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Issue 16


h In Revolt ISSUE.16 Editor-In-Cheif and Co-Founder Nicole Wilson Co-Founder Olivia Mroz Editor and Creative Director Diarmaid Murray Music Editor Cam Johns Writing Team Coordinator Made Stuchbury Writing Team Millie Clayton Chiara Mastrilli Cover Lizzi Morris

CONTENT Letter From The Editor .07 Jungle Fever .08 Festival Survival Kit .22 This Isn’t See You Later, This Is See You Soon .26 How Unemployment Nearly Murdered My Love Of Music .28

Headphones In, World Out .29 Meet The New Girls .30 Curls .34 Wet Smoke .46

ONTENTS 47. Dating Life 48. Bargain Buys 50. Un-compromised Passion 52. Nuala Swan 70. How do I hate thee, Tonee? Let me count the ways‌ 72. One Liberal Application of Civility, Please. 74. Reaching Rock Bottom 76. Blossoms 78. Modern Equality 80. The Pains of Being An Ethnic Wallflower

Letter From The Editor Before I dive into this I want you all to know that this is taking away from the love of my life, SVU, and from consuming a ridiculous amount of custard filled profiteroles, #fatsperation. It’s always really hard for me to start these things off because I always know that they’ll enviably end in an angsty pre-teen secret diary worthy rant. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. To hell with witty segues, let’s get into it… These last two months have fueled a great deal of personal and professional growth individually and for the Youth in Revolt team as a whole. Although looking in it may seem that not much is changing we can assure you that things definitely are and in a big way. Apart from the obvious new additions to the team in the form of two incredibly talented ladies and a shuffle around of responsibilities, we have also finally began to make a great deal of ground on a project we have had in the works since our last issue, possibly even before then. In other news this may be the first time I’ve taken on writing the Letter from the Editor with a sufficient amount of caffeine in my system, whether it works for or against me we’ll soon find out. Maybe there won’t even be an obvious change? And in that case I don’t even want to think about the ridiculous amount of money I’ve spent on instant coffee, take away coffees and more recently a coffee machine. Provided you haven’t already had a cheeky peruse of the contents page I suppose you’re all wondering what it is you’ll discover beyond this page… Pours another cup of coffee* Well this issue is jammed packed with humorous, informative and intellectually stimulating articles from our newly formed writing team under the guidance of our newly appointed Writing Coordinator, long time contributor, Made Stuchbery; as well as a bunch of interviews with some really rad people and some jaw dropping art. I can feel the anticipation growing so I won’t keep you for much longer. Before I sign off I just wanted to mention that we’ll be partying at Listen Out this weekend and that if you haven’t already got yourself a ticket that you really should, it’s an amazing opportunity to check out both artists you’ll already know and some that you’ve never heard of. Plus we’ll be there and who doesn’t want to party with us? Don’t answer that, my flaky self-esteem can’t handle the rejection. Stay revolting,


Jungle FEVER Yasmin




Models: Leighton Neill & Ryan Baston (Superior Model Management) Hair & Make-up: John Maclean Stylist: Lauren Knight Photography Assistant: Paul Wylie Photographer: Yasmin Soliman














Festival season is coming up and it has become a requirement of me to write a ‘survival kit’ if you may. Funnily enough, I have only ever been to one festival. Let me share with you how that went down. It was the summer of 2010. I hadn’t gone to Schoolies. I had just turned eighteen and had gotten my license and was sporting a purple Ford Falcon whom I had nicknamed ‘The Chode.’ He was a bastard to park and far too greedy with the petroleum. The festival was Pyramid Rock and it was 30+ degrees every day. I had scored a volunteering position which was supposed to involve picking up stray pieces of rubbish but which actually involved hiding behind Chode eating baked beans out of a can. This made the cost of the festival free despite being docked of serious dignity dollars in the bank called Morality Ltd. Going to a festival when you don’t actually enjoy drinking wasn’t a problem in my eyes at the time. This was back when every time I had a bev I would just get a headache and sponge up all the fun. To add to this, I had also seen my parents both drunk/hung over a few times which was off-putting. I used to find it confusing witnessing people I love and respect acting like idiots only to

look like utter corpse-y death the next day. “Wow, alcohol gives me the opportunity to not only be stupider and completely uncoordinated only to then feel like I’ve been hit in the head with a hammer for all of tomorrow? Sweet! Where do I sign up for that awesome deal?” It was when I felt left out of all the good times that I decided to become involved. I had seen a stall in the stage area that bore the sign ‘Happy High Herbs’ and I was intrigued. You might be familiar with this brand of ‘legal highs’ in which the products on offer are perceived as natural ways to achieve the desired affects of illegal substances. A vial of liquid called ‘Cherry Pop’ caught my eye, advertised as a sure fire way to become engulfed in feelings of euphoria. The lady serving me had dreadlocks and extremely kind eyes. I remember her description of Cherry Pop being parallel to ‘surfing a rainbow.’ At the time that pretty much sounded like the coolest thing I’d ever heard. The vial set me back $30 which ain’t bad for an organic product by today’s standards (the same as the cost of roughly two and half loaves of gluten-free bread). Being yet another satisfied customer of the successful stall I


then quickly teetered back to my campsite to ingest the beautifully crimson happy juice. Everyone was drinking, banter was loud and sun’s rays were being soaked up and meanwhile I was sitting cross-legged twiddling my thumbs. It had been half an hour and I was yet to feel anything. The social situation was comfortable enough for me; I didn’t need to be drunk to have a good time. The only thing is that when everyone around you is off chops and you aren’t feeling stupid enough to be funny, things turn into a bit of a drainer. The tendency to turn into that patronising sober guy condescendingly rolling their eyes at the carefree party was getting more and more likely. I wanted to be more involved. Slowly, the feeling started to bubble up inside me. I felt something coming on and the apprehension of an emotional climax was somewhat arousing in itself. I looked up to the sky and focused on my breathe, completely aware of all of the cells in my body. Finally, it had arrived. Everything started to hit me like a colossal wave. Paranoia started to kick in. Who were the people around me? Matter of fact they were people from school but they were strangers. They were shells. The people that I thought I knew but couldn’t relate to at all. The ‘World’ whom I presumed was a woman didn’t actually like me as a person. She found me

irritating and liked to use her energy to show me how unhappy I should be. This festival was just some sick and perverted joke exhibiting that I wasn’t at one with anything. It is strange now looking back and trying to articulate this raw feeling. The pull sat in the pit of my stomach instigating immediate yet elaborate notions about my place in the universe. Not one word can describe the collaboration of sensations going on inside my mind. From this pang in my core I was receiving what seemed like widespread signals that things were never going to get better. I would always feel left out and my identity would remain a matter of question. I started to cry. First slow tears and then streams of ridiculously loud sobs. I would have called it attentionseeking if I was anyone else. The girlfriend I had come to the festival with was laughing at my reaction to the Cherry Pop. This lightened the mood at the start as I was intermittingly laughing between sobs but matters only got worse. The colours of my surroundings became all too vivid. The colours wern’t nostalgic in a classic-film kind of way but they were hyper-bright which seemed unauthentic and fraudulent. The brightness of everything was disorientating like the white lights that brings unease in hospitals. It was time to go back to the Happy High Herb tent and demand answers. It’s extremely hard to get angry at peace loving hippies who don’t mean any harm. I had conceived storming up to the front


counter and point at my red puffy eyes and yelling, ‘Look what you’ve done!’ but those plans came to a halt. The change of tactic came about when dreadlock lady felt so terrible at my abreaction that she offered to cleanse my energy for free upon seeing my tear ridden face. I stood there for half an hour as she picked at invisible blockages in my aura. I watched as she had a perplexed look of intent mixed with concentration on her face, struggling with certain ‘stubborn knots’ around my facial vicinity. I tried not to laugh thinking it was utter baloney. Placebo or not the tears eased as my mind began to focus on what she was doing planted entwined within my personal space. After the cleanse I was given a Damiana infused lollipop to help with the anxiety and was soon ushered back to the tent to sleep it off. The vomiting started about forty-five minutes into my nap. I awoke to Gypsy & the Cat playing off in the distance and no one was around. I crawled out onto a clean patch of grass thinking I could get myself to the medical centre tent but energy wasn’t on my side this fine New Years Eve afternoon. I don’t even remember how I got to the medical tent but I vaguely

recall some people helping me up as they complained about young people abusing alcohol irresponsibly, “they’re such bloody rookies.” I half remember laughing at the irony whilst not being capable of summoning the strength to explain myself. On the off chance that they would have believed me it still would have been nice to thank my rescuers. An hour of routine questions resembling the phrase “You took Cherry Pop and….ecstasy, cocaine, speed, weed…?” became irritating quite quickly. I was getting informed about how the medical team is not police every few minutes; “We just want to help you and we can’t do that when you’re lying to us.” I was being exposed to accusations as I simultaneously saw a line-up of people being hauled in to the tent eyes rolling into the back of their head not knowing where their noses were. It was a frightening sight. It wasn’t until I met someone that I started to feel better. The young man that came to my rescue was a medical student who was in charge of those who required Intravenous Drips (myself included). He struggled to find the vein in my arm and only got lucky on the fourth insertion of the needle. It hurt but somehow didn’t matter


because even though my friends weren’t there, he was. He looked me in the eyes and listened to me and didn’t dispute what I was saying when I told him about what had happened. He was genuine and he was interested and he said everything was going to be ok. I believed him and was soothed by his presence. I asked him questions. I wanted to know why he was spending his New Years in the medical tent with me. This was a place where the majority of people in here were those who had selfinflicted harm in an innocent attempt to have a good time. He replied with; “I wanted to help out so I volunteered. It’s worrying to think that sometimes people just need to be saved from themselves, you know?” That line has really stuck with me ever since. I can’t even remember his name anymore. It was time for me to leave the medical tent after three bags of a saline drip had successfully made its way into my veins. By this time I had

spent several hours in the company of a space blanket that rustled every time I breathed. I knew I’d never see the medical student again. From the festivals duration I had felt happiest when I was with him because he was sincere. I didn’t need to be saved from myself anymore. He had given me the care to see that I didn’t have to define myself by trying to do what I thought a normal eighteen year old should be doing. I spent the New Years count down by myself in the tent just listening to what was outside. I was so happy. My Cherry Pop had been a Cherry Flop but I everything had turned out to be in its right place. Three years later and I’ve made the plan to go to my second festival, Strawberry Fields. I’m different now. I want to party and I’ve got people I want to party with. Two very important requirements. The only things needing to be mentioned in a Festival Survival Kit are; to bring baby wipes and to only go if you don’t need saving.


Images from Eva Rinaldi on Flickr

This Isn’t See You Later, This Is See You Soon Nicole Wilson Neither of us are fans of emotional farewells so when Olivia and I recently sat down to reminisce about Youth in Revolt’s humble beginnings, passed issues and to discuss Olivia’s new creative path the mood wasn’t sad but rather nostalgic; after all this isn’t see you later, this is see you soon.


It’s been a long time since we sat down a little under two years ago to discuss what would go into the first ever issue of Youth in Revolt Magazine, can you remember how you felt at the time? Yes, I was so excited and nervous. I had no idea how to use inDesign, but I was so commited for it to work! In the beginning we were pumping out an issue monthly whilst juggling school and other commitments, coffee was my vice; what kept you motivated? For me (as I didn’t care too much for the course I was doing at the time) I always have to busy with something creative and hands on (otherwise my mind wonders into a not very fun time), the mag itself kept me motivated. But mostly I loved contacting and talking to other artists who were passionate about their work as I am about my photography. How do you feel about how far the magazine has come since our humble beginnings? What has been the highlight for you over the last (almost) two years? It took us forever to get the website up! But I mean look at it now ;-) good job guys! I don’t just have the one highlight, for me it was everytime I contacted an artist and they spoke with passion about their work. Is it comforting to know that Youth in Revolt’s doors are always open for you to make a triumphant return? LOLYESTHXLUVUs2 What are you going to miss most about working on the magazine? The shoots we would throw together haha! Bless. Aaaand all the creatives and like minded people that made me feel like I finally fit in. (cheeeeeeeeeeesey but true) Can we bribe you to stay with tears and candy? What can we expect to see from you in the future? Unfortunalty I don’t have much of a sweet tooth! (and I tend to sound like a bitch when I make a joke? c00L) But I would have loved to have stayed on board if I didn’t have a million other things screaming me at once at this point. Lal @ ‘What can we expect to see from you in the future’ - I fkn hope big and positive changes in my photography!!! You can keep up with some of my work in progress and other things on *shamlessly self advertises*


How Unemployment Nearly Murdered My Love of Music

Cam Johns

Believe it or not I spent a considerable amount of time on the title of this piece and still think it is such a shoddy and horrible title, but here we are. And that photo...I ran out of ideas, and to be honest it is what I wake up to every morning. Every morning/afternoon I would wake up, after staying up considerably late watching infomercials and yelling at Dora The Explorer, and stare at this wall of CDs that I have managed to collect over the years. I would stare and think to myself “Look at all this wasted money, just sitting there” and then proceed to sulk through the rest of my day. Having no job was really getting to me, and this was affecting my love and admiration for music like it never had before. Now I am making this sound much more dramatic than it has to be, but this is honestly what was consuming me (that and the chronic shoulder pain, which is the culprit behind my unemployment). When listening to music and writing about it went from something I enjoyed after work to something that became more of a chore and the only thing I was doing, the enjoyment of finding and listening to new music waned. My free time had increased but my desire was getting weaker and weaker, to the point where I would bypass all music in a day in favour of... literally anything else. It reminded me too much of a younger Cam avoiding his homework during his love and hate (mostly hate) relationship with the Australian schooling system. The fact that I was hating and despising something I once had loved so much, I had to find a solution. And honestly the solution is so boring and really uneventful I don’t think I even want to divulge what had been decided upon... but I have come this far, so would be silly to stop now. I literally just walked away from everything, bringing my iPod with me and just started to walk. The fresh air, the open spaces, the head nods I would give the fellow walker bys... it all added up to really letting music consume me again. The feelings all came flooding back in a hurry and shortly after that my unemployment came to an end. Normal transmission had finally commenced once again. Whether or not this is an interesting or even necessary tale to tell, I felt compelled to tell it. So with all my rekindled love for music back, take some time to read about 3 albums that helped the romance come back. P.S…. How shit is working?


Cam Johns King Krule – 6 Feet Beneath The Moon 2013 ‘You Took Your Time’ from Mount Kimbie’s 2013 record Cold Spring Fault Less Youth was the first time King Krule’s vocals connected with me in any meaningful way. Not being enamoured with his EP two years back this really impressed me and convinced me to purchase the record. Unfortunately the rest of the record couldn’t live up to that single but knowing that King Krule, a.k.a 19-year-old Archy Marshall, was readying his debut full length was the silver lining I needed. Minimalistic instrumentation layered underneath Marshall’s deep, gruff and emotionally charged vocals are the cornerstones of 6 Feet Beneath The Moon. Sounding well beyond his age, the delivery is what I would describe as tuneful spoken word mixed with soul and jazz… a fair hit of soul actually. His ability to soothe the soul while also telling you “The pavement is soothing / My body isn’t moving” is testament to his ability as a songwriter and performer. ‘Neptune Estate’, the first song I heard from this album, utilizes a slightly harder hitting drum beat while also slowly incorporating horns and sees Marshall using a hip-hop style flow to his vocals. “I wanna be with you / I wanna be used” capture the feeling of this track perfectly and the flurry of horns at around the 3 minute mark are a standout. With Marshall’s age and obvious upside, the future looks extremely promising for this singer-songwriter. Ty Segall - Sleeper 2013 The prolific nature in which Ty Segall releases material is quite an unbelievable achievement. With every release different than the next, if sometimes only slightly, the quality never seems to wane. Releasing 3 separate albums in 2012 alone (Slaughterhouse as Ty Segall Band, Hair with White Fence and, my personal favourite Twins) 2013 brings the release of Sleeper, a psychedelic folk record. With the more recent records being straight up garage rock records, it was great to hear him strip everything back and rely solely on a quieter vocal and much quieter instrumentation than he would normally be accustomed to. And what he has achieved with Sleeper is a melancholic record that feels like a whole experience and not just a group of songs, which is unfortunately the failure of too many records today. With Sleeper written and produced just after the death of his father, the lyrics about loneliness and loss make for a very introspective listen. ‘The West’ deals with Segall not knowing where to call home anymore. “Where do I go home? / Is it in, is it in the West?” are the opening lines of the song and as the closer to this record, it is the perfect summation of his feelings. Segall has stated his next release will be much louder, but with the path he treaded with Sleeper I am hoping another acoustic album isn’t far away. Mazzy Star – Among My Swan 1996 After the news of a brand new Mazzy Star album after a near 17-year gap surfaced I did what I normally do and check my collection for their albums (when you have over 1000 you can sometimes forget exactly what you have). It was at this time I realised that I in fact had none of their work and this needed to be remedied. So I did what any sucker that still buys CDs does and that is go to their local record store, in my case a JB HI FI, and find them. Luckily for me this particular JB was generous enough to be able to read my mind and not only have all 3 previous albums, but at a much reduced price. But before I go on too far, and for those who don’t know, Mazzy Star is comprised of Hope Sandoval on vocals and David Roback on guitar, keyboard and piano. And while many more contributed, Sandoval and Roback are Mazzy Star. After having listened to these records several times over, I found myself gravitating to 1996’s, and most recent (apart from this years), Among My Swan. Sandoval’s voice is honestly perfection and of all their albums, it sounds by far the best on this. On tracks like ‘Flowers In December’ and ‘I’ve Been Let Down’ where her vocals are paired with harmonica and acoustic guitar… these are the songs my dreams consist of. Sandoval’s hushed and shy vocal style is extremely endearing and I will say it again, perfection. Roback’s composition of everything instrumental wise is also spot on, with every track delivering and never feeling cluttered or too busy, and you can tell this style was a huge inspiration on the whole dream pop landscape. With the new album Seasons Of Your Day out now, this is a perfect opportunity to rekindle your love or start a new love with Mazzy Star.




CHIARA MASTRILLI Tell us a bit about the girl behind the words. She’s just another young writer using words to deal with her world and communicate things that she’s too afraid to say out aloud. She alternates between extreme confidence and insecurity, and she rarely does small talk. When did you first discover writing as a creative outlet? I’ve always been using artistic mediums like drawing and painting to explore ideas, and I found that ultimately, writing felt the most organic and honest, and no-one could judge me for my intensity or way of looking at everything as significant and poetic (because hey, that’s what writers do!). Describe your personal writing style. Even though I am so young, I’ve had enough life experiences and trauma to make me all the wiser, so I try to hone my passions and experiences and channel them into my writing. Sometimes I like being flowery and intensely romantic, but other times I can surprise myself with sarcastic and mocking humour, and sound like a grumpy old man. My writing style is like my personality: a little strange and a lot bipolar. What writers/creatives have influenced you in developing your style? ee cummings, Chuck Palahniuk, and Sylvia Plath are some of my favourites: their words are my mantras. But I also have the greatest appreciation for icons like David Bowie, Frida Kahlo, and Anna Karina, for their style and conviction. As a writer I believe I do my best writing late at night with pen and paper; do you have you any writing habits that help you get into the zone? Any quiet, introspective time in pretty surroundings or opportunities to observe people gets me

inspired. I carry my moleskin and a pen around with me everywhere so I never miss a thought or idea. How did you find out about Youth in Revolt Magazine and how do you feel about joining the team? I first discovered it when my friend liked the Facebook page and from the start I had told myself that this is the sort of magazine I would want to write for. It seemed like fate when my best friend coincidentally shared a cab with Nicole. The whole team fell in love with your Amsterdam piece; tell us about the inspirations behind it. Basically, reflecting on my time spent in Amsterdam and reading back over somewhat incoherent journal entries and sketches, I realized I needed to make some sense of pre-existing travelling notions and subsequent experiences. I wanted to try and recreate the overwhelming uneasiness and claustrophobia I felt at a particular time and place in my life. What can readers expect from you in the future, what issues and topics do you intend on exploring? Feminist rants. Being trapped by nostalgia and lurve. Travelling. Trippy experiences. Fan-girl-ing over all literature and writer, ever. Apart from writing do you paint or draw or partake in other creative expression? My sketchbook and cherished Derwents are called upon when I feel like re-creating sketches of my favourite people (of which I spend copious amounts of time editing and re-editing). Apart from inside the pages of Youth in Revolt Magazine and on where can readers find your work? My writing blog, aptly titled ‘Internal Rants’, features many of my pieces of prose, poetry and general creative inspirations and splashes of stuff I find interesting. And finally, with the warmer weather well on its way, what’s your favourite popsicle? To tell you the truth, I’m much more of an ice-cream kinda girl. Give me lemon sorbet and chocolate any day of the year and I’m swell.



influences my personal style. It’s important to know both what you do like and what you don’t like when you create art. At the moment I’m really What mediums do you use? I use everything and anything. I love to try into Mike Kelley’s work with soft toys and also the new things just to see how they work and what amazing stuff Yago Hortal does with acrylic paint. outcomes I can achieve. Recently I started using expandable foam, which is this crazy spray stuff If you could collaborate with any artist on that creates a form which expands to three times the planet (Just one), who would it be? it’s original size. Other than that I’m currently ONLY ONE?! I’d want to collaborate with Marina using lots of faux fur, glitter paint, acrylic paint, Abramovic, let’s be honest, who wouldn’t? She’s bedazzling gems and other random things such as a next level queen and I want to be her creative art baby. (If I was allowed more I would also say soft toys and false eyelashes! Walter Van Beirendonck – google him pls) What inspires your artwork? Popular culture definitely, I’m obsessed with the What do you do while you create? Set the 90’s club kid movement, sex culture and drag scene for us. queens at the moment. Anything that is fabulous, When I create my ~object based~ works, I’m literally sitting on the floor of my studio surrounded trashy and covered in glitter. in a fabulous filth of faux fur, bedazzling gems, What artists, if any, influence your personal glitter glue with my headphones on just plugging away at a work. I’ll either be listening to music or a style? It’s really hard to pin point a particular artist, I movie, I can’t work in complete silence – I tried to feel like every artist and all the art that I look at do that the other day and I couldn’t focus because I was so busy thinking about what I was going to have for lunch. But when I do my drawings, I’m usually in bed hanging out with my boyfriend Aaron and listening to music while I draw from a reference image online. A lot of artists we speak to say having music on while they create helps their artistic process, does this ring true with you? If so, what’s your favourite band/artist to listen to whilst you work? I definitely think listening to music helps you get into the groove of your art, it makes it much easier to shut out both your inner and outer environment so you can completely focus on the task at hand. At the moment I’m in love with RuPaul, her song “Tranny Chaser” is my favesies. I basically just listen to what ever I’m most obsessed with at the current time, I once went through a stage of listening to Britney Spears “Everytime” for a month after I watched Spring Breakers. When and why did you start creating art? This is such a hard question because there are so many tiny things that pin point my beginnings in art. My grandfather, whom I’ve never met was an artist and art lecturer, so I feel like in a way art is an innate thing to me. I feel like I’ve been


What should we be expecting for Youth in Revolt’s October cover? Something disgustingly colourful, fabulous and hopefully a little bit glittery. We’ve never had art on the cover of Youth in Revolt, how does it feel to be the artist helping us take that leap? I’m so honoured and happy that I’ve been asked to do this! I really think this is an important step for our culture to make. I’m so sick of art being confined to particular art realms like art magazines and art galleries. Why not just have art everywhere? We’re can our readers find your art? Along with a whole bunch of duck face selfies (I don’t care, it’s cute okay) you can find most of my art and illustration on my Instagram: @hellolizzi And finally, with the warmer weather well on its way, what’s your favourite popsicle? I really like Calipos and the plain lemonade icypoles. I also love Cornettos and Drumsticks, but I guess they don’t classify as a popsicle, do they? Any cold sugary food is a fave of mine to be honest.

surrounded by creative people my entire life in one way or another. I never actually made ~art~ until I was 16/17, which is only a couple of years ago when I did art class in high school. My art teacher was the most amazingly encouraging person in the world, she was so devoted to every member in our class. Other than that, I have never been able to see a future as clear as the future I have in art. I’ve wanted to be a journalist, a graphic designer, a singer – but nothing has ever felt as right as art has. Art is my entire life. Your boyfriend runs Curls Apparel, does dating someone who shares your creative passion come in handy? It’s the most perfect relationship ever, to be honest. Aaron is so encouraging and helpful, he pushes me to really think about my art and to be confident. I used to be so shy and struggle a lot with ideas, but since he’s been around my attitude on what I create has changed drastically and now I’m becoming the crazy art lady I never thought I would be.




Interviewed by Made Stuchbery

Aaron Grech is the creator of freaky and funky fashion label Curls Apparel. After their great success at Youth in Revolt’s Enter : Outer event back in August, I decided to have a chat with Grech and stalk his photos a little. I found out what makes him tick, what plans he has for the future of his label and his alcopop-related angst.


So what (or who) is Curls Apparel? Curls Apparel is hungover right now…so this will most likely make my answers really long and mental. Curls really isn’t anything specific and I like it that way. Generally everything I create is never rock solid because I like having room to move. Curls Apparel is me and also you if you would like. Although recently I’ve had help from heaps of amazing people it’s really still technically only me playing admin, creator etc etc. Eventually I’d love to have a misfit team of people who contribute to the Curls brand. Does that answer the question? It sure does! So how did Curls Apparel come to be? Actually coming up with the Curls name was the most fucking ridiculous ordeal ever. I literally wanted to start making clothes so badly but had no name to go under. I eventually picked Curls really shyly and started testing the waters but putting it in designs I was making, and then eventually just went bat shit crazy with the word Curls. I also have this obsession with 5 letter words. It’s this huge thing in my life / head for some reason. I also figured out my Initials ‘A.G’ also could mean “Asian Girls”. They’re both 5 letter words also. That really doesn’t mean anything to you but I’m OBSESSED with Asian culture. Video games like Jet Set Radio Future are a huge influence on Curls and will be for a long time. The huge chunky headphones. Classic. I’m also going to Japan early next year so I assume that will have a MASSIVE impact on my work. Have you always had a desire to get into the fashion game? Basically i’ve wanted to make t-shirts, or at least put designs or pictures on t-shirts ever since i was a kid. I used to buy shitty t-shirt transfer paper from office works and then print my drawings on them. I remember one design i had was a mail box that said: ‘No Junk Male.’ I guess at the time I was a pretty edgy dude who was into feminism and human rights and junk. Anyway, a friend of mine bought it, and due to the fact I didn’t tell him to hand wash the shirt, he put it in the washing machine and the transfer basically looked like a newspaper which a dog had taken as its bitch. He paid for it in dollar coins too. Those were the days… I also did a t-shirt workshop with this amazing amazing human called Eddie Zammit. He’s probably my biggest inspiration for a few reasons; one of them is that I’m pretty sure he said he’s from Frankston. He also runs T-World, which is this fantastic project / magazine. He’s basically got his finger in every respected t-shirt pie. Eddie is such an advocate for creative professionalism, and also for being different and individual amongst a cluster fuck of bad design. Anyway, around 2009, I think, he came to the Frankston Art Centre and held this really small workshop as part of some kind of like a kids book week. It was hilarious though because I was like 16, and it was really kind of aimed at 10-13 year olds. I’m pretty sure there were a couple of 10 year olds. Funnily enough, the workshop he ran pretty much was the real major starting point for me. I guess he might currently be ashamed to inspire my clothing because it hails a lot from ‘sea punk’ and all those internet trends.


Can you tell us what’s in store for the brand in the future? Well we have just released a Look Book! I’m ridiculously proud of it purely because I actually had so many people behind the scenes who helped me produce it. Even though it’s just me behind the Facebook and web store, there were so many lovely people who helped me with the photography, PR, adding fancy bits to my web site, all that stuff. The Look book features all the stuff that i’ve made in the first half of this year. I feel it’s pretty swanky. Other than the look book, so much cool shit is coming in the future (hopefully). The coming summer is going to be a huge deal if I can pull it off. Pretty much all my current clothing is XL shirts and digital printing. I’m really pushing to go further than that though. Even though I don’t hate what I’ve made the Curls brand isn’t going to remain aesthetically stationary. Meaning that I never want to have two collections that look the same. I’m going to constantly push myself until I have a spread in T-World or see Eddie Zammit wearing Curls. That’s my goal. I’m in the middle of gathering some people who will be machine sewing colourful patterned shirts, I’ll be making hats and who knows what else. I absolutely love summer, even the stupid people in fluro tank tops and alcopops (I never used to, but I guess they’ve grown on me). But yeah – summer. Lots of flamingos, lots of drawings, lots of BMX bikes and basketballs. Where can we get a hold of some wicked Curls Apparel threads? You can go on my big cartel site. You could also Facebook where you can stalk me personally and grab some hot chips with me and my girlfriend, and then in that meeting a transaction could occur. I’d rather you just bought stuff online because then I can jazz up the order with disney stickers and wizz fizz. For real though. If you buy from Curls, expect stickers and hello kitty bags and candy. If for whatever reason you don’t get jazz, it’s probably because I delivered it / put it together when I was late for work or uni. Just email ‘‘ and we can sort out a special jazz filled delivery. Photography by Chantelle Elise Models: Stephen Patinotis & Alana Leptos











WET SMOKE: Observations and Perplexities from a (somewhat) sober day in Amsterdam Amsterdam is insane. Amsterdam sober is even more so. Like a constantly-spinning kaleidoscope, like a jar of glitter and acid tabs, like whatever-countless-crazy-metaphors I could come up with, Amsterdam twirls you on needle-point at its fastest and most disorienting. This city, with all its contrasts and contradictions, from the slow strolling bikes shimmering across canal bridges and the people drinking coffee with their pupils blazing, Amsterdam invites you to seriously get lost. Take the batteries out of your watch to forget the time, or take it off and throw it in the canal altogether. In a place like this, you get lost in the endless time and space of it all. Maybe you could drink some wine, smoke something nondescript from the foreign man whose dark features you can hardly make out in the haze of darkened rooms, smelling of smoke and coffee. You couldn’t stay sober if you tried. Walking along the streets, the mere constant chatter of the Dutch, sounding almost like some weird American-English hybrid or Sims gibberish, is enough to throw you off and make you question the sound of your own language and voice. The city wants you to stay within its little spider-web of rivers and intricate paths, and you, ever the tourist, are stuck springing back and forth in the very middle. You ride along the path seeing bagels, bikes and blondes, and you turn a corner and suddenly there are naked women pumping sex and techno music through their window boxes, but it feels as though you are the one trapped. You’re jerked backwards to Anne, Van Gogh and Western-European antiquity; tiny terraces and houses with nowhere to hide but in a hotel room with steps so narrow and steep you think they must have been designed as an incentive to not get too stoned and potentially break your neck. You stare at the alien in the mirror, look around at empty food packets and ashtrays and virgin-white sheets, and swat the tiny bugs circling your head (not knowing whether they existed in reality or within your mind). You’re literally flailing in the atmosphere of it all. Amsterdam: the smell of fried food dances down the street from every store (a stoner’s store, no doubt), and it sits out in the gutter after being dropped on the ground by baked-not-fried tourists, so tiny bugs gather and feast. A city in mid-sink, with its mouldy streets and walls, absorbs the wetness of its surroundings and people, and then shrinks back into itself and its microcosmic world. The women were cleanly shaven but definitely not clean, and the men the same: the illusion of clean minds. And yet, the novelty of the illegal wears off and it becomes a daily activity, then a lifestyle, and ultimately these people seem to live their lives through smoky, coloured, flashing blurs, the wet black pavements reflecting neon signs promising desire and satisfaction. You make me wonder what it must be like to live in some radical yet backwards society on Mars, where all the people speak alien and the manufactured food is churned out at a scary rate, to cater for all the creatures with hungry, black, sunken eyes, staring nose-pressed against fogged glass at artificially-coloureddonuts and –skin. Offering every fix for every frustration, it gives the people what they want. Amsterdam’s red lights wink at me, flashing red for danger and sex (or maybe both), and as I’m counting the seconds in between blinks, I’m hypnotised and I can’t look away. This city makes me feel like I’m either constantly drowning or choking in its thick air. Either way, it’s not easy to breathe. Chiara Mastrilli


Dating Life Millie Clayton

I haven’t had a great run in my four years total experience in the dating arena. The word ‘date’ used to make me dry wrench. The thing about red roses is that I hate them. I would much prefer a succulent plant. Struck with nerves which made me avoid any form of rendezvous, I had come up with a mindset. My plan of attack was to meet up with boys having zero expectations. This way, the meeting could either flourish into a longstanding friendship or a passionate romance. I would never be disappointed. More importantly, I would never fall victim of being the ‘blockbuster’ woman. This type of woman is shown to visualise themselves walking down the aisle after a singular night spent under the sheets. My mindset had its pros; x. I completely avoided the obstacle of being a babbling mess in any ‘date-type’ situation. This was done by thinking of dates as a hang out rather than a courting ritual. Thus, I simultaneously steered clear of any butterflies manifesting in my stomach. (I did experience ‘butterflies’ once in high school and they felt more like rabbid dogs fighting over a piece of meat and not merely those peaceful flying creatures). x. I could be a normal person and succumb to the urge of hunger. I want a scientist to investigate the presumably phenomenal statistic of how many times a lady feels uncomfortable eating whilst on a date in her lifetime. This then should be followed by the incidence of those same women whom gain 2-6 kilos upon landing themselves in a serious relationship. Blasphemy. x. I no doubt seemed really liberal asking my prospective mate whether he had slayed any hot tail recently. I brought up conversation starters revolving around picking up. I gave some handy tips that I had collected from reading Neil Strauss’ ‘The Game.’ I thought this left the guys I was crushing on feeling elated at coming across such a cool chick such as I. Little did I know that I was friend zoning myself. x. I was the progressive woman who didn’t need to be doted on. I can open my own door thank you. I can pay for our meals. In my eyes you most definitely have sex…you do not make love. I thought I was the lowest maintenance lass you would ever meet. I prided myself on being different to all the rest, because I was. But it just so turned out that didn’t make me rockin’ girlfriend potential like I had previously imagined. It made me a doormat. No one is more surprised than I. So having the whole ‘I am just going to see where it goes’ perspective hasn’t served me well thus far. I have not being taken seriously in the dating world. Fortunately for me, some form of heartbreak has given me the gift of being able to finally acknowledge that there is actually a ‘dating world.’ Weird mind games between the sexes do exist whether I like it or not. Multiple forms of manipulation are conspiring in between that drink he just paid for and that make-up that you so effortlessly want to seem like you don’t have any on. Unfortunately for me, my lack of acknowledgement of the dating world failed to protect me from the heartbreak like I originally thought it would. My innocent soul got taken advantage of because I let it happen. The saying goes ‘don’t hate the player, hate the game’ when really it should just be ‘hate yourself.’ You’re the one that gave them permission to hurt you. In saying that however, you shouldn’t hate yourself at all because you made yourself vulnerable and that highlights your courage not your weakness. I’ve stood up, dusted myself off and am ready for something new. It’s exciting.


Cam Johns Just a little side note before I get into my bargain buys, the price for all three of these albums was $4… so the reviews may reflect the output I was willing to… put out.

Alex Hood – Me And My Friends



Having just peaked at the inside of the CD booklet, my mind had been made up on this album. I saw the words “This live recording”, which in my mind are the words of sin when referring to a CD, and the feeling of instant disappointment struck me. Alas the attempt to give it a go has been given... Having an idea who Alex Hood was before purchasing would have helped me greatly, considering I just endured nearly 50 minutes of children’s clap-along songs. This is wasted on a person like me, whose heart has always been on the side of “bitter old man”. With songs about going to the zoo, didgeridoos and… other things I barely paid attention to because the annoying kids in the audience joined in. At least I can take a few important lessons from this though. Number one being I should have perhaps taken indication from the cover of the album what I was in store for. Number two is that maybe a little research before purchase wouldn’t go astray. And Number three… If I had any thoughts of primary school teaching I should throw those ideas in a fire, along with this album. Tracks to check out: NONE. But I started to question the validity of my life at ‘All Clap Hands’ BIN IT


Image from Craig Cloutier on Flickr

Tony Johannsen And The Land Of Plenty – The Gardener 2008 $1 With both of my previous choices failing quite miserably, the feeling I have in my gut is that this can only be good. Well at least the cover is slightly promising… only slightly though. So, the one question that kept popping up during my listen “What the fuck is Tony doing with his vocals?” He sounds like he isn’t sure which pitch he wants to hit/ can actually hit. Or in the case of ‘Mine Is Tonight’ just go for both low and high and hope for the best. The problem, I believe, is that his starting point is too high and when reaching for any higher notes his vocal chords don’t agree with his brain. My contradicting feelings start and end with the vocals too, because the playing of The Land Of Plenty is actually rather solid, but every time I start to enjoy a song I hear an extremely off note and takes me right away. With all the frustration I was having with the vocals I heard nothing of the lyrics. Well… except for ‘The Sermon’ where Tony recounted various things he remembered such as “when factory outlets were cheap”… this was somehow a highlight in a very unkempt garden. Tracks to check out: Public Holiday, 30 And Dirty, The Sermon BIN IT

Everybody Out! – Everybody Out!



Normally when choosing my bargain buys, the cover art or name of the band are the big contributing factors. With Everybody Out! the cover art is uninspired and the album and band name are hardly interesting, apart from the somewhat forceful exclamation mark placed at the end. And the thoughts on the album as a whole are not much better. I found the instrumentation suffocated the vocals too much and with the constant feeling of déjà vu as each track passed I got extremely tiresome and disinterested. Until horns were introduced on the tracks ‘Jack The Lad’ and ‘Yeah Yeah Yeah’ nothing was at all interesting and even then, it is a stretch. By far ‘Billy Cole’ is the standout and I wish that more tracks like this were present on Everybody Out! A slower acoustic driven track that actually showcases a gruff Scottish brogue, which pleased every part of my ears, where the balance of instrumentation and vocals is perfect. If only more moments like this existed perhaps the monotony of the rest of the tracks would have been more tolerable. Tracks to check out: Billy Cole, Jack The Lad BIN IT



Just when you thought you had heard the last of us ranting and raving about our friends, friendships, they go and give us all the more reason to by winning Triple J’s unearthed competition. Maybe we’re a little bit bias but we think the win was more than deserved and we can’t wait to see them play live at Listen Out Festival brought to you by Fuzzy Entertainment on the 5th of October at Melbourne’s Botanical Gardens. Being regular attendees of Fuzzy Entertainment’s Parklife Festival we would be lying if we said we didn’t mourn the loss of what was a hugely successful event, however the reasons that fueled the choice have only made us gain more respect for it’s organisers. The original initiative behind the event was to create an event that rejected mainstream festivals in favour of a more intimate atmosphere and a line up that brought patrons artists of the highest quality, but as the festival gained popularity protecting all it stood for became increasingly difficult and thus Listen Out Festival was born. After overcoming the initial grief of losing one of our favourite festivals and delving deeper into the reasons behind it’s axing we realised that we share similar ideals as the pioneers of the event. A passion that overpowers any desire to cave to the pressures of mainstream conventions and a premise to cater to a market of people who share the same un-compromised passion whilst utilising that position to springboard artists that are making important contributions to the industry to a larger audience. Listen Out Festival, the beers are on us. Nicole Wilson


Photographer: Nuala Swan Model: Anais Enry Make Up and Hair: Rosie Christie Garments: Once Upon A Time Vintage, Lazy Oaf, Typical Freaks, CuriouScope




















How do I hate thee, Tonee? Let me count the ways… I don’t know much about politics. Don’t know much about history. In fact, the first time I even understood the difference between Liberal and Labor was when a friend explained it to me a few weeks before the election, and basically I still didn’t really get it, so I didn’t know much of what I was doing on election day, but I remember people smiling and being given a sticker. To me, the right choice just seemed to be the answer to asking myself whom I hated less. I concerned myself with what I knew of the people and what they advocated, and whomever I associated with more got my vote. Or rather, disassociate myself from one in particular: Tony Abbott. He just makes me so angry I prefer not to think or talk about it. But now he’s appointed himself as woman’s minister. What the actual fuck. Where did he get such a sense of arrogant self-entitlement? From the first time he graced our screens in a series of bobble-head, and plastic bike race videos I just remember thinking what a competitive tool he seemed. Apart from the fact that he reminded me of the intimidating jocks at school who wouldn’t talk to me because I wasn’t a popular girl putting out in a big way, or a fellow sports-mad-fan, this politician has made me scared and frustrated from the start. Let me complete my feminist outfit and put on my stomping boots to say that Tony isto be deaf to anyone with internal sexual reproductive organs or a contemporary sense of equality. He’s like a shitty dad teasing you with biscuitsthat he’s reached from the top shelf, or the mean playground boy who used to tell me that you couldn’t play chasey with the boys because I wouldn’t be able to keep up. He’s the loud guy at the bar happy to flex biceps and burp loudly but not to wipe his piss off the toilet seat. Here is the problem (aside from the fact that I’m embarrassed having him represent me on the international stage): he can’t relate to females outside the confines of having a role co-dependent on the male. Sure, he’s got a wife, daughters, and a sister (who is openly gay, and he openly opposes it), but he is defining them in terms of their relation to himself. Tony does not understand or accept that females are females and not a ‘secondary sex’. I’m not going to list off all the things he’s said that show just how insignificant women’s issues are to him, because I may just explode into an insignificant, invisible flame. As a representative of this country and its people, we must seem like the most backwards and idiotic bigots, which isolates us more (as if being a huge island in the southern hemisphere didn’t isolate us enough), and how could a man, especially him, connect with a nation of women who cannot possibly relate or agree with him, let alone follow his policies as women’s minister (who knows what tricks he’ll pull out of his hat next? Another rabbit from Mr. Rabbit, perhaps?). Already he’s experiencing backlash from the singular woman in the cabinet – does that not trigger any warnings? And unfortunately, the women who do make into government cannot possibly dream of having both a career and a family? Oh, the horror! A woman multitasking and succeeding? How utterly disgusting! Instead, let’s replay the footage of Tony’s lycra-clad arse riding into Australia’s now-monochromatic-politicallandscape sunset the day after the election. Obviously he’s just another shitty politician that’s slipped through the cracks of common sense and a 21st century sense of ethics (there never is much in politics anyway), but the people chose him. We’re a fully-developed, young country; how can it be that we have a majority of first-class citizens smiling and getting a sticker for willingly choosing power imbalance? I wish I were lying when I say that, unfortunately, we still live in a patriarchy. It baffles/ angers/saddens me to headaches. We live in a monarchy, so where’s our girl: the queen bee? Where’s single-lady Elizabeth when we need her? Where’s our Medea-esque rebellion to alleviate this shit? Don’t be ignorant and choose just what your parents choose, because if you are a young Australian girl and Tony takes away or limits your right to the cervical cancer vaccination (see: Tony Abbott forbidding his own daughters from receiving vaccinations), your parents can’t hold your hand and placard and march to Parliament house demanding rights for women when it’s too late. Don’t even get me started on what he’s said about abortion. I refuse to accept his self-appointed and -indulgent place as ‘women’s minister’, let alone his position in this ‘democracy’ at all. I cannot accept a person who reduces women to an archaic, Aristotelian way of thinking of us as passive and moulded by men. There’s no women’s lib under Liberals. Image by Jess Dudfield,


Chiara Mastrilli

One liberal application of civility, please Made Stuchbery

By the time this article goes live in October, we here in Australia will have acceptedeither willingly or begrudgingly-a Liberal Government lead by The Honourable Tony Abbott. Now that this draining and somewhat horrendous election campaign is finally over and the ballots counted, I feel it both my privilege and my obligation to be honest with you, dearest reader. Truthfully, the three or so weeks leading up to the election and the somewhat pathetic, simpering campaigns mounted by both dominating political parties left me with something of a sour taste in my mouth and a persistent headache which I’m positive is going to one day manifest itself into a stroke. I was appalled and horrified by the name calling, the public shaming, the degradation and the public bullying that was persistent and ever-present on my Facebook news feed, in the conversations I had with fellow students at university and in the form of constant Twitter blasts. And the guilty persons here aren’t Rudd, or Abbott, or any other members of parliament past or present, but the people that these guys are attempting to represent; the people of Australia. There were several moments during the political campaign that I actually jumped online and attempted to barter one of my kidneys in exchange for a plane ticket to take me back to England and away from these shores girt by sea. Because I was honestly sickened to my stomach by the awful dexterity and finesse of some people who are clearly politically passionate, but choose instead to aim their poisonous retorts at their fellow citizen. I’ll unpack this a little for you. There were a few people on my Facebook and Twitter newsfeeds, some of whom I know personally and others I’m merely acquainted with, who felt it was necessary to make very blithe yet powerfully loaded status updates such as “If you vote for Abbott this weekend I’m not talking to you for the next three years,” and “If you don’t vote Labor you’re clearly not all for a united, equal Australia. Get fucked.” Etcetera and so on. These charming little gems of social media dribble really rubbed me the wrong way. I’ll explain why, just as I have explained to some of these people who felt it was their duty to ‘educate’ their fellow Australian in the same subtle manner that Hitler tried to ‘educate’ the Jewish people about the ‘error’ of their religious and cultural ways.* *(For legal reasons let me make it clear that the above Hitler joke was indeed a satirical retort, and not my personal belief.) It is really fantastic and somewhat comforting to know that there are young people out there who are genuinely passionate and concerned about the outcome of the election


and the future of their country, but as a civilised citizen of a developed country, you can’t continuously shame your fellow countryman, or make people feel as though their choice and their vote is incorrect. That thought process kind of undermines the entire concept of a free democracy, wherein we are lucky to even have the right to vote in the first place. Of course, there is the issue of ‘Freedom of Speech,’ which contractually entitles us to the right to speak freely and honestly about issues affecting the lives of our friends, families and ourselves. And to the people who fought back with me with their lightningfast fingers on Facebook; yes, I agree with you. Freedom of Speech and the right to coherently and frequently voice ones opinion is our right and privilege as citizens of a democratic country (I think this is something that our American cousins could learn from, but I’ll touch on that issue another day). My main contention is that it’s not the critique of the actual parties that is my issue. I’m more than happy to tear apart the policies and facial twitches of both Abbott, Rudd, The Greens Party or that dude Palmer and deem them all to be brilliant/useless/not attractive in swimwear. My point is that once you start degrading the citizens who are trying to make a decision and vote for a party that they believe should lead this country, that’s what upsets me. Because I don’t think it’s fair to bring people down and stomp on their beliefs. Hang shit on the ALP, The Coalition, The Greens or the Australian Sex Party; I couldn’t care less. But I do care when you make me, or my family, my friends or even that dude with dreadlocks who lives on the balcony adjacent to me feel like a pleb and incomplete for not choosing one party over another, or because my personal beliefs don’t reach the dizzying heights of yours. To be brutally honest guys, we can’t deny that whether The Australian Labor Party had won another term or, as has happened, The Liberals got in, we as a nation are going to be treading a very rough path for the next few years. The economical and financial climate on a worldly scale isn’t great, and as a nation that relies somewhat heavily on trade and excise with other countries, we’re all going to be suffering and finding the hip pocket getting battered about a little more than it has in recent years. But at the end of the day, at least we’re not Spain. We’re pretty lucky to be living here in Australia, and after living abroad for a little while I feel my credentials are sufficient to confirm that mantra. Regardless of who had won the election on that Saturday in September, I still had to set my alarm and rise to work the following Sunday. And it’s people like me, my housemate, and thousands of other Australians out there who are working 5-6 days a week, paying taxes and contributing to society who are going to help bring Australia out of the darkness and onto a broad and sunlit upland. So can we just stop shaming our fellow man and crack on with trying to get this country back up to scratch? Thanks awfully. madeclar e.wor dpr


Reaching Rock Bottom Memoirs By Llewellyn Michael Bates I sit in tattered blue underpants in a bug-infested motel in the middle of Cambodia. I am sweating profusely when my attempt to cry while masturbating was interrupted with a loud banging on the door that nearly takes it off its hinges. I switch off the TV rushing to pull my underpants back up. I open the door as a dumpy European man in his mid fifties with thick body hair and large tanned muscles stands there smiling. Me: “Just so we’re clear there were massive Chicka insects congregating on the lower part of the sheets.” I wave my hand over the bed as he grins at me in disbelief. I start hitting the mattress. Me: “I was forced to hit the bed and that must have been the wet slapping sound you heard.” Fredrick: “ I think what a-humorous TV programs, but when I walk over, it’s just squashed man crying and making the hand romances.” Me: “I can’t be alone she just left I loved her and now she’s gone.” He places his hairy arm around my shoulders, handing me an opened sliver-crested eagle flask and motioning for me to drink. Fredrick: “Pussy tears. In Slovenia we say life gets you problem… you drink it!!” “Well we need a shit ton more alcohol then,” I say smiling as I shut the door and walk out with him. Fredrick: “Ok ok two bottles worth of problems.” Fredrick drags me to a small bar with a dilapidated restaurant near the Mekong River, full of sweaty old white decrepit ex-pats drinking and fawning over young girls who sit with their big breasts in plastic chairs. I lean back as Fredrick motions over a large scantily-clad Cambodian lady-boy. She leans over, whispering in Fredrick’s ear and holding his hair with strong fingers; she walks off, returning moments later with two plates of steaming hot fried rice and a large bottle of cheap gut rot whiskey. Fredrick pours the glass full and I slowly sip it. Fredrick: “Baby cakes, let get loose, we eatl then get nice tight tight pussies!” I look at Fredrick puzzled. He looks over to a women sitting on the chairs opposite us. A tiny woman held together by skin and brittle bones tries to smile at me through sad, pale dead eyes. “You like her? You can ruin her, she’s all yours.” He signals her. She walks across the half filled restaurant, pulls up a plastic chair and sits down next to me. Fredrick: “He like, but very shy.” He put his arm around her as he pours her a glass of whiskey. Woman: “Very cheap very love.” Image from Paul-in-London on Flickr


I start to stiffen up as the blood pumps awkwardly through my skin causing my face to turn beet red. Fredrick: “Beautiful Louie, she must, she do anything you wanting for money,” he says putting a large stack of US dollar bills on the table Woman: “ Give good time give boom boom.” She starts rubbing my crotch. Me: “This isn’t something I’m too keen on.” I scull the whiskey and put the glass on the table. She forcefully grabs my arm as I stand up and the universe starts to spin on its axis. My vision blurs. The sidewalk blends into the river; I knock over the table; the plates glide through the air decorating the ground in dust and ivory. Fredrick: “Mother f#$% I pay her.” I bolt down the street lost and confused my pants begin to tighten as my bladder begins to swell and throb. I realise if I don’t find a place to pee I’m going to piss in my pants. I find a desolate dark alleyway, smile as I unzip my fly. I feel a tap on my shoulder. Man: “Hey f#$% you, you go jail now.” Me: “Funny funny Fredrick, fuck off man I’m doing a cheeky piss stop.” He waits ‘till I’ve finished then he turns me around; as I hear him speak into the receiver of his walkie-talkie my face drops. Cop: “You arrested, you drunk! Cambodia not a big toilet!” He shouts as he grabs my shoulder forcefully sitting me down on the sidewalk. I open my wallet. Me: “here it is 40 000 Reil, we’re good friends yeah?” Cop: “80 000 Reil or you make me feel like a bad friend .” The cop smiles, counting my dirty bribe money; he searches my pockets and then speeds away through the dust kicked up by his motorbike. Still inebriated I can faintly make out the hooker with the pale dead eyes sitting at the inn in an empty restaurant looking bored. I walk over to where she’s standing trying to keep upright on the wall Me: “If I know anything about anything don’t go to the killing fields and the genocide museum if your relationship is a fucking train wreck. “ Woman: “you want love you want to make boom boom.” She grabs my hand and I start to sweat profusely. She drags me behind her through a dark and dirty alleyway up a flight of rusty stairs into a grungy hotel room. She pushes me down onto a dirty mattress, turns her eyes away from mine as she stares at the wall while unzipping my fly, wrapping her brittle fingers around me, she pumps a few times and makes me cum sadness, she wipes her hand on the mattress, coughs a few times, takes her thirty dollars and leaves. I walk out onto a busy street and hail a screeching neon bus that’s headed for Thailand as I sit alone next to my luggage I look out the window at a world away from what I’m used to in a beautiful beaten down city that forgets sleep ,I try not to tear up as I take out a tatter photograph of June.


“I have been making music on my own for a while now, I can’t pinpoint an exact time that I really started to focus on production but I know that initially I was really inspired by Animal Collective, the way the arrangements were so un-conventional yet so undeniably interesting was something that I really wanted to try and create on my own…”

How has your music progressed and grown over the years? It can obviously be hard to recreate the sounds floating around in your head… I don’t ever really want to stick to the same style of music so I would say it’s just become a constant evolution. You have ‘No-fi’ listed as your genre, what characteristics do ‘No-fi’ artists share? I don’t really remember why I put that there… I think it’s just to do with naive song writing and no real knowledge of conventional music production on my part.

We recently sat down with Melbourne beat artist, Blossoms, to talk about his music, his debut EP ‘Meeting Places’ and what the What’s a normal studio session like? future holds for this talented and humble Set the scene for us. I write all of it in my bedroom with reason, bedroom producer and this is how it went… 76


Interviewed by Nicole Wilson

Ableton, old keyboards, SP404, guitar pedals think from now on I’ll put more music out, more & sounds that I have either recorded myself or frequently. taken from somewhere on the internet. What inspired the name ‘Meeting What do think has fuelled the growing Places’? popularity of bedroom produced It’s a reference to the EP being a collection of music? thought and sound that I keep on coming back I know for me personally there is an attachment to, basically. you get from producing something entirely on your own, setting a vibe & creating sounds that Have you got any upcoming gigs we are unique to your take on song writing. should look out for? I don’t have anything confirmed at the moment, How long has ‘Meeting Places’ been in so hopefully there is something that pops up. I am working on some new music, so I think I will production for? I have had a really hard time with computers, I concentrate on that for now. am now on my second in the space of a year & in that time I have really learnt the importance of backing things up…. So it’s probably taken a little longer than I would have liked, but I


Modern Equality Just Doesn’t Seem To Add Up I tend to get my news and information online these days, because I moonlight as something of a multi-media journalist in a modern world (but in reality, I’m just lazy), and the morning after the infamous Miley Cyrus VMA performance I was trawling through the thousands of comments littering the photographs published on Tumblr. Now, there’s only so much that underpaid journalists can write about a woman in the music industry stripping off for a music video, which means that the articles that are constantly published online and in print have a tendency to grow rather dreary rather quickly. However, if you are after some insightful, interesting, informative opinions, I suggest to turn your attention to the ‘comments’ section of your favourite news blog, website or newspaper. Because, dear reader, in that little box of ’20-25 words or less’ at the end of an article, is where the underlying truths and convictions of the modern world lie and where the keyboard warriors with too much time on their hands inflict their opinions upon the rest of society. And it became apparent to me that the world and the people in it seem to hold two juxtaposed viewpoints in regards to the ‘controversy’ broadcast that night in September; people either labelled Miley Cyrus as a slut and a whore and demand that she covers up in public, or people leapt to her defence, claiming that she is merely a woman in the modern world expressing her sexuality, her sensuality and her body in a way that our grandmothers who fought for equality would be proud of. I agree with neither of these viewpoints. I’ll make it emphatically clear right now that I didn’t enjoy Miley’s performance or the somewhat rank way she gyrated around the stage, just because I didn’t see the point. I don’t understand how fingering yourself in front of billions of people with a giant foam hand is relevant to the song that was being ‘performed’ at the time. I’m not calling her a slut, because that’s not right. But I’m also not going to support the notion that she’s just fighting for ‘equality,’ because that’s just a load of horse shit. Here’s my consensus in regards to equality; for me, equality doesn’t mean being treated the same as a man in this world. Equality means man and woman both being treated on the same level as two different creatures with the same rights and responsibilities as human beings. That’s it. In a similar vein, men constantly shame and degrade women for appearing in sexually perverse situations, but no-one bats an eyelid if a man behaves in a non-gentlemanly manner. If you’re going to point the finger at Miley and say that she’s not behaving in


a ladylike fashion, then you’d damn better hope that you’re sitting in a wingback chair wearing a tweed jacket and smoking a pipe, or else I’m going to poke you in the face with a blunt graphite pencil. Because I’m constantly sick of these double standards in society that allow men the freedom to be as sexually perverse and crude as they want to be and not allow women the same right without fear of degradation. From now on, men of the world, if you don’t appear to be dapper, well-groomed and suave; if you don’t hold doors open for me when I exit a shop or pull my chair out for me at a restaurant, then as far as I’m concerned you’re not allowed to comment or concern yourself with the appearances or behaviour of women who’s standards apparently don’t reach the dizzying heights of your own. If you don’t embody James Bond, or if your viewpoints stem from Edwardian England and you dare look down upon anybody in this world, then as far as I’m concerned you’re not a man but a mere boy; and a bastardly one at that. Equality is everyone being treated equally as human beings, regardless of the condition of their genitals or the colour of their skin. Equality to me means that I should be able to express my discomfort at watching Ms Cyrus thrusting around on stage objectifying herself without a load of feminists getting up in my grills and screaming at me that I’m anti-feminist and just as bad as the male population in this world. Equality to me means that I don’t mind it if a guy pinches my bum in the office, because I quite enjoy grabbing a handful of cute man meat in the pub if you’re a man wearing a staggeringly hot pair of jeans, and because I don’t believe in double standards I’d quite like to keep that option open to me, thankyou very much. However, feminism and equal rights is respecting that not all women, or men, are comfortable with this concept. Feminism and equal rights means respecting Ms Cyrus’s right to dance around in the nude on MTV but allows me the freedom to express my discomfort at her sideboob. Unfortunately, the reality of society doesn’t match up with my hopes and visions for a harmonious Utopia. Which is a bit sucky. *Any questions, comments, thoughts and concerns in regards to Miley Cyrus, nudity or any other issues raised in this article should be written onto a piece of paper, neatly folded and then inserted into ones anus. Because this is the end of the article and as soon as I place that dot point at the end of this sentence, I cease to care

Made Stuchbery


The perks (pains) of being an (ethnic) wallflower Chiara Mastrilli

There it is again. That angry red line. Questioning my name, mocking it maybe. Ridiculing its validity in this world. And every time, I get asked: did you mean: chairs? Perhaps choir? How about cithara? (I don’t even know what that means!) Angrily and methodically I add it to the dictionary so it won’t bother me again, and can be certain that that I won’t have to squish the red bug into the screen again. That is, until I start my computer up again, and the vicious cycle starts… Sure, it’s fun and games when you meet new people and they ask where are you from…no, where are you really from? And I laugh politely, roll my eyes, and explain the whole ethnic-backgroundimmigrant thing. I should really just photocopy it and hand out my memorized spiel; it would save so much time. My parents told me stories of how I used to go to kinder and speak Italian to all the other kids and no-one understood me. And now I feel the same way when I say my name to someone; I’m speaking another language. Sometimes it gets so bad that sometimes I start to question which culture I should associate myself with more. I really don’t have it hard though, I really shouldn’t be complaining. My poor grandparents and papa didn’t speak a word of this hybrid runt language when they arrived here, but at least they had names that Australians could pronounce! I read an article about the worst names in history to cheer me up. And it did, until I realized that my name wasn’t generic enough to be neither common nor crazy enough to make the list. So I’m stuck somewhere in limbo between exotic foreigner and average Australian. I’ve read studies you know: a professor from Melbourne University found that people with easytopronounce names are “favoured in the workplace and personal life”, always. Awesome, so I’m at an evolutionary disadvantage with procreation and general survival as well as social interactions. But then I remember my name shows where I’m from. My parents didn’t choose it to burden me with exposing people not in tune with the Italian culture, nor did they choose it to make me facepalm every time Microsoft Word reminds me with a loud red line. I’ve been told it’s a pretty name. It means clear and light. My name is easy to say, it’s the initial reading and non-phonetic spelling of it that throws people off. But even when they do get it, there’s the insistence of asking me how I prefer it pronounced. And now I’ve resorted to telling people to call me Chi-Chi (which came about only because my friend first thought my name was cheeah-rah) or Cheech. To tell you the truth though, these nicknames have kind of grown on me. Most of the time I like them more than my actual name. When I had my first existential name crisis, I had actually written up a table of pros and cons (with the ‘rhyming nicknames’ aspect overlapping in both columns. Interesting.), and I found the list was equal on both sides: so what do I do? For a start, I’m naming my children (that is, if I have any at all) equally, if not more, foreign and bizarre names, including a plethora of exotic middle names so I can selfishly pay homage to foreign cultures and all their weirdness. (You think I’m kidding, No, I actually have a list.) Dearest readers, be eternally grateful for your wonderfully unmistakably-pronounceable name. Run to your parents and thank them for putting you at a Darwinist evolutionary advantage of being favoured in the great scheme of things. Thank them for your birth-given-right to your name. It’s the difference between identity and losing it. I’m just going to deal with this petty problem and play the role of the faux exotic foreigner.It’s exposed my friends who can’t ‘roll the r’ (and I secretly and selfindulgently feel superior for it), and when I meet someone with their name spelt Kiara or Ciara, I always feel a sense of self-entitlement to the original name. (Am I a name snob? Maybe. I think I’m entitled to it.)




Art | Music | Fashion | Writing. A free bi-monthly magazine founded by Nicole Wilson and Olivia...

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