honeymoononvenus

[honeymoononvenus]

MATTY HEALY

A second Sydney show being added last minute ( and olympic stadium might I add ), further laments just how in demand they are right now. As the lights dimmed, a single alarm tone went off. One of those generic apple ones that makes your insides cringe with the PTSD of a rude morning awakening. Up on the screen, a camera man began following a bed being wheeled through the back halls of the arena, the pair eventually both ending up on the stage where tens of thousands of fans were howling for them.

Crawling from the bed, was the scrawny 30-something year old self proclaimed protagonist of the evening. Sauntering over to the microphone set up in center stage, he armed himself with an acoustic guitar before  mumbling simply “Hi…my name is Matty”. An uproar from the crowd raucous enough to promise ear ringing for days to follow. I was so utterly fascinated by all of it; the adoration, the performance, the man who needed no introduction past his first name. I’d been waiting to catch first hand a glimpse at this spectacle for months now, ever since I opened my Tik Tok app to indulge myself in the ever pitiful ‘doomscroll’ last September, when I couldn’t help but notice a recurring subject popping up every third video I scrolled through. It felt like I should check what year it is, and what platform I was using, since I distinctly remember this same phenomena in 2014 on the now deceased website tumblr. A slew of young girls running to fit the heroic-chic inspired aesthetic, that consisted of fishnets, chain smoking, black chokers and heavily underexposed photos. Doc Martens probably should have sent this man a gift basket as a thank-you for the sales they generated from this era. I am of course talking about Chesire band The 1975, and their triumphant leader & front man, Matthew Healy to be exact. 

So where did the resurgence come from nearly 10 years after what some would call their peak? Or was what we saw back then just a taster of what they and he is capable of? It would be naive to assume that their success is only due to their eclectic style, when so many bands have done the same thing ( most likely even musically superior ), only to wind up existing in the public as a small font on a festival lineup, while 1975 nab the headline spot.

Personally, I surmise that their huge prominence has to do with something else outside of their sound entirely. Simply put, Matty Healy serves as a modern blueprint of ‘how to be a rockstar.’

Rock isn’t dead, it’s just the age of rock as we knew it that is. With the monopoly of ticket sales, social media and streaming services forcing the sales of individual songs and albums to be pretty well obsolete; the smart ones have turned their enemies against them, utilizing social media and the hysterical nature of young girls to cement themselves in music history and rewrite a new age of rock.

Long have young girls been picked apart and made fun of for their hysterics. Within the music industry, that looks like being labeled as nothing more than groupies or fan girls; when in reality the entire career of most musicians throughout time are heavily reliant on this very demographic. The Beatles famously having the term “Beatlemania” coined after the frenzy, and evidence that suggests that even Mozart had ‘groupies’ during his hay day. This was confirmed back to me as I watched him on stage, swigging from a seemingly endless bottle of red wine with a cigarette held between the same fingers that held his microphone. Guess who was by eye account of the majority demographic? Girls aged 16-25. But how does female fans equate to world domination?

Well, Girls are obsessive, Girls are loyal, and most importantly, Girls TALK. The single smartest move anyone that wants to be thrust into the public domain could do is to pull ‘stunts’ that make girls tell other girls all about what caught their attention. Stunts that our friend Matty Healy, has been all too familiar with on this particular tour. How about an erotic rendition of wanking on stage? Or  bringing a different fan up every night to (consensually ) kiss during the song robbers?  Perhaps my favorite stunt was eating a hunk of raw meat, pumping out a few push ups, throwing up, and then crawling into a hollow TV set…

Its bizarre, its unpredictable and its oh so the best marketing strategy one could harness.

By dehumanizing himself on stage, he humanizes himself to his fans, making him feel more accessible through this rip in the fourth wall.  They are creating the ultimate fantasy, one that is the core topic of countless wattpad stories, and one that has girls literally camping out in the hopes that they’ll be the next lucky contender pulled onto stage. 

There’s a bountiful of articles floating around online about how lame the band is, how problematic he is as an individual, but I truly believe what all of these are failing to see is just how fucking genius this performance is. To Matty, the world’s his stage and he’s the star. 

Even within conversations I had with my own friends, there is an air of “doesn’t he just seem like a bit of a wank?” And yeah, it’s undeniable, I’m sure he is the guy that most people would avoid getting stuck in a drunken conversation with at 3am, but calling out his apparent insufferability only further binds this notion that Matty IS today’s version of a ‘rockstar’. Almost as if we forget why the advice ‘never meet your heroes’ exists, perhaps being slightly pretentious and insufferable just comes with the job title. Which star throughout time can we truly say never once had this attached to their persona? Certainly not Jim Morrison, nor Freddie Mercury, Mick Jagger and David Bowie, and lest we ever forget John Lennon comparing the Beatles popularity to that of modern christianity. Being a bit of a prick seems to become more excusable, the more talent you behold. 

But is this arrogance a bad thing? Or in this world of Iphones with cameras able to record every move, entire threads on reddit just waiting to pick apart the 6 second clip, and pretty much every other social media channel giving the ability to ‘cancel’ someone at the drop of a pin - have we just now been able to see up close the performances and attitudes that we weren’t able to in the past? In a world where you are socially scrutinized for everything you do and say, its refreshing to see someone in the public generally not give a fuck. He’s a PR nightmare every time he shows face to the public, or logs onto his social media accounts. 

He’s the guy you would never take home to mummy, as opposed to the other clean pop stars we have in the charts ( aka, Harry Squeaky clean Styles ). He is to Harry Styles what the Rolling Stones were to the Beatles. Dirty, unhinged, unable to predict their next move. 

We for one, welcome this new breed of rockstar and commend the 1975 for being trailblazers in this resurgence;  A resurgence of teenage girls with posters of stars up in their bedroom that their parents disapprove of. A resurgence of polarizing celebrities who, even if they are a bit of a dick, at the very least will never be boring just for the sake of ‘playing it safe’. A resurgence of rockstars for the modern world, in a time where we need it most. 

The 1975 ‘At their very best tour’ is one that shouldnt be missed, even if you cant get behind their pop-y sound, its worth it for the sheer showmanship alone. On a seemingly endless tour where you never know exactly what you are going to get, every show is like its very own lucky dip. 

[honeymoononvenus]

IN REVIEW: THE WORLD IS A VAMPIRE TOUR

Let’s first take a minute to play a little make believe. Now, if you were the lead singer of one of the 90’s most infamous bands, pioneering a sound that teenagers for generations after would come to mimic, and continuously selling out tours even over 30 years after the release of your debut album . . . your natural progression from this would obviously be to then buy a perishing American wrestling team, right? 

The next evolution would be to then pack up your team NWA ( National Wrestling Alliance, not to be confused with 90s rap group) and take them on a massive world tour with you and your band, before putting them in a ring with the WAOA ( Wrestling Alliance of Aus) team on the Australian leg of the tour. 

On top of the already tremendous treat that is bringing gloriously camp 80s style wrestling back to the public, you also brought with you Alt-rock idols Jane's Addiction, and Australia’s very own Amyl and the Sniffers, Redhook and Battlesnake. 

Sounds delicious, right? Well the good news is, this fantasy is a reality baby! Well, at least a reality to Billy Corgan, righteous leader of The Smashing Pumpkins. And you best believe we ran to see this one of a kind day-festival go down. 

THE WORLD IS A VAMPIRE tour kicked off its Australian leg last weekend, at Eaton Hills hotel in the ever-humbling suburban Brisbane. 

Immediately upon walking through the gates, it was obvious that this was a veteran music  crowd, between a sea of black band tees ( despite the grueling QLD heat making its final attempts of a summer sun) ,  wrinkling arm band tattoos and indubitably , the tell tale sign that it is definitely not someone's first rodeo; COMFORTABLE FOOTWEAR. You know how you can count a tree's age by the rings on its trunk? You could count the ages of the punters purely by looking down and categorizing ages by sandals and docs all the way up to fashion tragedy brand sketchers.

What may be a first rodeo type thing though, would be the wrestling ring smack in the middle of the grounds. We grabbed a beer and quickly joined the legion of punters that had gathered around, attempting to cohere goth rock and wrestlers in pleather jocks and sparkly boots. 

Around 4:30, Melbourne band Amyl & the Sniffers came out to play. After catching them numerous times as their name grew over the years, I found there was always one constant between every single show - a rowdy crowd. And to be honest,even the word rowdy is a light way to put it. I’ve seen broken bones, split lips, spilled beers and mud fights go down in an Amyl mosh; a place that is typically not for the faint hearted. So imagine my surprise when I showed up to the pit, prepared to battle, only to be met with a crowd of swayers. Seriously, there was more movement at a retirement village bingo night. 

But, as I looked around and found the only energy coming from the stage and maybe 3 odd randy 16 year olds in the crowd, I found something new. A generational divide that taught me something about the appreciation of music. It wasn't as if the people standing still weren't enjoying what they were seeing, I believe it was actually quite the opposite. 

They were standing still and soaking; each individual guitar riff, the bass lines, the drum beat that held it all together, and the ever fantastic showmanship of Amy Taylor. The end of each song was met with a roaring applause, regardless of the absence of blood shed in between the claps. 

It seemed that the only showcase of violence at this festival was reserved for the overexaggerated display in the ringside. And I mean, is this perhaps not how it should always be? Either way, what a fucking breath of fresh air it was to feel this safe and protected by the punters around you at a gig. 

As the sun set, Jane's Addiction took to the stage to remind us of everything that was so wrong but so right about indie glam rock from that magical period that was late 80s into early 90s. Things like Rhinestone vests, fingerless gloves, exotic dancers dressed in red lingerie swinging off of parallel bars, all soundtracked to music that you would probably find your uncle smoking weed to in his garden shed turned man cave. It was absolutely a sight to see, a glimpse of the showmanship that we so sorely miss in today's acts. 

Finally, just as dusk set, came the main event. The creme de la creme. The cherry on top of an already mouthwatering day. Walking out to a crowd already to well warmed up by bands whose members were probably still in diapers the first time they took to an Australian stage, The Smashing Pumpkins needed no introduction. As the title song from their new album of the same name ATUM played, Billy cooly strode onto centrestage through a cloud of smoke, looking reminiscent of Nosferatu in a black cloak, bald head and dark vampiric makeup, before launching into ‘Empires’. 

I must note that despite the effortlessly cool music and rockstar status, it was so refreshing to watch the comradery between Billy and co-founding member of the band, James Iha. Between nearly every song, the pair would take to the mic to talk to the crowd in third person through each other, poking fun at the crowd and one another in a way that you only can do when you are this close to another for this long. 

“We started this band in my fathers bedroom where he sold drugs… its true…and we're still here”, then the two performed an acoustic cover of fan favourite ‘Tonight Tonight’. 

As thrilled as I was by this whopping two hour set, I would hate to spoil the best bits. I'll leave by saying that I can not recommend this tour more, no matter your age or demographic. There truly is something for everyone to see.

ALL PHOTO CREDIT TO AMELIA PITCHER

#MUSIC

[honeymoononvenus]

OH CHEF! A NIGHT WITH KIRIN J CALLINAN

Vinnies Dive Bar was notably packed out for a Sunday night in a city where its people ordinarily have better things to do like attend  yacht parties and host Commonwealth Games. Tonight though, the good people of the Gold Coast (better known as the Cold Ghost) reserved their vigor for homegrown provocateur; Kirin J Callinan. 

In a world that is growing increasingly one dimensional, where echo chambers further trap us into its dystopian jaws - Kirin remains a constant goad for originality and resets the way we view musicians as a whole. For he is part of a very rare, peculiar and endangered breed; SHOWMEN. 

As the daughter of a musical impersonator, I've grown to be a little sycophantic for good entertainment. I long for the days reigned by  stadium tours featuring pyrotechnics, back up dancers and a million dollar budget reserved purely for eyeliner and hairspray. 

A time where artists battled with each other, as well as themselves, to perform more and more grandiose shows with each time they graced a stage. Mixing their love for the act with actual insanity - Think Ozzy Osbourne eating a bat,Eddie Vedder jumping off scaffolding into an adoring crowd, Tommy Lee’s roller coaster drum rig, TISM’s entire career… 

The sanctity of performance - in all its raw, egocentric, glorious self.

Live shows have since morphed from artists putting their whole pussy into a performance in order to dazzle and entertain the audience; to self righteous twats who make it feel like what they are doing is purely laborious, and that the audience simply existing in front of them has created a chore that they must undertake while daydreaming about being literally anywhere else but here, in front of a paying audience full of their loyal fans.

I actually don't know if we should be so quick to blame these wet-rags. Since the death of physical song sales, touring has pretty well been a musicians only hope to make enough money to feed themselves. So now we see people who 30 years ago probably wouldn't NEED to tour, being forced to by broke bandmates and hungry management. 

With all this being said; how fucking refreshing it is to see someone who actually enjoys being on a stage. 

Kirin entered the stage adorned in a toque blanche, chef jacket, infamous kilt, and black cowboy boots with mismatched ‘thrills’ socks hanging out of the top … A large silver crucifix swung from his neck as he marched toward a cheering audience, slinging a guitar around his body. If the point of performers is to say ‘hey, look at me, I have something you want to see’,  then this new uniform alone smacks that point hard into the faces of us all. You simply can't look away from the charade, afraid to miss a minute of the farce.  It was impossible not to notice how obedient and devoted the crowd was, especially when you take into account the amount of beers that were flung over the bar in the lead up to this moment. Kirin held the tongues of the entire room with the emotional ballad “In Absolutes”. 

The only noise heard from the crowd was the swishing of clothes as they swayed along with a grin across their face ( also he had said “if you know this song then dont sing along”, and as i said, obedient fuckers)

Then, in what is perhaps one of the most unique dynamics I've ever personally witnessed between a musician and his crowd, everyone began yelping out “YES CHEF”, with no real rhyme or rhythm to their cries. They yelled it when he asked a question, they yelled it when he finished a song, but they yelled it the most when he took the hat off to proclaim that there was no tiny rat underneath it controlling his every move.

He steered the night through a mix of songs from his entire discography - which spans over 10 years. Three albums and multiple EP’s comprised of self expression, social commentary and numerous covers of past power ballads. 

Genre defying in all aspects, it's hard to simply sum up a man like Kirin. Even his character skin is impossible to define. I'm not sure a definition is even something that is needed here though - since as soon as we are able to pinpoint it he will have metamorphosed into a brand new character all together anyway. There is only one word needed to classify; SHOWMAN. 

A great showman. A humble showman. An enchanting and dazzling showman. During the hour or so that he graced the sticky dive bar stage, he remained nothing but present and devoted to the craft. Even after the show, when he sat on the stage and the audience lined up to meet the man behind the chef mask. Kirin J Callinan went above and beyond to make everyone in that room feel as special as he was.

To make them feel not just like a fan,

But like a friend. 

Kudos, Chef.

#music

[honeymoononvenus]

GOD SAVE OUR SPLENDOUR

The older I get, the more often I find myself reminiscing back upon my teenage years. Years that were spent learning to smoke stolen cigarettes, hacking into our hair with kitchen scissors, and pushing the line to see just how much you could get away with to any and all authority in your life. I had a great group of mates by my side; a motley crue soldered together by our mutual love of music.  

So, naturally, one of the key moments for us always came around the easter holidays. A morning where we would set an alarm to get up in time to hear a very important announcement coming through the speakers of my shitty little Mazda 121. An announcement that would then transform into multiple persuasive powerpoints, begging Mum to let me go. When the persuasions worked, we would next save up every single dollar we made at whatever crappy part time job we could find, and make up an excuse as to why we had to have the morning off of school ( IE. Orthodontist apt, Nans birthday, lost the car keys.. ) 

We HAD to ensure that we were first in the virtual line, to nab up tickets to the hottest thing your little teenage brain could imagine. I am of course talking about Splendour in the Grass, the annual 3 day music festival that takes place in the hills of Byron Bay. 

( Facebook post from my 15 year old self & some pics of that time to sum it all up )

Splendour to us was more important than any other pivotal high school moment - more effort and thought was put into festival outfits than Grad Formal attire. And we were not alone in this, even for people who weren't 16 and didn't yet grasp just how big and grand the world was. 

When the time came for my third year at the festival, 2015, tickets sold out in record time - 35 minutes was all it took for ALL three day passes to be completely gone. It was the Golden ticket to wonkas factory, no matter if you were celebrating your win in a grade 10 math class, or a white-collar corporate office. 

It's been about 10 years since these times I'm recalling oh so fondly; and in that period, there has seemed to be a definite decline in the hype surrounding ALL Australian Music festivals, not just our beloved Splendour. This year, 2023, has been the first that Splendour has failed to sell out their tickets.

There's no cushioning it; Australian music festivals are dying. They are becoming an endangered species, and if we don't act now, I fear they will meet the same maker as the poor Tasmainian Tiger... EXTINCTION. Imagine a society where we no longer roll around muddy fields, eating overpriced dagwood dogs with a pair of broken sunnies you found on the ground earlier adorning your face. A world where there is no crying happy tears while you stand arm to arm with strangers as your favorite artist takes to the stage, no fighting over set lists thrown into the crowd when its over and then spending 38 minutes trying to find your friend group at your ( failed) designated meeting spot since no one has reception anyway. Oh the horror! We only know what we got when it's gone. 

Speaking of gone, let's just take a moment of silence as we take a walk through the Graveyard of Australian festivals since you're probably still thinking “no way, festivals are such a money maker! They'll never die! We need em!” Well, In the graveyard we first find well-memorialized legends like Big Day Out, Homebake, Sunbury pop and Soundwave, as well as those perhaps forgotten; Parklife, Future, and Good Vibrations. Lingering at the gates is Falls Fest, who have recently announced a Hiatus for 2023 ( which, not to scare anyone, but IS the same announcement that most of those now extinct festivals made…) 

But - Why so much death and decay? How do we keep our favorites out of the boneyard? 

There are a plethora of causes that could be speeding up the grim fate of our once beloved festivals. From cops, to promoters, to money, to punters themselves.

MONEY MONEY MONEY 

Let's start with the elephant in the room, the reason why the world goes around... MONEY. To be frank, it costs a shit load of money to host a music festival. From land costs, staff, stages, artists, toilets, water, security, transportation, insurance.. The list goes on. In 2022, The financial times came out with a mini documentary to try and contextualize for us punters just how much of a risk is associated with hosting something of this scale.

Point being, there are big dollars being put into this from the get go. And it NEEDS to happen for a festival to be successful, safe and enjoyable. We all know what happens when you cut corners financially ( ala Fyre Festival…).  And those costs are only going up. According to the Australia Festival Association, the industry was hit with a whopping 30% rise in supplier costs at the start of 2023, with insurance premiums increased by as much as 300%. 

So naturally, ticket prices gotta increase to adjust to the costs from the top end. And, also naturally, punters don't like this. The current cost of living crisis ( which at this point feels like a buzzword boogeyman), means that more people are struggling to make ends meet in their day to day life, let alone find left over dollars to splurge a few hundred bucks in one weekend. Live music feels like more of a luxury these days for rich folks and internet influencers, rather than an accessible, cultural experience. 

Another problem lies in the fact that a lot of the time, Australians' favorite musicians hardly ever come to this side of the world at all. 

When I put a call out to my instagram followers to tell me why they do or dont love festivals, I got “line ups are shit nowadays', a lot. As in, out of 20 people, 17 of them mentioned something along those lines. Personal tastes of my instagram followers aside, this is a sentiment that has been so long running that every year it gets turned into a meme. There is a definite opinion that line ups from festivals across the industry have been declining in value over the years. 

Australia is a super scarce place for bands to tour. The remoteness between capital cities, a small population density, and a hefty distance from the rest of the anglosphere make it so that unless you are a big name like Harry Styles or Taylor Swift, bringing a tour down under can lead to a band hemorrhaging money. So, unless it's a financially viable move, and side shows will be a guaranteed success, artists are going to obviously be reluctant to say yes to begin with. 

Funding from government bodies also play a monumental role, in everything to do with Australian music. Starting from the bottom up, less funding to LOCAL artists = less Australian artists getting exposure = not enough popularity to be billed on a line up to begin with. Hence the foreign artists being brought in, which again just fuels the vicious cycle and creates the expense of overseas talent to begin with. 

Looking at the top level, government grants and funding can make or break a festival. 

As a little contextualising exercise, post covid both the UK government and the AUS government had a designated covid fun to help get the arts, and specifically festivals back on their feet. The UK fund was 500 Million pounds - nearly 1 billion Australian dollars- with festivals each being allocated up to 6 million AUD. On our side of the pond, Australia's RISE fund was only 75 million AUD, with the top hand out being 1.5M. 

It's no wonder how UK festivals continue to thrive with such a brilliant worldwide reputation. Our government needs to put more attention and money into the arts if they wish to keep it alive. 

THE WAR ON MUSIC

Going back to my own personal experiences, I will never forget the first time I came face to face with a punter's most dreaded enemy.. Its not rain, nor low phone signal, not even fashion mishaps take the number one spot. A punters nightmare; the humble black lab, dressed up and trained to find your narcotics, get you kicked out of the festival before you can even SMELL a dagwood dog, and gift you with a court date as a little parting present. 

To keep this from growing too broad, let's focus on the favorite festival drug, MDMA, perhaps wider known as Ecstasy. Typically taken either in a pressed pill, soluble capsule, or sniffed straight up the nose out of a plastic baggy. MDMA was huge in the 90’s and early 2000’s, which coincided with the flourish of Australian music festivals, but this sentiment was happening worldwide. UK rave culture was at its peak, as was the US. Its easy to look back on those days with fond eyes, and try to continue them on into today. But the fact of the matter is that drugs have changed a lot in the past 20 years. 

Dangerously changed. Back in the 90’s, the amount of MDMA in a single capsule would sit at around 80mg per pill, retailing for $10-$15. Today, pills on the dark web drug exchange sites such as Dream Market claim to have strengths starting from 160mg to 250mg, with most averaging to around 220mg. One pill in todays market equals nearly 3 pills in the 90s, with little to no education happening around these huge increases in amounts, nor the culture that surrounds it. 

And unfortunately the amount of drugs inside isn't even the most sinister part; in order to keep costs low, suppliers and dealers ‘cut’ party drugs with other substances. 

A study published in International Journal of Drug Policy, where they tested various drugs at UK festival Garden Party, found that Pills were being laced with pharmaceuticals from painkillers to anti-malaria tablets, while being bulked up by concrete plaster. Drugs sold as MDMA actually turned out to be  n-ethylpentylone, a long lasting cathinone that causes psychosis, paranoia, insomnia, seizures, and even death.  It's undeniable that there is a drug problem in our country that goes hand in hand with live music and partying. There is no one right approach to stop the tragic and unnecessary deaths of young people from these drugs, but as is the truth in most cases, prevention is better than a cure. The NSW government seems to disagree. 

Following two deaths at Sydney's Defqon 1 festival in 2018, premier Gladys Berejiklian had this to say. “I'll be doing everything I can to make sure it never happens again… this is an unsafe event.” Subsequently, the Australia media coined the term ‘the war on music’ to describe the crackdowns of live music and festivals by the NSW government. 

The message was clear from the people up top. Instead of taking the lead from other countries like England, Europe and even our neighbors New Zealand, who all use drug education and safety as a means of prevention, they pushed harder to shut them down all together. Ms Berejiklian has reinstated that there is no such thing as safe drug use. “Anyone who advocates pill testing is giving the green light to drugs. That is absolutely unacceptable.” 

Pill testing is a harm reduction strategy, which allows a person in possession of drugs to safely and discreetly find out what is actually in it. And by other countries' accounts, it works, with health care workers actually calling it life saving. During a trial of pill testing in New Zealand, 68% of those surveyed reported they changed their behavior after using a drug checking service, with 87% claiming their knowledge of harm reduction had improved. 

Following this success, In 2021, New Zealand became the first country in the world to completely legalize pill testing at festivals, after health minister Andrew Little introduced a bill urging parliament to look at the reality of recreational drug use. Unlike Ms. Berejiklian’s view, Mr Little acknowledged the truth of the situation at hand:

 “The reality is… we know that some people who attend those festivals partake of recreational drugs and substances. They purchase those substances and sometimes they do not know exactly what they are getting.. And there are risks associated with that.” 

The sentiment rings the same within the Australian public. In a 2019 National Drug Strategy Household Survey, we found that 57% of Australians supported pill testing, while only 27% opposed. Furthermore, a 2016 survey found that 86.5% of respondents believed drug testing could help reduce harm by users, while a whopping 87.1% said they would likely use this service if it had been available.

Fortunately, Queensland isn't living in the 20th century ( surprising for a traditionally conservative hick state, I know ), and has taken the lead to set what is hopefully a triumphant precedent of drug safety within Australia. The Palaszczuk government has given the green light on pill testing within the state, following the success of trials done in Canberra. The time is still unannounced, but it seems to be a great step into the right direction, one that hopefully other states can follow with. 

Queensland has already approved the introduction of these services and the NSW Government will examine the issue at their upcoming Drugs Summit. Hear from harm minimisation experts including a live demonstration of the scientific equipment at Pill-Testing Is Here.

Ok - so drugs, and testing, and governemnt, and etc.. why are the police a threat to the future of festivals? 

Lets take popular doof Bohemian Beatfreaks experience as an example. In 2018, they were forced to move their location all together mere days before their 3 day festival was set to commence, after a huge spike in fees promoters are made to pay for mandatory police presence. Their new location was just north of the NSW/ QLD border, in attempt to out run the NSW cops all together. 

The festival took to Facebook with the annoucement, adding “It is truly a sad state of affairs when we have government allowing gambling advertising on the Sydney Opera House, whilst music and arts events are shut down by excessive police compliances and User Pay Police requests that are out of step with the nature of these events.”

The fees in question rose to $200,000, a 1900% increase from the previous year, where the police were asking for $10,000 for their presence. Rabbits Eat Lettuce faced a similar problem, even after running 5 successful incident free years, the police wanted to push to shut them down all together.

PROMOTORS & FRIENDS

Australia has always had a complicated relationship with authority. We tend to make a person holding authority prove themselves to be worthy of the title before they gain respect. The authority of music festivals are pretty heavily put onto the event promoters - which in a nutshell means scouting a location, obtaining permits, booking artists, finding vendors, public relations, and most of all, getting people to come to their event.

At the end of the day, promoters obviously need to make a buck, and there certaining has been a feeling amongst punters that they infact arent happy with just a buck, they want multiple bucks, and that this isnt in the spirit of festivals, that they ‘dont do it for the music like they did back in the day’ blah blah blah. 

It’s entirely possible that we are too quick to point our fingers at promoters when things go wrong, withdrawing respect and reveling in anarchy instead. With the pressure of finances and the government threatening to shut them down, we can't deny that their job is growing increasingly hard as time goes on. However, the people are only as good as its government, and maybe its time for a re-election.

Are promoters out of touch with what we want, instead focusing on self indulgence and the lining of their own pockets?

Maybe. Upon its death, the founder of Big Day Out Vivian Lees called promoter AJ Maddah a ‘magalomaniac’, accusing him of driving it into the ground to profit his own founded rival festival, Soundwave. 

Peter Noble’s Bluesfest-Sticky-Fingers-Fiasco saw local radio stations scramble to give away tickets in an effort to boost attendance, even if that meant free entry. 

Splendor in the Grass saw 2022 to be much of a disaster than they obviously would have hoped for. Being dubbed ‘Splendour in the Mud’, Byron Bay was hit with the most rain it had seen in 50 years- which led to a domino effect, each hit being more sinister than the other. 

15 hour waits to get into the campsite, an entire third of the festival being canceled before it even began, workers and volunteers quitting at a rapid rate after their tents began floating away while on shift, and the infamous bus line hellscape. . . It was nothing short of a horrific nightmare for all of the event organizers. 

It’s hard to pinpoint exactly what one thing was the biggest domino that has most likely led to low ticket sales this year. All I know is 2023 feels like a redemption year for Splendour, and they’ll have to do their best to win back the punters.

PUNTERS

The search for the scapegoat is the easiest of all hunting expeditions. What if we, the punters, are simply the reason why festivals are falling faster than we can count them? 

When asking some people why live music was unappealing now, there was a massive sentiment that post covid, we have lost our sense of concert etiquette. People dont look out for one another like they used to in the mosh, instead feeling more entitled to be there, to have their own space, to push closer to the artist. 

Festivals used to be just as much about community as it was the music, and if we truly have lost that community then we have lost festivals.

Ok. Maybe we aren’t entirely to blame - as a punter myself, I can’t lie and say I don’t feel disappointed by the state of line ups now when I compare them to what they were 10 and 20 years ago.  I thought maybe my lack of excitement over announcements was just a reflection of my growing age and loss of touch with what is hot and hip. But join any comment section of a festival related post and you’ll find solidarity from all ages. 

Promoters will still try their best to sell their diamond studded turd, but without a festival culture that people can get so excited by they look past the lack of ‘good’ artists, it’s a fantasy to think it will sell out. 

WHERE TO FROM HERE?

Even after all my research, I don’t really know what the solution is. All we can do is what we have always done, have hope and try to remember why we do this in the first place. Harness that rush of excitement you felt when you saw your first ever live gig, drinking your first ever vodka redbull, waking up hungover in a stinking, muddy tent for the first time. Think about the generations below you who should also have the right to all of these fantastic firsts, and to feel embraced by the power of live music in masses. GOD SAVE OUR SPLENDOUR!!  

#MUSIC

[honeymoononvenus]

WHO THE F*** ARE THE ARCTIC MONKEYS? // BRISBANE TOUR

Sheffield export Arctic Monkeys have returned to Australia for the eighth time, set to perform a string of shows across the country as a part of a tour celebrating their seventh studio album, ‘The Car’. Next to 10,000 young and old piled into Brisbane's Riverstage on Wednesday night to battle for the best spot to get a glimpse of the ever alluring Alex Turner, along with his musical Droogs Nick O’Malley, Jaime Cook and Matthew Helders. 

Alluding to the lead single from The Car, a giant mirror ball hung front and center of a stage draped with large velvet curtains, the perfect backdrop to compliment the deliciously kitsch 70’s flavor the band has been rolling with for the last few years. The mosh ran thick and feisty, further endorsing the fan allegiance that was already proven by the quick sell out of the tour, paired with an overwhelming lock horns for any second hand tickets available. 

The Queensland crowd grew increasingly impatient with every roadie that walked onto stage, beginning to chant for the members by name. Once the crew had decided the mob were riled up &  randy enough, the slightly uncanny 1960’s Batman theme came to an abrupt halt as the lights cut off. Shadows began to emerge from the darkness, and not from the roadies this time! Seemingly playing into the ironic sex appeal of 70s’s tack, Barry Whites ‘Im Gonna Love You Just A Little Bit More Baby" soundtracked Alex’s hip swinging stride to centrestage, and continued playing as the band settled themselves in, raising instruments to their bodies and smirking to each other as the audience roared even louder at the ooze of sarcastic sexiness. 

In a complete 180 flip from what anyone expected them to do, suddenly red and white lights began flashing erratically as “The View From The Afternoon” belted the masses into action. And the fan favorite throwbacks didn't stop there, as they continued with ‘Brianstorm’, ‘Snap Out Of It’, ‘Crying Lightning’ & ‘Don’t Sit Down ‘Cause I Moved Your Chair”.

Ok ok, so a band is playing a few of their deeper cut songs, not exactly revolutionary is it? But ernestly,  I’d come along expecting a few of the hits weaved between the new album in its entirety, an album that I self admittedly have not yet given the time of day. Typically when a band that’s been releasing music for nearly 20 years comes out with new material, that's the type of set list that you get. And fans make peace with it and still pay the big bucks to come check it anyway. But boy was I wrong. I, along with many other members of the audience, were treated to a sentimental revisit of our younger years, a youth that was soundtracked by these very songs.

Unpretentiously, the Arctic Monkeys seem to have this understanding of the importance their music plays on a person's youth, particularly those of us a little outcast from popular society. For whatever reason, they’ve always served as some kind of quintessential starter pack for alternative kids. Ya know, the kids who were on tumblr in 2012, who smoked cigarettes in the park after school that one of their friends stole from an older sibling, kids who wore doc martens and knee socks and have either A. Had their style massively influenced by Turner's most infamous ex Girlfriend, Alexa Chung or B. Had their taste in women was massively influenced by Turner's most infamous ex girlfriend, Alexa Chung. 

Every alternative kid has a core memory attached to an Arctic Monkeys song, even if you’re not particularly a fan. It could be belting along to ‘Fluorescent Adolescent’ during indie nights at your local club, or sending your grade 10 crush their cover of "Baby I’m Yours” and being swiftly rejected for the naive crassness. Whatever it is, they’re right there holding your hand like the older brother of music, just waiting to whisk you into a world where there is more than what's played on the charts, a discovery that in turn teaches you about a whole new way of dressing, talking, acting and what posters will get the glory of hanging on your bedroom wall. 

So, here we have three generations of misfits who have begged their parents for enough money to go and see their idols in person, and this is a tradition that clearly is still continuing. As I looked around the grassed amphitheater, you could tell the ages of people based on how hard they cheered for which song, and I couldn’t help but wonder  why we all linked together. I saw 17 year olds eager to be in their first ever mosh, mingling with 35 year olds who woke up with a stiff neck from all the thrashing that ensued.  Clearly, the Arctic Monkeys still have a firm grip on these various generations. Generations that are so vastly different from each other, intricately entwined with their own subcultures and niche customs; all stood there united over the same band… but how?

Well, with a band that's been releasing music for nearly 16 years, you’d hope their music to grow and mature as they do. Never once has Alex Turner let them pool stagnant, riding off of their early success, unwilling to change their sound out of fear of losing that said success. The Arctic Monkeys sound as well as their members have metamorphosed so many times since 2007 that there really is a version of them for everyone, for every cohort. 

We’ve seen just about every era of Alex Turner that all coincide with their albums, as if he reinvents himself every time he steps into the recording booth. We have English Lad era with WPSIATWIN where he looked more like an Inbetweeners character than a rockstar, the fan Favorite Humbug era, the infamous slicked quiff and leather jacket era that coincided with the release of AM, to a now tamer version of this old school rockstar ( who stayed in character the entire time by refusing to ever take off his sunglasses. ) But really the thing that keeps Arctic Monkeys relevant, is that over the evolution they never seem to have lost the charm and musical talent that secured their place in the music scene to begin with. 

Maybe you found the band when they were playing in Northern English pubs singing songs about fighting bouncers and snorting packets, or maybe you only jumped on in the last year after Tik Tok made parallels between Alex and the rat from flushed away. Regardless of where along their journey you found them, I have to give my hat off to the Arctic Monkeys for providing a delicately fabricated set list that every fan, no matter what age, no matter what album was their favorite, was gassed with. 

Thank-you to the band for the endless ingenuity, and for uniting music fans from every age and walk of life all over the world. 

[honeymoononvenus]

GOLD COAST CARNAGE

A crowd adorned in their Sunday best piled into the Gold Coast Convention center, ready to be led to redemption on a wayward Saturday night. I was not sold on the venue due to the corporate nature that comes with a place that typically shares its walls with wedding exhibitions and high school formals, but I suppose salvation isn't situational and I was eager to be proven wrong. A unique sort of sombreness ran through the crowd as they busied themselves in the hazy lobby beforehand, making small talk with long lost friends and washing down their impatience with overpriced beer as they anxiously awaited to meet their maker. 

The bar bell rang and we hurriedly made our way to our assigned seating, as three thousand old and young sat in the dark like small children, excitement swelling through their well behaved legs swinging off the edge of the pew. A large black curtain wreathed the bleachers, cutting the space in half and transforming an otherwise subdued arena into that of a sort of Pentecostal revival tent. Anyone who has had the pleasure of experiencing this man before, whether that be with his Bad Seeds or solo, could fully understand how exceptionally special this degree of intimacy was. 

As the lights rose; so did sporadic members of the congregation, cheering to welcome in tonight's clergy - a trio of singers consisting of T Jae Cole, Wendi Rose, and Janet Ramus, with Colin Greenwood of Radiohead on Bass, and Larry Mullins keeping beat. As vicar, the ever awe-inspiring Warren Ellis triumphantly armed with a violin, a flute and a bottle of San Pellegrino that he savagely spat out in intervals during the course of the evening. Finally striding in last across the stage, adored in his iconic dark three piece suit and slicked raven hair, acting as famed preacher to this devoted mass; the one and only king of the goths, Nick Cave. 

Since opening with a bang would simply be oh too cliche, our evangelist began instead with a haunting serenade in the form of ‘The Spinning Song’. Lovers around the room couldn't help but tangle their limbs. For others, tears began to well in their widened eyes, and not one person so much as coughed, so as to not disrupt a second of this sacred opening prayer. 

Once the holy spirit within us all felt invited enough to draw itself out and whirl around the room with the other strange souls; it was truly time for the musical catharsis to begin. The driving beat of ‘White Elephant’ proved too much for Gold Coasters to behave any longer, and a runaway mosh abruptly began forming around the front of the stage after individuals were pulled from their pews in a single bound and leapt into faith by the music alone. 

As the crowd cemented itself upfront and new physical arrangements were being formed amongst the crowd, strangers quickly became familiar through the exchange of mutual tears, laughter and sing-alongs as the band began to weave some more prominent and familiar Bad Seed songs into the set. 

He enlisted in the crowd to join in on his chanting of the lyrics “Hand of God” , as he slunk off stage and crawled his way through the waiting crowd, hungry and desperate to make physical contact with their leader. 

Once he was swept deep into the sea of bodies, Nick took to bantering with certain characters amongst while attempting to catch a wave back to the stage. A crowd favourite interaction belonged to a drunk couple, in which a woman yelled continuously “Oi! Love ya! Fucking well done love ya!” before Warren acknowledged her with a quiet “thank you gorgeous”. Nick quickly warned “watch out, she's got a genuinely psychotic boyfriend AND they're from the Gold Coast”. And a roar of self deprecating laughter filled the room. 

There were a few stabs made at the Gold Coast throughout the night. Realistically, this isn't the town who on paper would routinely welcome a show like this, particularly not in any sort of large number. Perhaps this is the reason we were unprecedentedly treated to such an intimate night. In a town so unsure of itself, consisting of plastic micro influencers and cashed up bogans; a redemption of this kind is needed so much more than any city priding itself on its intelligence or cultivation. For the church is not a select circle of the immaculate, but a home where the outcast may come in. The outcasts of the ever wicked Gold Coast had found their saviour, and lapped up every consecrated thing he had on offer. 

It was obvious that Nick's comments were in vain, and he understood our need for salvation. But to be honest it seemed that he enjoyed it even more than we did. Perhaps we acted as a much needed dose of common reality in the middle of a world tour. 

Was the Gold Coast the diamond studded turd that Nick, Warren and Co needed? Who saved who? 

Regardless, whether you were a fan of Nick since he first debuted to the public in the 70s, or were dragged along to the night by a loved one, it's clear across the board that a night with Nick is unlike any other show you have seen or will see. 

The thing that truly unified us all was the unparalleled grip Nick Cave has on human expression. The way he has taken his own experiences with love, life and particularly grief and spun them in a way that is so relatable to people all over the world, of all different walks of lives and generations is unmatched. Seeing his live is a symbiotic experience - when Nick moves, we move, when Nick cries, we cry, and when the time comes that this must end and we are all moved back to the now vacant lobby, we have no choice but to take a bit of Nick with us and dare to be even just a fraction more human. For if we could all even for a minute give to the world the passion, devotion and humanity that this man has, I truly believe we would be better off for it. 

[honeymoononvenus]

CLEANSER

I douse my face in the hotel bathroom, 

And notice my face wash has reached the end of its bottle, 

A serendipitous synchronicity with the end of this trip. 

I meet my own eyes on the mirror before closing them softly, then slowly inhaling the last soapy scent of the cleanser. 

Suddenly I'm transported to a hostel in Soho, preparing my face for a day of London exploration, girlishly excited; 

I'm back overlooking Brighton Beach, blissfully unaware of what lay ahead of me, with sweet naivety on my side;

I'm in a family home in Northern England, completely humbled by the kindness of strangers, restorative of the love that exists in the hearts of all humans;

I'm in Florence, praying that in this simple ritual can cleanse away the pitiful mental slump I’ve found myself in; 

I open my eyes and exhale, and in an instant I'm back here, here being a hotel in Bali, readying myself to go to the airport. 

Quickly I count on my fingers  just how long it is that I’ve been away from home, and instead of feeling too sentimental about the sum I come up with, or fondly thinking back on all of the corners of the world I’ve seen; 

I scoff at myself for how terrible I am at remembering to wash my face. 

It's been four months and the bottle was only a travel size.

ART : Jakub Kujawa

[honeymoononvenus]

JEEPERS CREEPERS

“Happiness is only real when shared” 

Famed words that were found scribbled in the margins of a Boris Pastemak book belonging to Christopher McCandles, a mere three weeks before his untimely death, alone in an abandoned bus. 

For those unfamiliar with the haunting true story compiled in the John Krakenur book “Into the Wild”, Chris ( or Alexander Supertramp as he liked to be referred to ) walked away from his seemingly comfortable, privileged existence in exchange for a gruff life on the road while making his way through the American wilderness. 30 years after his now infamous death, the irony of the ideal solo journey ending with such a polarising epiphany has not been lost. 

While I personally didn't follow Chris’ path precisely - as in , pack up in the middle of the night, not tell anyone I know where I am heading, leaving only a conspicuous trail of crumbs that link to any sign of my existence - I still did find myself somewhat foolishly romanticising the mentality that it takes to do such a thing, only to be harshly reminded of the reality an endless odyssey does have. 

To any outsider, I fit the extrovert mold perfectly. I'm charming, confident, able to talk to anyone about anything, and have no problem being the center of attention; but deep down I crave a much more subtle intimacy than my perceived extrovertedness would let off . My outer shell is merely a coat of arms to stop anything from penetrating through and the possibility of being seen as ‘vulnerable’, or god forbid.. human. 

So naturally, any time I feel my armor being prodded a little too much for my liking, I run. I suppose that's how I ended up in Italy. Or London. Or Thailand. Or just about any place that I’ve found myself having to quickly acclimate to after a hasty purchase on whichever destination held the cheapest flights the day before. I simply hop on the first thing that will take me far away from whatever it is that is hurting me and refuse to look back. 

I’m a regular Jutin Long, just attempting to outrun some form of emotional jeeper creeper. And don't get me wrong, for a while, miraculously this worked! Some of the best times of my life have been found in the sporadic choices I made. When your ‘creeper’ hasn’t quite figured out where you are yet or how exactly it can lay its talons on you, my GOD what a wonderful time that is! Truly, its all sex, drugs, rock n roll and half naked parties on tropical beaches in the moonlight. Life is pure ecstasy, and totally pain free. 

These days though, it feels as if as if my creepers are becoming fitter, smarter, always always one step ahead, lurking around every corner ready to remind me of the unbearable pain of existence that I thought I had been oh so clever in escaping. No amount of foreign capades can camouflage you from the ominous reality of your own suffering. 

But what does this have to do with some dreamer kids elusive quote? 

Well, when you live life on the whim as much as I, when you continuously throw caution to the wind and insist that geographically moving is the best and only thing to do - it gets really fucking lonely.

 I don't stay in a place long enough to put down solid roots, and roots, as I have found, are generally needed to have a sense of stability.  Don't get me wrong - this doesn't mean I'm a shallow person; strangely enough it's quite the opposite. Since I'm aware enough to know that my quick trigger response is to run away,  I’m also aware that means I probably won't be around a place long enough to root, so I'm able to wear my heart on my sleeve and really throw all of myself at whichever poor sod thought I was enthralling enough to share a beer with at the hostel bar. 

I kind of just hope that by throwing some version of vulnerability out there into the world, it would magically just fill my deep desire for it without actually putting in the work it takes to build a relationship with depth and integrity. At heart, I crave deep intimacy abundantly, but am much too terrified to see what happens if I stick around long enough for it to be reciprocated, so I panic and either completely self-sabotage (typically in the form of word vomit so vile I come across as an absolute nut ) or I run. And spectacularly for me, usually it’s a grand combination of both. 

One thing that no one tells you about being this free spirited spinster, is the guilt that you feel. The guilt that you are missing the important things from the home that you so hastily ran from; nephews' first birthdays, grandparents last birthdays, friends' weddings. The guilt you feel for all of the potential great romances you extinguished before you could truly let the fire of desire light you up inside since the price of pain that we must pay for love seemed too high a sacrifice. The guilt you feel when you're walking around some of the most beautiful places in the world, experiencing first hand the art and culture and food and music that others will never in their life get a chance to; and STILL feeling severely empty and morose. THAT guilt is the worst guilt. It's one thing to just feel numb, it's another to feel totally culpable about the emotional paralysis. 

Mix your new found need for connection, the shame and guilt that’s eating you alive, with the creepers catching you, and THAT'S the moment the Chris McCandles quote can be felt deep within your bones, like the wake up call that you’ve snoozed 16 times already; 

HAPPINESS IS ONLY REAL WHEN SHARED. 

I feel this when I'm sitting and watching the most breathtaking sunrise in the world, only wishing I had a friend with me. I feel this when I'm at a brilliant party surrounded by phenomenal people, but wish that just one of them could see past the facade I’d become so accustomed to putting on. I feel this when I catch a couple sneaking a kiss in front of a monet, after yet again rejecting a budding fling out of fear of my own inevitable sabotage. 

But the best thing is.. I don't HAVE to feel this anymore. None of us do. 

 I mean, take it from the guy who once thought the way to inner peace and happiness was to seclude himself completely and die alone in a van in the middle of the Alaskan wilderness; We simply do not heal in solitude. The only way to heal and begin to feel truly happy is through acceptances of our innate need for human connection. We heal when we let love in even if our entire instinct is to run away as fast as we can. We heal when we call a trusted friend to speak of our loneliness instead of buying another bottle of whiskey to fill the hole. We heal when we admit defeat to our creepers; we put down our weapons, take off our running shoes and let the creepers in. We give them a familiar hug and softly ask them what they can teach us about ourselves, THAT'S when you can finally begin to learn that rooting yourself to places and people is not so scary after all. 

Or , take it from me. Submit. The only way out is through. It’s time to go home. 

----------

PHOTO: Kenne Gregoire /// Chris McCandles

[honeymoononvenus]

SOULMATES // GEORGIA

I’ll be the first to admit; I’m a massive hopeless romantic. 

Even though I’m a self proclaimed pretentious film buff, the movies I find myself watching over and over are never that outrageously artistic, my top 10 mostly consists of cheesy rom coms. I've been waiting for the Harry to my Sally since I was 14, locking myself in my bedroom studying Leonardo Dicaprio killing himself for love as Romeo, or rinsing desperate songs of devotion by the likes of Morrisey and Joni Mitchell until I cried. Truly, the anguish a teenage girl feels about her romantic life is not something to be underestimated. 

I would however like to prefix this with, while I was definitely wretched for love, I never quite became one of those girls who had their future wedding planned out, or anything like that. In spite of all I said earlier, I never even particularly want some prince charming to show up and sweep me off my feet; what I really wholeheartedly believed in and craved was a soul mate. I’d always figured that there was ONE person, made just for me. A bewitching ‘other half’ who upon meeting would create my whole. I'd read up about twin flames, combing my reality for signs they were close by, even resorting to sleeping with a rose quartz under my pillow in the hopes I’d invite this mystical love into my life. 

I know I know… I sound totally erratic and desperate. But to be honest, I WAS desperate. I was desperate to be understood on a deeper level and a soulmate, as we know it in popular culture, was the promise of a single person who I could not only be 100%  myself with, but could even bring out the better sides of me too. A person with whom I could share all of my hopes and desires with, as well as my fears and limitations and would stand by me in my darker times. Nothing would be too much, it would be us against the world, my very own ride or die. I was naive and hopeful, but at least in that beautiful way that youth allows you to be both at the same time and it be that of a sweet thing. 

Alas, after a series of failed relationships and less than average situationships throughout my teens and early 20’s, I really began to give up hope that I could ever find this connection. Maybe I just wasn't meant to be understood, maybe our souls didn't have mates after all. I became a total love cynic. I was 23, in a two bedroom hotel apartment that work had put me up in, living alone in a new big city; but worse than that, I wasn't just alone, I was lonely.

 I was SO lonely that I had become accustomed to the loneliness, in the way that the darkness creeps up and wraps its familiar talons around you making you believe that you’ve always belonged there. I pushed everyone out, and sat there in the dark, crutching myself up on bottles of red wine, too many cigarettes and reruns of The Office. 

But you know what they say; it's always darkest before dawn. My dawn came in the form of a girl named Georgia. 

My boss approached me on an unassuming Monday and let me know that someone was going to be living with me, in the second bedroom of my apartment. I distinctly remember hiding in the port a loo, crying, when I got the news. I knew this would mean a disruption to the sad little existence that I’d grown so comfortable within. 

Even though she wasn't a complete stranger, having known-ish of each other for about a year at this point, we had never really gotten to know each other. I can't actually remember us having anything to do with each other  at all except for a brief drunk conversation at a coworkers birthday party. 

Really, it didn't actually matter who it was. I was pissed that I had no choice but to invite someone into my pit. I had no intention of giving her a chance at all, and planned to exist as I was just in the confines of my hotel room instead of the living room. 

Naturally, this plan didn't work out at all. As fate would have it, we had become destined to be friends. 

We can even pinpoint the exact moment this happened -  we both quoted a line from the Hamish and Andy podcast at the exact same time. It was like that scene from stepbrothers… “Did we just become best friends?!” ( Spoiler alert; we did. )

It turns out, Georgia was also living in the darkness. Without giving too much of her personal life away, she had been navigating the end of a long term relationship, as well as the general “I'm 23 where is my life headed” type of distress. But we found solitude in each other, and great humor in the bullshit life dealt us. She quickly became my closest confidant; the first person I wanted to share good news with as well as the only one I would cry to when things didn't go my way. 

I started to question… Could it be that perhaps the soulmate I was longing for, was never going to be found in the body of some hapless boy (sorry), but instead in this new, glorious, platonic friendship? 

Georgia taught me intimacy in a way I had not ever experienced in any romance. I learned that vulnerability can be a really beautiful thing if you're showcasing it around the right person. Our connection felt otherworldly. When we were together, it was good luck to everyone else who even dared to step foot into our little world. We could talk without words, knowing exactly what the other person was thinking, feeling and needed before they even opened their mouth. Most nights we lost sleep, simply because we were stuck sitting on the balcony of OUR apartment, really digging into the depths of each other's minds and souls. 

Her love felt healing. She made me feel like I was worthy of beautiful things in my life, and was the biggest champion of my success. We both now know exactly what true love feels like because we have felt it together, for each other. Even as I write this, I can physically feel my chest expanding thinking about how much I adore her. 

It’s been about a year since Georgia entered my life and helped to pull me out of the darkness. We have since lived together on a tropical island, before backpacking Thailand for two months. On our trip we would often wander down the street hand in hand, without a second thought about the matter. 

A running joke was created about the amount of people we met that assumed we were a couple since we literally couldn’t get enough of each other. It's funny, people back home were worried that traveling together would ruin our friendship, as travel naturally has the tendency to do, but for us it was the opposite. I remember we actually used the word “obsessed” to describe how it felt when we were apart. It was the most fun I’ve ever had.  And when the worst news I could’ve received from back home came, she sat with me in silence down a lane way as I had a complete breakdown and navigated the end of my journey. She was my rock, even managing to squeeze laughs in amongst the overwhelming gloom. 

Today I write this from a cafe in England. She is back in Australia. I still have dark days like any human does, but a facetime with George is always the thing that can help me see the light again. If I found a genie in a lamp and I had three wishes; even before the obvious wishes for riches or security, I would wish that Georgia and I could be together again and then for the longest foreseeable future.  

I never in my life experienced a love so deep, and I will be surprised if I find it again. 

So, while I still am a self admitted hopeless romantic, and as any young woman does I daydream about the boys I meet and the lives we could have together, I’m not desperate for their love any longer. I know my worth is high, since I can be loved by someone as fantastic as her. I know that romantic love serves a completely different purpose in my life now, even if that is still one that I am navigating exactly what purpose it's for.

But regardless, what I do know for certain is that Georgia is one of the best things to ever happen to me. Soulmates do exist, they just aren't always the romantic type that we are taught they are.

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2BbewkVYrGisEkIlqsAel2?si=428b0f2f618441b8

[honeymoononvenus]

DUALITY OF WOMEN

My rumination of the week has come in the form of the fact that most women in one way or another have total ambivalence surrounding who they're supposed to be, what they're supposed to be, where their lives are headed, et cetera et cetera... 

I mean, since the dawn of time itself women have been expected to exist as a multitude of things at once, able to chameleon themselves into whichever situation they happen to find themselves in. We are a constant metamorphosis, taking on the different traits and roles expected of us within society. One day the mother, the next the daughter. We are the dotting girlfriend, the elusive mistress, the spiteful bitch, the housewife, the ceo, the cook, the cleaner, the foundation the whole fucking thing was built on. 

We are the virgin and the whore all at the same time. 

So really, is it any wonder at all, why it's so hard for us to find a single sense of self in all of this societal mess? 

And don't get me wrong. This isn't a hit to the patriarchy, far from it. In fact, I believe a woman's duality is a superpower if used the right way. We are multitaskers by nature, with healing and nurturing well wired into our DNA. A woman standing in her true feminine energy is an unstoppable force, but a dichotomy nonetheless. 

Let me explain what I’m talking about here; I am only 24 and really, my journey through womanhood has only just begun. While I truly love exploring and making friends with my own feminine power, I can not help but struggle to choose the woman I wish to show up as within society. 

Some days all I want is to play ‘the good wife’, besotted with monogamy, tangled up under a knit blanket with some wonderful gentleman and a big bowl of soup watching reruns of Gilmore Girls. I would bake delicacies while my sweet husband tended to the garden in our yard. He would be a poet, or an artist, or jobless for all I cared; it wouldn't matter as long as he felt like home. I steer my life in the direction of this, thinking it must be the thing to feed my soul. 

Then night time comes around and a different beast is awoken. 

The sweet daydream of romance is quickly burnt up by the fire in my belly that is hungry for something bigger than that. I become hedonistic. I fantasize about all the riches this world could offer a femme fatale like me. Men become nothing but a simple means to fulfill my grandiose desires. I want my OWN success. Money, power, glory baby!

SHE makes me feel impregnable, well and truly fucking bulletproof.

But… the sweet gentle woman inside of me makes it feel as if my soul is taking its very first deep breath. And truthfully, I don't want to give up either of these feelings, and so goes my dilemma, which woman is the one closest to my soul?

And furthermore, which one do I choose to show up as? They both call for a lead of such different lives, truly they are like day and night. 

But just like day and night, I’ve realised that it IS possible for one to exist with the promise of the other. 

Instead of picking one, I must learn to make peace with the existence of the both inside of me, pulling lessons from each at the times that I need them. 

I must honour the pair simultaneously. I breathe life into the first woman when I am drawn toward a need to be soft; at the times I feel myself falling in love with the world. She is there with me when I pause to admire a single bee passing through a field of wildflowers, and teaches me the ways I can be patient and present and kind. She exists in the way I wear my heart on my sleeve, in the way I’m not afraid to cry, even in the moments when I find myself staring into the eyes of a lover. I can feel her there, holding my hand, guiding me through with grace and humility. 

I then call upon the second at the times I need to be bold. When courage and self assurance are the name of the game. She’s the one who convinces me to take risks, to step out of my comfort zone, and reminds me that I am totally whole without the presence of a man in my life. She makes me hungry for decadent things; and will not stop until I am living out my true potential. She is there during lavish dinners that someone else is paying for. She is the red lipstick on my morning coffee cup, and the bounce in my step as I strut down the street, oozing with a new found confidence. 

I love these Women equally, for I need them both in my life. The reality is, women ARE creatures of duality. And we must honour the different personalities that exist inside of us at any time we need them. We really can have it all, we just must first learn to make friends with our own femininity outside of the expectation of being feminine itself. We are fucking godesses amongst men. It's time we rose up to meet them.

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6CaVKXhuU76MqWJkhanTDT?si=d7cb63e583124088

[honeymoononvenus]

THE SOCIAL BUTTERFLIES

“ I’m starting to think the music is dead.” 

A bold proclamation that followed a series of substandard nights out on arrival into London. I wasn't quite sure what I was expecting, but I knew it wasn't this; this being a mixture of bars that themed themselves ‘metal’ or ‘punk’, full to the brim of poseurs and rich kids desperately trying to pass themselves off as poor kids to fit the motif. 

Even though it was early days for me, I’d been dreaming of this mythical place where the musical focus was always more about what you were saying than how much you were selling, a movement established by true pioneers who had had enough of the way they were being treated in society and chose rhythm as a way to kick back. A movement that was inclusive of all people, totally radical and ahead of its time, that sanctioned even just for an hour or two a space that you could come and be yourself, entirely free of the shackles of public humiliation. I was desperately in search of something, ANYTHING that could act as a glimmer of hope that this had not been completely saturated or lost in time. 

My passage took me down Denmark street in Soho, otherwise known as ‘Tin Pan Alley’. A once epicenter of music. A road where the likes of the Sex Pistols and David Bowie called home. On any given day you could find artists such as Bob Marley, the Kinks, The Stones, Hendrix, Jeff Beck, Stevie Wonder and even the bloody Beatles recording demos, or just frequenting the place where it all happened. While it would obviously be naive of me to expect too much from this lost paradise in 2022, it did feel like quite a slap in the face to be welcomed into the street by a mammoth TK Maxx, an ironic representation of the battle lost. A giant flag of victory stuck into the guts of music by our old pal commercialism. Fuck this. 

I got on the bus and this was where I made my sad decree, maybe music as we knew it is over. The man won. 

Then entered … The Social Butterflies… 

Now; for context, I had first heard about this band months ago from a photographer I met in Thailand. I sat at the table of a hostel, scrolling through some brilliant flicks by this young talent, and queried about the band I was looking at. 

“They’re the best band in Brighton and some of the best people I know”. 

I can't quite tell what it was exactly, but something about them caught my eye. Something about them burned into my brain and gave me hope that maybe the scene wasn't dead, I was just looking in the wrong places. I could see the phenomenon through the screen.

As fate would have it yet again, their final show aligned with a trip to Brighton I was taking with a  friend from home. Armed with nothing but a google map pin location and a bottle of Jack, we made the trek in. Partly to find the answer to my decree, but after two weeks of dud nights in London, we were mostly just seeking a good time. 

And oh boy did we. After hiking through woodlands and encountering numerous foxes ( a rare treat for two Australian girls), we were welcomed into a clearing in the woods by a group of young people, dressed in all different styles. How fantastic for there to not be a single word to sum up this motley crew. 

My friend and I sank into a makeshift hammock and watched as the frontman , Emile, frantically ran around the clearing, imploring whoever was closest to him to help hang signs or lights, or to find out where their bassist was since it was already 20 minutes past start time. We looked at eachother, knowing that this was it. This was what we were searching for. Our very own pot of musical gold. 

As the sun made its final descent over the horizon, and all three members were present, the band picked up their swords and made an announcement ; 

“Ok. Two announcements. Number one, don’t stand on the fucking leads. Ok? Great. Number two, the petrol generator over there, will blow us all up. Stay away from it. Especially you smokers, which is all of you. Im serious, stop fucking laughing.”

He then pulled out a thin piece of cardboard, and the bass and drums began to beat. The crowd all stood up and moved closer in as Emile read out a sort of slam poem, everyone rhythmically swaying as they rolled their cigarettes. Not near the generator, of course. 

The crowd began to stir. Their smiles grew wider, as did their pupils. Bodies drew closer and closer as the crowd and their fierce leaders slowly became one entity. Their ‘stage’ was without barrier, the only thing weaving in between being the photographer, who at one point you could find meters up a tree attempting to capture this moment, this movement. 

I spoke to him after, about his time with the band, and how this was the last gig. They affectionately had labeled him the fourth social butterfly, a spin off of the interchangeable role of the fifth beatle. He said it was bittersweet that it was all over, the reason being the boys all going off to different unis at the end of the month, but that he was happy to be a part of this. Without him, there wouldn't even be any tangible evidence that this moment existed, and what a beautiful concept that is. 

But back to the band. 

If this were a stage play, the characters would have been meticulously meditated on, each serving completely different purposes while simultaneously and unanimously propelling the storyline forward. 

As lead, we have Emile, genius mastermind and mad showman of the forest. Costumed in a tattered black suit, baby blue button down and a skinny tie. His raven hair ran slick and thin across his forehead as it built up with sweat from his feral dance moves ; but boy how he moved! As if he were possessed by some force greater than himself, he could twist and thrash and shake his boney body in a way only comparable to that of some sort of sadistic love child between a birthday party era Nick Cave and John Lydon. 

It was as if he were under a spell… a spell conjured by our supporting actor , and bassist, Henry. 

The sexy saboteur to Emiles unnerving, adorned in an unassuming brown suede jacket and trousers, his mousy brown hair cut up in the style of Keith Richards. Henry wore his bass low as he effortlessly swayed around the stage and through the crowd, all the while puffing on a seemingly endless cigarette that he would secretly reset between every song. 

They were polar opposite, yet equally as undomesticated. Their saving grace? 

The real man of the hour; Felix.

Tame and humble hiding in the back sat the glue that held this otherwise loose hinge together, both energetically and rhythmically. 

Two show ponies and their rock. 

The absolute essence of a fantastic trio. 

In between songs the crowd were given a chance to find their footing again before being launched back into it as the next started. During these intervals, Emile could be found having a swig of whatever alcohol he could seem to get his hands on, while the other two were gesturing for a lighter, or having general chat with the crowd.

You could tell that they didnt give a fuck what people thought of their music - nor their looks, or attitude, or blatent substance use. They had something to say, something to share, and created a space for the people to come and do the same. A mutual reclaim of self expression through music and movement, just as humans have been doing since the dawn of time. They didn't try to sell CDs or merchandise afterwards - in fact, the only way to get a rare Tee was for them to pick you as a good audience member - although the honor of the tshirt holder went to the photographer, well deserved. 

Once they finished the live show, the party really kicked off. Someone plugged their phone into the now blown amp, and a series of songs continued to lead the highly intoxicated yet highly ecstatic crowd late into the night. Everything goes in a place like this. Slow dancing to disco, making out with strangers, conversations about God and death and everything in between  - our own little world  right there in the middle of the woods. 

Thank you social butterflies for giving this little Australian the push to continue on my quest. You are the firework up my ass that will propel me into the UK music scene in a way that I’d always dreamed of. I can't wait to see where your personal endeavors take you next.

PHOTOS: @choosethislater

LISTEN: 

https://open.spotify.com/artist/0q2qVW2XpWAdHrJqXJkrMA?si=ULabfaMlQiWen3mk1vI3

[honeymoononvenus]

AN ODE TO THE HOLIDAY FLING

Sitting on the sticky deck of a pub upon arrival in Bangkok, my best friend / travel companion and I naively started a list of seemingly obvious things we shouldn’t do during our time in Thailand; 

Dont do drugs

Dont ride a scooter

Dont get covid

Dont get sick from street food

Etc Etc .  . . But most importanty

Dont fall in love with the first guy you hook up with.

Now that I sit here celebrating my one month anniversary in the land of smiles, I can shamelessly say that I’ve broken, or at very least stretched my luck with, every single one of our day-one-don'ts. 

While most of these ‘donts’ go hand in hand with being a backpacker in southeast asia, it's the last one that I believe deserves more acclaim than it gets. 

I met my first ‘fling’ on my seventh day in Thailand. We were bunk buddies in a hostel that neither of us had even planned to stay in. Its satisfying to giggle at the serendipitous role that sheer misfortune had in bringing us together. 

I wont lie and say it was love at first sight or any of that sappy bullshit. Really, the fact of the matter is we were both lonely and our hearts mutually a little bruised from ex partners we’d left back at home. I mean, it was that and definitely not the two buckets of vodka redbull we had while watching a fire show. . . 

Either way, one thing led to another, and we were hooked. Even though we were both leaving that island to go to opposite sides of the country the following morn, his hand was still perpetually stuck like a magnet to at least one part of my body at any given point. We built what felt like a home together, even if we knew that it was fleeting, Perhaps that was what made it even more magical and addictive. 

See this is what I’m talking about. My defense of the humble holiday fling. 

When you're in a foreign country, surrounded by strangers, eating different food and sleeping in suspicious and usually terrible beds, it's easy to get a feeling of ‘homesick’, even if the idea of being home actually makes you feel physically ill. 

A fling is the perfect cure for this homesickness. Going balls in, head over heals, heart on your sleeve into this fleeting moment in time with another person. Whether it be for a week, a night, or even just a dance, there is nothing more liberating and comforting than feeling absolutely in love with this stranger, this moment. 

You dont care for their future, nor do you know about their past. Youre forced to be utterly and completely in that precious space and time before one of you catches the early morning ferry to some far away land and the only thing you see of them is the odd instagram story swipe up. 

Now of course, and I learned this the hard way, you arent REALLY falling in love with a person. Its the idea you have built in your head. Typically, I’d tell you to steer clear of falling in love with the idea of someone versus seeing them for who they really are… but when youre backpacking and always on the move, you quite literally dont have the time to find out the ‘real’ them. Nor do they you. Youll both forever be imortalised in eachothers heads as perfect, as the dream partner, as the best lover you have ever taken. That magical mirage bringing forth a promise of passion and devotion.

The harsh reality obviously being that you two are from entirely different worlds, and that if you spent even just a few more days together the chances of you being wildy incompatible are incredibly high, and youd probably get the ick quicker than you can find another. 

But the beauty here is there is no time for logic. Youre in a false sense of reality, and in my opinion, its so much more beautiful to lean into that completely. Why ruin this oasis with ‘one more day’? 

There is plenty of time for ‘real’ relationships back home. To do what would be the healthy thing, to invest time into yourself and this relationship and to see people for who they really are… But guess what, were not home! Thats the beauty baby. 

So learn to wear your heart on your sleeve, blazing out for everyone to take light from. 

Fuck it, fall in love with the first person you sleep with. Fall in love with everyone you meet. Fall in love with the world.

But remember, dont be upset if you have the misfortune of learning who they really are. . . Or if you see them shagging another girl on the beach like I did. 

Here, have a playlist. 

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3Etg8nhD0rz53aMaDGmIzz?si=bac37e31757c4f28