCE, ABOUT WATCHING AND COMPREHENDING, I HAVE COME TO THINK THAT THE STYLE SKATEBOARDERS SPEAK OF MIGHT, IN FACT, BE A TOOL FOR UNDERSTANDING WHAT MANKIND USED TO CALL THE SOUL.” AS YOU MAY HAVE GUESSED BY HIS TONE AND VOCABULARY, KYLE BEACHY IS AN ASSOCIATE PROFESSOR AT A UNIVERSITY. NOW 41, BEACHY LIVES AND WORKS IN CHICAGO WITH HIS WIFE AND HAS BEEN SKATEBOARDING SINCE HE WAS A KID. HIS ANALYSIS OF SKATEBOARDING— AS A SUBCULTURE TURNED WORLDWIDE CULTURAL COMMODITY—IS BOTH POETIC AND DEEPLY ANALYTICAL. HIS BOOK TAKES THE FORM OF A SERIES OF ESSAYS, SOME OF WHICH HAVE BEEN PUBLISHED ELSEWHERE, AND WHICH ARE BEST READ IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER. BEACHY ANALYSES NYJAH HUSTON’S SKATEBOARDING ALONGSIDE DAVID FOSTER WALLACE’S WRITING ALONGSIDE HIS OWN EXPERIENCES AS A SKATEBOARDER, ULTIMATELY PRESENTING A NEW AND UNIQUELY ACADEMIC VOICE IN SKATEBOARDING. BEACHY IS UNASHAMEDLY DEDICATED TO UNCOVERING SKATEBOARDING’S COMPLEXITIES, WRITING ABOUT OUR SUBCULTURE IN WAYS WE’VE RARELY SEEN BEFORE, WHICH IS REFRESHING. THE FOLLOWING IS AN EXCERPT FROM THE FIRST CHAPTER OF KYLE BEACHY’S BOOK, WHICH IS AVAILABLE THROUGH GRAND CENTRAL PUBLISHING. —NAT KASSEL

Thing.

NEW BOOK, THE MOST FUN THING: DISPATCHES

THE MOST FUN THING

Illustrations — Brett Randall

FOR WHOM IS THE FUN THING FUN?

On a sunny afternoon in the middle of a global pandemic, I go out for a long, solitary walk through Blue Line Chicago. To live in a city is to find oneself constantly choosing among modes of transportation. For most of the seventeen years I’ve lived here, when I’ve walked it’s been from my home to the train, from the train to my destination. But these are days of working from a shared in-home office, my wife’s desk and my own facing each other so that our two offset monitors create a partition. In the evenings, we walk the neighborhood together like retirees. Alone, I construct full outings around slow, single tasks. I pass the bars and stores along Milwaukee Avenue, all shuttered and the parking spots empty. Today the sun is high and the sky very clear. I make it to the park and sit for a time with a book, watch some dogs, then decide to get to my errand.

which are of two sorts: The first are inquiries into the upcoming Nike SB quickstrike drop on Friday, for which there is a raffle with very rigid entry guidelines. These calls have become standard for shops like Uprise, which serve as temporary holding cells for these footwear commodities that arrive with great hype, sell out immediately, and go straight to resale websites. The second sort of call would seem tied to the current pandemic. Parents, you see, are growing desperate for new ways to entertain their children at home. So, G slowly and patiently explains what he’d otherwise hold, show, and compare side by side. A skateboard is built from a wooden deck, two trucks that serve as suspension, and four wheels, each of which spins upon two sets of ball bearings. A pack of bolts and nuts holds it all together, and a sheet of griptape is filed and razor cut to fit the board’s shape.

I backtrack, peel off, and wind behind a row of storefronts—you can cross Chicago entirely through alleys if you like. This one is beneath “Boards are all about thirty-two inches long, unless the tracks. I press fingers into my ears to muffle you get a mini. How old is your kid?” I am tickled to the sound of an inbound train and stand before hear G adopting professional patience. “They go the open rear door of Uprise. I can see inside from about seven and a half inches to eight and a through a locked scissor gate, so I holler to my half or nine, for a standard popsicle. Or we’ve got two friends working up front, Paul and G. After bigger shaped decks, like the old-school decks some discussion, G lets me in. We move through from the eighties? Yeah, like reissues.” one of two inventory rooms, past shelves filled with row upon row of turquoise Nike SB boxes Soon, I will leave carrying my own new deck and (the other room, behind the abutting storefront a sheet of grip rolled into a tube. At home, I’ll tear Uprise expanded into in 2016, is devoted entirely away the cellophane and peel off the warning to red and cardboard–colored Vans stock). The sticker: Skate within your abilities. Injury or death front room, the show floor, has been turned into may result from improper use. Wear safety gear. a shipping and receiving station full of outgoing Follow traffic/pedestrian safety rules. I’ll hear my orders, tape guns, and packing slips. The lights wife on a work call in the office, unroll the grip and are off but the sun through the windows is plenty. remove its paper to expose the adhesive, then Still, despite having no customers, an old skate- lay and press it carefully onto the deck so that a board video is playing on the TV mounted up sliver, a tiny slice, of the board’s nose (its front) near the ceiling. remains uncovered. This blip of revealed wood grain will mean that I won’t have to think about The shop is closed and I shouldn’t be in here. But which direction is forward. I cannot stress enough they’re bored with this new mode of business how important this last step is, ensuring a future and I’ve gone weeks without a fix, so we risk it, occasion when I’ll not have to think. respecting one another’s distance. I lean against the glass case of wheels and we catch up about But for now, I linger a few minutes longer. The Paul’s art, G’s side hustles, my writing. I do what video up on the screen is an old one, not quite I’ve always done in skate shops, moving along a classic but one I’ve watched four or five times. the racks of hanging clothes. I pick a thing and Would that I could pull a G here, and speak in hold it, put it back, then lean over the glass case clear, professional terms to communicate the and examine the wheels. G asks about my wife. ways these videos matter. Unlike music and She likes G, likes pressing him on his lifestyle sports, skateboarding has little use for live-acand vernacular and casual offhand comments. tion events attended by fans. Its media is the Then, G takes one of several phone calls that message—between magazines and these videos come during the fifteen minutes I’ll spend here, lives a culture that rejects official rules while rest-

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THE MOST FUN THING

ing upon a rich latticework of values, authored and archived by this same media. Precedent is established only to be challenged and warped by each successive new release. These videos are portals to worlds askew, and I can still recall the way my first exposure left me dizzy with possibilities for movement, appearance, and attitude—possibilities for being. As objects, the best of them are rich with tonal shifts and allusion and homage, working within and pushing against established forms like the most exciting works of art. And how fun they are to watch, how visceral at times, like little grenades of spectacle that explode with affect. I’ve been lucky in these thirty-some years of skateboarding to have always had a good shop nearby, and Uprise is the best of them by far. I could list these shops in the order they matter, could sketch their layouts as sure as I could describe old familiar routes to school or family seating arrangements at the dinner table. Two days ago, I chipped my current board by throwing it against a wall during a minor, half-serious tantrum. It was stupid and childish, and I regretted it immediately, but not enough to keep skating on a chipped board. I am a forty-oneyear-old man with a steady income for whom skateboarding continues to fill a necessary if difficult-to-name void. So, while I protest the discount G gives me at the register and make a show of wanting to support the business during this tough economy, I eventually relent. I accept his discount just as I accept the boxes of boards and other hardware, the shoes and apparel that have on occasion appeared on my doorstep—with absolute glee. Because in truth, there is no other thing I know will bring me joy like having somehow earned my way into these small but divine returns. ***

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THE MOST FUN THING

In August 2011, I wrote an e-mail to the editors of a start-up online sports magazine called The Classical. I introduced myself as a professor of literature and creative writing with one novel published and a second in progress. If you want to know skateboarding, I told them, look at a skater’s elbows. Examine their shins. It was a plea rooted in the authenticity to which my own scarred elbows and shins did attest. I wanted, I told them, to be their new skateboarding columnist. As soon as I sent it, I felt ridiculous. I was no journalist. Anything I’d written about skateboarding had been either private, fictional draft work or a casual blog post. I had a brand-new, fulltime, tenure-track teaching job that came with institutional expectations for a completed and published novel, soon. But I felt there was something pressing in the young decade, apropos the activity, industry, and culture of skateboarding. A former professional skater–turned–actor had transformed an old LA warehouse into a content factory. Street League Skateboarding was on the rise as an ESPN centerpiece, with real-time scoring, winner-take-all finals, and, like, jumbotrons. Odd Future’s usurpation of skateboarding’s aesthetic reversed skateboarding’s own pirating of backpack rap in the early nineties, a move that proved lifesaving at a time when skate culture was at its absolute ugliest. There was emergent streetwear hoopla, Supreme and Palace, and the looming specter of the Olympics. It was a state of strange, lawless transition, and of course, a geologic disruption of media—new phones, Instagram, and a suddenly overwhelming daily torrent of skateboard content.

hing

Since the mid-1980s, skateboarding has been well ahead of the broader cultural curve with regard to lifestyle documentation. The full-length videos that emerged concurrent with the proliferation of handheld home video cameras became, by the early nineties, the world’s best access to an era of radical invention. These VHS tapes were between a half and a full hour long and divvied into sections devoted to individual skaters, which we called parts. A part presents a song’s length of footage, compiled over months and years in different urban locations and arranged into a sequence of single maneuvers and lines of tricks strung together.

There were also montage segments and, though they are rare today, a so-called slam section made from clips of the most terrible and injurious failures. And always, as interstitial material or brief surfacings from the depths, some element of hijinks—mayhem inside the tour van or pranks at the hotel, objects thrown from balconies. Sometimes scripted, sometimes not, these provided a kind of lingua franca for skaters dispersed across the country. They made humans—if flat and incomplete ones—of our legends, gave voice and character to the skaters whose photos were taped to our walls and to the companies whose exactly similar products we’d choose between at the shop— they created, in a word, branding.

To discuss any of this with others like me could only go so far—what might one skater say to another about this most obvious thing? We tended to nod knowingly and retreat, grateful for the strange embrace of our baffling hobby. I guess I wasn’t satisfied. I wanted more. I wanted meaning. And, while all of the six decades since skateboarding’s invention have seen change—growth, retraction, trends in tricks and terrain and the fits of our pants—it would be difficult to argue now, peering back after the end of the 2010s, that any decade saw more significant change in the ways that skateboarding means.

By 2011, it was fairly clear that these films, the time and budgets required to produce and distribute them, were incompatible with emergent technological, distributive, and consumptive trends. They were being challenged by the release of individual parts, which we’d continue to call “parts” even when there was no whole from which they’d come, and they’d be challenged next by the widespread and scattershot broadcasting of even shorter clips, sometimes of single tricks looped into infinite, sacralized repetition via social networks. The stories were breaking down, the statues showing cracks, and the conversation was demanding new tools, new approaches. What I did not mention in that first e-mail were the questions I had. What was the grip, really, that this practice had on me? Skateboarding was not good for my career or dating life. At times, I’d stand in the hot shower watching grime and blood circle at my feet and think, Wouldn’t it be pleasant to not be so tender? To not always have a wrist or ankle or knee ache? To not ruin a new work shirt by knocking loose an elbow scab against a lectern?

Excerpted from the book THE MOST FUN THING: DISPATCHES FROM A SKATEBOARD LIFE by Kyle Beachy. Copyright © 2021 by Kyle Beachy. Reprinted with permission of Grand Central Publishing. All rights reserved.

FIND OUT WHERE TO GET THE COMPLETE BOOK >>>

Photo — Charlie Hughes

WARNING DISCUSSIONS OF HOMOPHOBIA.

THIS ARTICLE CONTAINS HOMOPHOBIC SLURS AND

DOING DRAG WITH

BEASTIE GIRLS

BLASPHEMY, SATIRE AND ACTIVISM WITH NIC BEDFORD OF DRAG ROYALTY TRIO THE BEASTIE GIRLS.

“You can’t really get more intimate without fucking someone,” Nic Bedford tells me, sticking a fluttery black eyelash down with some glue. “It actually is fully like a family.” Clad in a breastplate, unusually large bum pads and six pairs of tights to hold it all in, Nic is getting ready to transform into Benign Girl. He’s telling me about the relationship he has with his “sisters” – fellow queens Lazy Susan and Zelda Moon. As a trio, these self-described “stunning businesswomen” perform as The Beastie Girls, taking the piss out of everything from pyramid schemes to The Saddle Club. Often touted as Melbourne drag royalty, they’ve worked with Charli XCX, starred in music videos for Troye Sivan and even been on Neighbours, Australia’s longest-running soap. Historically, drag was an art form that saw men dress in women’s clothing and exaggerate signifiers of femininity for the purpose of entertainment – but it has evolved to be much more than that. The culture, which hit the mainstream in the ’80s, bursts with invention and creativity, and sees performers come from all over the gender spectrum (including plenty of drag kings). Though it doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with sexual preference or gender identity, drag is often used as a form of flamboyant self-expression and a celebration of queer pride. For Nic, who loves performing on stage, it’s a consolation prize for never having gone to drama school.

EM S – G ORD

LAR MA C

“Benign’s character is inspired by the depths of suburban Australian culture,” he tells me. “I’ve taken bits from all the important women in my life, or women who’ve made a mark on me, and rolled it into one.” With long blonde hair and the kind of contouring that could make her TikTok famous, Benign Girl is sassy, sculpted and wickedly funny. But as with all skills, this took time. “I used to – drunkenly, around the house with my friends – sing and dance to songs. So when a competition called ‘So You Think You Can Drag?’ popped up, we all decided I should enter,” Nic explains. From there, he was asked to head a new night at The B-East – a burger bar and live music venue in Melbourne’s Brunswick East. “When I started, I looked like a mess. I didn’t know what I was doing, I didn’t have a perspective and my character wasn’t built as well. I never even used to shave my face. Then I did it once to see what I would look like, and I was like, Oh my god, she’s so hot. I can’t go back to having a beard!” A chance encounter on a night out also resulted in a name change from his previous moniker, Cleo Taurus: “Walking home, there was a bunch of random stuff all over the street. My friends and I decided we’d pick a present for everyone waiting at kick-ons. There was a toy Barbie phone, and when we opened it up, it said ‘Benign Girl’ on the screen. We lost our shit, like why that combination of words?! I just had to take it on as my name.” Wanting company at The B-East, Nic put an ad in an online fan group for reality TV series RuPaul’s Drag Race. The moderator of the group, Zelda Moon, replied – someone Nic had fangirled when he’d seen her perform.

“I was shy! I’d only ever performed to a straight audience, like, I hadn’t entered the queer scene as a drag queen, so I thought she was too good for me.”

“IN ONE BIT, A SADDLE CLUB GIRL FELL PREGNANT TO THE HORSE. THE OTHER TWO GIRLS WERE LIKE, SUPER UPSET BECAUSE SHE WENT BEHIND THEIR BACK AND DIDN’T TELL THEM SHE WAS FUCKING THE HORSE..."

Zelda had worked with Lazy Susan before – a queen who’d won the crown the previous year in a Victorian competition called Drag Net. “She was the kooky weird one; they chose a wild card,” Nic says. “Older pageant-y queens were like, ‘Oh my god, Lazy Susan?!’ She was making waves, so the thought of her coming on board was really intimidating for me as well.”

BEASTIE GIRLS

“We’re not that polished. We don’t care too much about shaving our bodies, or having the perfect wig, or doing the best drop split. None of us can follow steps properly. We’re more like a mix of comedy and fuckery.” By fuckery, Nic means fully immersive shows that reel the audience into a narrative. Though COVID obviously threw a massive spanner in the works, The Beastie Girls hit the ground running coming out of lockdown, hosting a bunch of events including once-in-a-lifetime feminar ‘And So Can You!’ – a send-up of a multi-level marketing scheme conference. Another show, ‘Ruin your Childhood’, saw the sisters parody a ‘Where Are They Now?’ of ‘90s and ‘00s children’s shows like Madeline and The Saddle Club. “In one bit, a Saddle Club girl fell pregnant to the horse. The other two girls were like, super upset because she went behind their back and didn’t tell them she was fucking the horse. On stage, she gave birth to a half-horse half-human hybrid baby.” As well as blasphemy and satire, The Beastie Girls dabble in activism. “When there’s an opportunity to make a point about something, we’re obviously gonna do that,” Nic explains. In early 2020, ANZ received enormous public backlash in the wake of its ‘Love Speech’ ad campaign timed to coincide with Sydney’s Mardi Gras. In it, members of the LGBTIQA+ community introduce themselves using the homophobic and transphobic slurs they’ve had hurled at them. Aside from the fact that brands need to stop pretending to solve social issues through advertising, the video was uncensored and featured no content warnings. “It was so obviously queerbaiting, for the pink dollar,” Nic rolls his eyes. “They were just using the community to make money for themselves. So we were like, ‘Oh, we will have a go at you if you’re gonna do that! We’re not just gonna be quiet about things.’” The trio hosted their first show together on an Easter weekend in 2017. Called Bad Friday, it told the story of the rise and fall of Jesus Christ – drag edition. Naturally, the audience thought it was a scream, and The Beastie Girls have been “like three peas in a pod” ever since.

In a clip that’s clocked tens of thousands of views, The Beastie Girls parodied the campaign, introducing themselves with anti-bank slurs – like “predatory lender”, “Liberal Party donor”, “pinkwasher”, “coal guzzler” and “capitalist oligarchy”.

When asked where they fit in to the Melbourne drag scene, Nic is unsure. “There’s the Choreography Queens, there are Cabaret Queens… but our fan base is not your typical gay-bar patrons. It would be interesting to hear what other people have to say about us.

Nic even recalls a time he had a go at Victorian Premier Dan Andrews at the NGV Gala. “We were performing and mingling with those of society, and we got a photo with Dan Andrews. I’d been taking full advantage of the free drinks at this event, as I usually do in drag, so I was like, quite wasted. Instead of saying cheese, the photographer said, ‘Let’s say, Let’s declare a climate emergency!’” It was a cheeky move by the photographer, since this is a call Dan Andrews has rebuffed a number of times, and on this particular occasion, the Victorian Premier tried to deflect with, “Oh, I think we should say, ‘Let’s declare an equality emergency!” In his drunken state, Nic launched into a tirade: “Oh, what’s that? You want to come in here at the last minute? After all these queer people before you have done all the hard work, and all of a sudden you want to be the queer saviour? No, it doesn’t work like that.” Nic laughs as he remembers the encounter. “We had a bit of a back and forth... I don’t really remember what I was saying. But apparently, 10 minutes later, I was hanging off him being like, ‘Oh, thanks so much for everything that you’ve done for us Dan Andrews!’” Though for Nic, doing drag has incredible perks – among them the thrill of performing and his connection with Zelda and Lazy – it’s not without its challenges. Nic doesn’t love the long process of getting ready, sometimes spending three hours to prep for five minutes on stage. And he and the other Beastie Girls still experience various forms of homophobia and discrimination.

Then there are the straight men who feel they’re entitled to pester: “I’ve had it happen quite a bit. They clearly know what the situation is, but they have a fetish to sleep with someone who’s cross dressing. I’m not personally into that, but I do find it quite funny and like, play with them. Let them have a little bit of a go until I’ve had enough.”

“In the queer world, it’s very understood who you are and what you’re doing, but when I’ve been on my way to gigs, or in between things, like on the tram or walking on the street, people will be freaked out,” he explains. “Obviously it’s not really transphobia, ’cos I’m able to take my wig off at the end of the day.”

Also, though Nic reflects fondly on having found a partner who embraces his drag alter ego, he explains, “a lot of gay men have an aversion to hooking up people who are overly feminine – which is bullshit.”

BEASTIE GIRLS

Photos — Aidan Calabria

If this article brought anything up for you, you can call QLife,

“At the base of what we do is just bizarre stupidity,” Nic says. “We never take ourselves too seriously… Some drag queens are like, ‘Oh my god, I’m changing the world by doing drag!’ and it’s like, ‘Girl, you’re putting a wig on and dancing around stage – you need to calm down.’ But, also, unknowingly, we do make an impact.”

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Like most creative hustles, drag is hard to make a living out of full time. All members of The Beastie Girls have other jobs – most drag queens in Australia do. Nic prefers having the separation anyway. “I don’t want to be [Benign Girl] all the time,” he says. “I wouldn’t like that to take over my entire life.”

This March, after barbering for six years, Nic opened his own barber, Chop Shop on Brunswick Street in North Fitzroy. “I wanted to make a place where anyone can get their hair cut, regardless of who they are,” he shrugs. “And to take away the lad’s pad culture of a barbershop.”

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“It’s actually a form of homophobia within the queer community,” he says. “Some men are scared of femininity because they’ve bought into ridiculous social ideas around what a ‘poofta’ is… So by doing drag, you’re actually narrowing your dating options due to this shitty internalised homophobia that heaps of the community still have.”

Rattletrap Once a year, hot rodders and bike lovers make a pilgrimage to a sleepy coastal town called Crowdy Head, soaking up the sounds of roaring big block V8s at an infamous beach race.

WORDS & PHOTOS – JAMES BOURBON

RATTLETRAP

A “RATTLETRAP IS A WINDOW INTO THE PAST, EVEN DOWN TO THE WAY THE RACERS DRESS”

s a kid who grew up in hot rod clubs, I spent countless weekends travelling to show and shines, drag races and car runs, trudging past row after row of cars in the summer sun, listening to old mates with ciggie stained beards arguing over who was putting the most horsepower out at the wheels. Most of the time I ignored what was going on at these events. I was too busy doing slappys in the carpark or daydreaming about dumb shit like who’d win in a fight between Stone Cold or Ripster from Street Shark, or more importantly, where my next dagwood dog was coming from. Much to my dad’s dismay, I started dodging car shows as a young teenager to do my own thing instead, but I guess you can take the kid out of the hot rod but you can’t take the hot rod out of the kid – or some bullshit like that, because I recently ended up driving six hours to check out Rattletrap.

For those who’ve heard of The Race of Gentlemen in the US, Rattletrap is the smaller, Aussie equivalent with better views and thankfully, less James Dean wannabes. Imagine a pristine NSW beach, somewhere between Port Macquarie and Forster, and a mix of hot rods, rat rods, some things that look like they’re straight out of an episode of Wacky Races, and a bunch of vintage motorcycles racing up and down the beach. Yeah, I know, it probably doesn’t sound that much different to the usual car events but everything about the Rattletrap is a window into the past, even down to the way the racers dress in muscle tees, mechanic’s overalls and even the occasional kooky steam punk glasses – all to fit the pre-‘60s theme. There are no safety barriers, no trophies for the fastest time and heck, some of the vehicles look like they can barely even make it up the beach. But it puts the love of racing for the sake of racing back at the forefront. No fancy bells or whistles, just vintage vehicles and the same feeling that has been fuelling petrol heads’ passion for decades.

Of course, there’s no escaping the Darryl Kerrigan-esque punters wandering around the carpark dreaming of a three-window coupe (cue that ZZ Top playlist), the old mates at the surf club sinking a few too many, and the father-son duos sporting cringey pompadours and bowling shirts perched at the starting line, phones in hand, snapping away furiously as the cars and bikes scream across the beach. But it’s very unlike the typical burnouts, beer bongs and ‘tits out for the boys’ crowd you’d expect at the Summernats. While the event fortunately dodges the typical dickhead male bravado factor of car events, it still holds true to the things that make the scene unique.

While the laid-back style of the Rattletrap isn’t for everyone, I can only see it continuing to get bigger and better every year. After all, it’s the only event of its kind in Australia. Even if you aren’t into cars, it’s a great way to soak up the sun, sand and some superchargers. Better vibes than Summernats, no question.

“IT’S VERY UNLIKE THE TYPICAL BURNOUTS, BEER BONGS AND ‘TITS OUT FOR THE BOYS’ CROWD YOU’D EXPECT AT THE SUMMERNATS."

Thanks to a hectic tide earlier in the week, half of the beach was washed away, which meant there were some dicey times as the racers were skidding along shallow bits of water. It would eventually force all the vehicles to depart the beach earlier than expected. At the time, I was pretty bummed out about this, but to be honest, it worked out for the best. Watching everyone have to gun it to exit the beach was a true show in itself. Just picture all the old bikes and rods spitting piles of dirt off their back wheels into the crowds as they tried to navigate the chopped-up sand tracks. All the while they had to maintain enough speed to avoid getting bogged. Not everyone was lucky enough to make a smooth exit but even those who didn’t provided the crowds with some great entertainment. Whether it was the time one of the T bucket drivers had to yank his steering wheel hard as he skimmed up the side bank and the crowd had to dodge him; or the numerous times a four-wheel drive had to help pull a rod out of the bog with random bystanders lending a hand to push; or the poor old mate who fell off into the sand and was quickly helped out of there by the crowds.

RATTLETRAP

W O R D S – P E TA P E T I D I S P O R T R A I T S – C/O M G C

MOSES GUNN COLLECTIVE

“W

e’re getting old,” replies Aidan after reflecting on the last half of a decade. That’s how long it’s been since Moses Gunn Collective were last on the scene.

“We never really thought this second album would happen. We recorded it initially five years ago in Brisbane… Every year we’d say, ‘Oh we should finish that album.’ So we’d dig it up and it’d be like we’d lost half the files and have to record half the stuff, and this literally happened every year for the last five years.” Aidan Moore is the frontman of Moses Gunn Collective (MGC) but you’ve likely seen his black lined eyes as Sugar Bones, a pseudonymous character in the indie electropop band Confidence Man. He’s the one pulsating onstage, accompanied by two veiled men and his magnificent sister, Miss Janet Planet. Confidence Man have been bustling across the touring circuit and producing countless dance anthems over the last five years. Aidan and the band have established a brand known across the world and are en route to releasing their second full-length album. But can you believe it’s been almost ten years since one of his first projects, Moses Gunn Collective, came to fruition?

“Over last year’s lockdown we had no touring with Con Man and we could literally just focus and actually get it [the album] done,” says Aidan. Dr Moses Love Hospital is the upcoming record for the band, set to be released in coming months with a national tour whenever it’s possible.

Moses Gunn Collective shot into the Brisbane psych-rock scene with glitter costumes, peacock feathers and twisted harmonies. Behind the shimmery curtain of semi-drag get-ups, streamers and synths, were Aidan Moore, Lewis Stephenson, Sam ‘Stag’ Sargent and Alex ‘Acky’ Mitchell. All members were part of other musical projects, including Morning Harvey, The Belligerents and even appearances in The Babe Rainbow.

“A weird theme somehow emerged while we were writing the songs. It’s basically the bittersweet story of a man tampered with and spellbound by the potentially sinister love doctor – Dr Moses, of the Love Hospital,” Aidan explains of the record title. After a bunch of online teasers and Instagram posts, the album is finally upon us. “Yeah we’d get fired up and motivated, make one of those annual Instagram photos, then we’d get distracted again,” Aidan laughs at himself with a certain discernment. He obviously feels a bit bad about the delays. The album’s been a long time coming but in the space of a few months, 2021 has already delivered two singles from the record with another on the way.

Aidan and Lewis make up the core of the group’s songwriting. The boys live together in Melbourne now. Despite all this time together and countless file corruptions, it took the Covid apocalypse to revive their momentum.

Lewis and Aidan have been at the peak of their careers in a powerhouse dance group touring internationally, headlining countless European and Australian festivals. But now they’re in the front seat, navigating a record release and a tour without a PR team and in the peak of a third wave of lockdowns across the country. On this note, we joke about the distance between the first and second albums, the state of the world and Aidan’s musical influences.

“My first memories of this album are in Brisbane, when we all started writing it, then it’s a little five-year chapter of my life that seems to have gone by really quickly and taken a whole bunch of turns. My life in the beginning and the end is really different, in a really good way, a reminder of what’s happened in that half a decade.” Without a doubt, this record already showcases the maturity of the band while tying in their prominent quirks. ‘I Can Cry’ is a telltale MGC track with the misshapen guitar chords and moody monologues to match. Aidan explains that it was written during one of their first studio sessions five years ago, which is why the sound is extremely synonymous with their Mercy Mountain LP. The latest release off the album, ‘I Hope My Dreams Come True,’ instills the same disheveled lover attitude as the first single, with a heavier synth-backed melody akin to MGMT’s ‘Me and Michael.’ Aidan doesn’t feel like their latest projects have changed their ability to write for MGC. On the contrary, it’s helped them define their sound from act to act. “Throughout the whole time of focusing on electronic stuff, I’ve still been recording country music in my bedroom and a whole bunch of side things… It’s been good to compartmentalise all the different things, I’m sure they all influence each other a bit but it helps you more in the way of being able to write a good song.” These country songs – something akin to a futuristic Gram Parsons sound – are an entirely different project, testament to Aidan’s ability to play with different genres.

“I’ve been working on this thing for ten years just in the background. I’ve got like 20 country songs basically,” he explains. “That’s an even bigger Moses background project that’s sort of coming together.” On the topic of genre bending, I thought I’d bring up the Spotify mix-up that happened when ‘I Can Cry’ was released. I remember being navigated to their new track on my Spotify account and upon listening to a classical baroque period sonata, I realised there’d been a mishap. “It’s some kind of scam that happens where someone out there can create a fake song on your account… and then they can just mine a 0.1% of a cent from every play onto their account and it happened on the other single too! The second one was even worse, it was like classical trap!” Spotify scams aside, it’s playing shows to a real live audience that the guys are really looking forward to. Their September tour has been cancelled due to pandemic restrictions but there’s still hope that some live shows will happen eventually. “We’re just stoked people are still listening!” Aidan laughs. He’s looking forward to donning an outlandish costume and getting wild on stage. “I love that extra piece of spectacle that just goes on top,” he says. “If you do it right you can take it to a whole other world!” On his hopes for live performances, Aidan jokes that he wants to headline Glastonbury, but almost immediately he catches himself, humbly expressing his craving for normalcy after the extended lockdowns that have rocked the music industry. “Any big show where the crowd is free and able to mingle and dance,” he says. “Get sweaty and jump like the good old days. Anywhere where that is okay, that’s what I’m looking for.”

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Art Aid have pulled together a simple approach to helping consumers support charities while buying art. If you head to Art Aid’s website you can browse their range of original works and prints–from artists like George Rose, Lisa King, Unwell Bunny and Justine McAllister—then at the checkout you choose a charity and they’ll donate a third of the profits to that charity. With participation from organisations like Medecins Sans Frontieres (Doctors Without Borders), Indigenous Literacy Foundation, Asylum Seekers Centre and Save The Children, there are plenty of important causes to support.

Our eyes, according to ancient wisdom, are the windows to our souls. Personally, I don’t like the idea of people looking into my soul, especially since I’ve never seen the inside of it myself. So if you’re wanting to keep your soul safe and guarded from intruders, it would be wise to cover your eyes. You could try a blindfold or a double eye-patch, but sunglasses are probably a better option. Try these ones from Childe Eyewear, designed in Byron Bay and made in Italy. They’re also made from organic compounds of wood and cotton pulp fibres, so they’re eco-friendly.

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Sorry to be the one to break the bad news, but your house is starting to stink. It’s a difficult stench to define, but if I had to guess, I’d say it’s maybe a mix of wet towels, stale bread and the lockdown blues. The solution, of course, is incense. Try these organic ones from Dutchie Scents. They’re guaranteed to make your house smell divine while warding off the lockdown blues. For maximum effect, I would personally recommend that you put on the1982 reggae smash hit by Musical Youth, ‘Pass The Dutchie’ and crank that song full blast. Then grab your beanbag, and light up your dutchie.

Toaster is a newish brand out of Sydney that is inspired by “the things we grew up living and loving, paying homage to the icons and idiots that have moulded us all for better or worse”. In the case of the 808 Tee, Travis Barker’s body is paired with Marilyn Monroe’s head, with the classic 808 boombox in the background. In this case, you’d have to guess that Marilyn and the boombox are the icons and Barker is the idiot. Grab one of these limited-edition tees and a cord cutter hat to match. You’ll look like an instant icon, giving you the confidence to act like an idiot.

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Trent Riley went missing in April 2021. He went out fishing alone on his little boat in Moreton Bay and was never seen again, leaving a massive hole in Australian skateboarding. Trent’s close friend and photographer, Curtis Hay, shares some of his last unpublished photos of T-Buns, and the stories behind them.

TRENT RILEY

s it often goes in a local scene, I knew the name Trent Riley and his accolades years before we met. Stories of Buns and his brother Louis ripping at comps and catching the train to skate Brisbane CBD were passed along by various hyped skatepark locals, spanning the Sunshine Coast to the Gold Coast and back.

Around 2010, Skatesauce bought Skatebase, Morayfield’s beloved core skate shop. I moved from Alexandria Headlands to North Brisbane to manage the store and subsequently inherited a team of wild grommies who’d hang in the store daily, playing games of skate on the carpet, dreaming about which shoe they’d skate next and heckling each other to the soundtrack of skate vids playing in the background. With the help of filmmaker John Green, those same groms became the infamous Hype Squad, mobbing street spots and partying at the

Dungeon, aka the Rileys’ house, after every weekend. Louis was already getting boards from Holiday and so I jumped at the chance to start flowing boxes of Herstwood—the skateboard company I ran from 2008 to 2016—to a young and prolific Buns. Aided by his father Freddy’s Qantas hook up, Trent was the only guy on the team to make it on every skate trip and to every event. I’ve been thinking back to those days more and more lately, and I’m so grateful I was able to watch him grow into his abilities on a board and into the unanimously respected community man we all know and love. I know this will sound corny, but fuck me it’s the truth: Every session and opportunity to hang with Trent was an absolute treat. I was privileged to have more than my fair share of time with the legend, so I hope you enjoy these stories to accompany the last of our unpublished photos together.

W O R D S & P H OTO S – C U R T I S H AY I L LU S T R AT I O N S – M A R T Y B A P T I S T

It was early 2019 and I was living in Melbourne. Trent and Kyia were visiting for a long weekend. It’d been a hot second since we’d caught up and I remember being in total awe of the person Trent was becoming. No longer the shy ripper sitting in the back o f m y v a n , he’d finished his carpentry apprenticeship, been welcomed to Element S kateboa rds , just returned from a modelling trip in Japan, a nd w a s proud l y introducing me to his beautiful new partner Kyia. Buns was keen for a mellow roll at Fitzy [Fit zroy Bowl] but after seeing a slightly banked wall in my spot book, his inner skate rat was squirming and his arm was twisted. Fellow Queenslander Mashy had recently moved to Melbourne too and came out on

WALLRIDE YANK MELBOURNE

the session. Not long after we removed an annoying cat’s eye road marker from the landing, flashing lights parked up and Preston’s finest attempted to remove a crew of annoying skateboarders. Somehow Trent smooth-talked the pair of officers to the point where they were apologising for ruining our fun and suggesting we apply for a permit next time. The police bailed and Trent yanked a frontside wallride into the street. He Lizzard King’d the gutter but rolled away with speed. Reluctant to push our luck with the law and keen to get back to Kyia, we left it, thinking we might go back one day with a filmer to get a landing with all four wheels in the street.

TRENT RILEY

It was mid-2019 and between visiting family in Brisbane, I linked up with Trent and Patty G [Gemzik], who were filming for the VX1000 project ParliAMent . The sketchy, uneven, sloped footpath run up and the rough, pebblecrete driveway landing weren’t enough to deter our guy from flipping this kicky over the Sandgate Rail. Then it was off to the next spot.

KICKFLIP OVER RAIL INTO BANK BRISSY

NO COMPLY CRAILSLIDE BRISSY

S hor t l y a f ter t he kickflip and a coffee, P at , B u ns a n d I remembered this bank spot was just around the corner. I’d been flirting with the idea of attaching bike lights to a board and shooting a long exposure for some time and Trent was always trusting and suppor tive of my crackpot ideas. He was curious to see a final image because my explanation certainly wasn’ t painting a clear picture. As a photographer coming up, homies who trust your creativity and are willing to experiment along the way are so essential and it means the world to me that Trent focused my bike lights rolling away from this no comply crailslide.

TRENT RILEY

OLLIE INTO BANK BRISSY

It was early in 2021 and Brisbane had just announced a three-day lockdown. Trent was the first to admit he wasn’t good at sitting indoors at the best of times. Now, with the streets near empty, he was

jumping out of his skin with spots he wanted to skate. We shot four photos on this day: a frontside ollie over a banked stone channel (not a skateable spot in the eyes of most), a ride-on nosegrind (recently published),

a ride on fifty with an empty story bridge in the background (which became the flier for Harry Pascoe’s Treasury video), and this ollie! Trent was about to be the first person to land into the bank rolling fakie but

wasn’t feeling it. That’s another thing I really respect about him – his ability to recognise his limitations. Not to say he couldn’t do it, just not that day after already skating three spots. Never one to let down the media

crew, Buns swif tly removed t he top bar and effortlessly popped over t he remaining rail and into New Farm’s notorious James Street bank.

TRENT RILEY

Here’s a photo of Trent feelin’ himself, a candid moment between a full day on the tools and an evening in my studio. This is an image I didn’t think anything of at the time but one that has come to mean a lot to me. Trent looks tired and ready to go home to Kyia and dinner but is pushing though for a friend’s project. Thanks for everything. Beyond the pain, I feel honoured to have memories with you. I love you Buns.

♥

Break the Cycle: How Skateboarders Can End Rape Culture Why talk about rape culture in skateboarding? Rape and sexual misconduct is perpetrated by and affects all skaters. Recently, survivors have been sharing their experiences of sexual harassment and assault within the skate community. Clearly, we’ve got work to do. Let’s start by defining what rape culture is, how it harms our community, and what we can do about it. What is rape culture? Rape culture is when actions and beliefs create an environment where sexual harassment, assault, and violence are normalized. Some examples of how people perpetuate rape culture include slut-shaming, sexualized jokes, catcalling, degrading graphics, and disrespecting someone’s boundaries. How can we end rape culture and prevent sexual violence? We don’t need to be perfect, but it is our responsibility to push toward progress. Here are some facts, actions, and frameworks to consider: The Non-Negotiable: If someone is underage or Take a Stance: Change can begin with a few words. If you hear or see something troubling, speak intoxicated, they legally cannot consent. up. Phrases like “That’s not cool!” or “Are you okay?” Ask, Don’t Assume: Consent is a clear and active can make a big difference. Change The Lineup: If someone in your squad agreement. Consent requires an enthusiastic yes gets called out for sexual misconduct, address it and is never coerced. One way we can normalize head-on. Support companies and crews who will affirmative consent is by practicing it in everyday change their team when skaters refuse to change situations. For example, obtain consent before themselves. Act Locally: Rape culture doesn’t just exist giving advice, by simply asking someone, “Hey, can elsewhere - it exists in spaces we occupy everyday. I help you with that?” The work can start with you and your friends. Have you had a conversation with someone close to you Hold People Accountable: Accountability is about rape culture? As you educate yourself and not punishment. When people mess up, we must unpack your own behaviors, are you sharing this address their actions so they understand the harm information with peers? How are you elevating and they caused and have an opportunity to change. supporting local survivors?

As skateboarders, we are part of a powerful and influential global community. Through our collective actions, we can not only end rape culture within skateboarding, but also transform society as a whole. @concent_is_rad

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