Shred is The Fauves' official rock magazine - the truth and exaggerated versions of it. Over the course of 6 issues Shred has become a byword for quality journalism. This publication seeks to inform, question and entertain and features none of the self-aggrandising propaganda that most bands send out into the market place in order to deceive their loyal fans into buying one more bad T-shirt or useless re-packaged CD. Shred treats its audience as though it has a brain even if, as in some cases, it quite clearly doesn't. Be the first person in your hemisphere to own Shred and discover what everyone else would be talking about if they'd ever heard of the fucking rag.
Shred is available for the modest price of $5.50. Issue 1 and 2 are no longer for sale and have become much sought after collectors items. Shred #6 has only recently been issued and, at 64 pages, is the biggest, coolest, most action packed issue yet. Want to own a copy? Send $5.50 per issue (Shred 3,4,5 and 6 are all available; especially 4 - that's really starting to take up some valuable wardrobe space) to: The Fauves, PO Box 199, Mornington, Australia, 3931. As a special bonus we are offering residents of Australia the opportunity to leave the country name off the address as its inclusion is superfluous to Australia Post's needs. Is there a better deal going? Don't answer that question! The time you spend ruminating is valuable cheque signing time. How long do you expect us to wait? This offer cannot last. Professor Allan Fells is breathing down our neck and prosecution looks increasingly likely.
A cheetah streaks across the savannah. In glorious slow motion a camera tracks the beast's inexorable progress towards its quarry. Quietly gumming our Sunday night dinner we watch in awe and marvel at the incomparable beauty of nature. Just as we begin to think about dessert, the big cat leaps, bringing a gazelle to the ground with frightening force. In an instant its powerful jaw is on the helpless herbivore's neck and the jugular is severed. We blanch a little at the chocolate tart with raspberry coulis on the plate before us. The beauty and cruelty of nature exist together often confrontingly close in a timeless paradox.
Cut to the world of human endeavour. A young band, full of innocent naiveté and goodwill, mails a demo CD to their idols in the hope of some positive response. Perhaps the idols have a show or even a tour coming up that the kids would love to be a part of. Maybe they seek nothing more than a few good-natured words of encouragement and advice from the avuncular elder statesmen. In split screen we watch the fresh faced kids packaging up the CD and scribbling a few words by way of explanation. Full of high spirits, they debate amongst each other about what to put in the covering letter before jumping in Dad's late model Commodore for a trip to the local Post Office. On the opposite screen we see the package opened and, in voice over, we hear a devilish laughter. From out of frame comes a boot and the demo is crushed beneath it onto the ground beneath.
In our position as elder statesmen on the Australian rock scene we regularly receive packages from small, unknown bands hoping to impress us with their music. It is possible in moments of weakness to allow oneself to be flattered by this attention; the accompanying letter invariably goes to great lengths to tell us how fantastic we are and what an inspiring example we set to the youth of Australia. Ultimately, however, one must not be swayed from the task at hand. Paying attention to the ingratiating entreaties of these potential usurpers would be tantamount to accepting bribes. This country has a great tradition of talent quests and there was never a suggestion that the judges on Pot of Gold or Safeway New Faces were in any way compromised before giving their verdicts on that night's talent. Thus it must be with us when we come to review each offering set before us.
Listen and laugh
As a touring band we are forced to spend many dull hours in transit. Often, stuck halfway between service stations on a lonely highway, morale begins to sink. Boredom is the curse of the touring party like scurvy was to old time sailors. Just as they hit the barrels of lemon juice to ward of the scorbutic effects of lengthy stays at sea we reach for the pile of unlistened-to demos, pick the most unprofessionally presented one and sit back to offer our critique.
On average each song get about 30 seconds. Remember bands, what we are primarily looking for is to laugh. Poor lyrics, hackneyed musical arrangements and lo fi recordings are a good place to start. All three will inevitably have us smiling and feeling good about ourselves, reassuring each other how much better we are than your band. If you're really looking to stand out though, you're going to need to take it a bit further. We get to hear a hell of a lot of dreadful bands both live and recorded and often another boringly bad offering can send us back to tedium just as quickly as we roused ourselves out of it. Give us something to remember you by. Serve us up something so appallingly dire that it cannot fail to stick in the memory. Give us a good belly laugh and you can be sure that, along with all the other bands who've sent us something, you stand no chance of having anything to do with us on a professional basis on any level whatsoever.
Smash indiscriminately
When tension arises on the road it needs an outlet. How many one horse towns can you pass through on the way to the next forgettable gig in a van stinking of male odor and riven with stewing personality conflicts before conflict arises? We prefer our angst to manifest itself in the indiscriminate smashing of unsolicited CD's. There is rarely any organised method to the destruction process. Anything that has been sent to us recently is fair game. We have left the detritus of a hundred complimentary CD's on the gravel of roadside stops in the past few years alone. The cheap plastic cases shatter with comic ease beneath the weight of an adult male. Readers, I cannot adequately describe the intoxicating feeling of power that comes from grinding a young band's life work into the hot bitumen beneath your feet. Never have I felt like more of a man than when I am frisbeeing a shiny compact disc into some farmer's muddy dam as I urinate on the lovingly prepared CD booklet, laughing openly as my scalding effluent spatters onto the smooth, fresh faces smiling unknowingly back at me. Why, only last night I was thanking the unsuspecting fools for playing the show with us, lying about the positive qualities of their set and promising to listen to their CD at the very first opportunity. Now, in the cruel light of day, I can but begin to marvel at the heights of my creativity as I refasten my fly and spin the back wheels of the Tarago on the shattered pieces of plastic that are all that remain of the recording.
Have the decency to send tapes
An unlistened to CD is useless to us. If there's one thing I want to impress on the aspiring young bands of this country it is that they have the decency to send us their music on rewritable CD's or good quality cassettes. I'm talking chrome tapes with the tabs left intact so as to enable us to record over them at the earliest opportunity. A band in our position can make quite a nice little saving by reusing the artistically worthless media that we are sent over the course of a year. Please don't write the track list of your little home recording on the professionally manufactured insert inside the case. Attach this on a separate piece of paper that we can throw straight in the bin, leaving the cover unsullied for our own recording purposes.
Like old stags protecting our mating rights we must lock horns with every up and coming new band and destroy them utterly. This often entails tackling the most promising looking offerings or submissions from bands that we have heard of and applying an extra level of diligence to the process of eradication. A harsh word here in mixed conversation, a disparaging remark there in an interview - whatever it takes to tarnish the reputation, retard the progress and hinder the development of new talent. Longevity and persistence have been the trademarks of our rollercoaster career to date. By approaching the task of band undevelopment with this same level of commitment we hope, ultimately, to survive in the Australian music scene in a 'last band standing' scenario. Hopefully in time we may see a situation where our efforts are rewarded by the stamping out of every young band in the country.
Every band should have to finish their career in a rehearsal studio. No more farewell stadium tours of the world with all the attendant publicity giving the adoring fans one last chance to pay homage to their all-conquering heroes. It should end in some outer suburban industrial park. An ex-munitions dump converted into a four room rehearsal space, egg cartons lining the walls for sound insulation, free parking next to a dumpster and a pie warmer behind the counter. The band should not even realise that this is their final show upon entering the facility. They just roll up for practice, go through the motions and realise that it's just not worth it anymore. They split up. Last show ever.
Crowded House is a case in point. No show on the steps of the Opera House. No TV special. It should have ended with Neil Finn tapping his watch angrily as Nick Seymour backed the old station wagon through the roller door out the back and started unloading amps. Trying to nail the middle eight to 'Into Temptation' while "The Jamaican Nirvana Show" work on a reggae version of 'Smells Like Teen Spirit' in the room next door - mangled Carribean rhythms encouraging every last sub atomic particle in the Kate Moss-thin walls to reverberate in one giant cacophony of out of time white noise. At last Finn, head throbbing like a 2 stroke engine, stabs his entire vintage guitar collection through the flimsy membranes of the in house PA speakers and breaks up the band.
Tim Finn, meanwhile, arrives late having answered a "Backing vocalist wanted - must be Neil Finn's brother, own transport a must, no time wasters" ad and is summarily sacked by Hester and Seymour as an out of work Death Metal band wheel past a semi trailer load of Eddie Van Halen signature 5150 Peavey guitar amps into the adjacent room. Neil orders the last hot dog, broiling in it's own seeping juices, out of a Chernobyl strength bain marie while his brother commandeers the studio staff as a backing band and begins demoing a series of failed solo albums.
This is how it should have ended. Nothing against Crowded House - they were a great band - but no act should ever be allowed to go out on a high like that. Bands need to be de programmed, prepared for the great wide world of ordinariness and have their rock egos transplanted and replaced by smaller more sensible ones. This can't happen against a backdrop of well wishers, glad handers and back slappers. The constant reinforcement of worth that comes with a farewell tour must surely only serve to make the end of a band more difficult to negotiate and, in time, ensure that the post stardom period is an even more difficult proposition for the fragile of psyche to come to terms with. A low key ending is in everyone's best interests.
But what of rehearsal studios? What of these stolid graveyards of inspiration, where every creative force will go to die and be buried. If a tree falls in a forest does it make a sound? Likewise, if a band only ever performs in a soundproofed room at a rehearsal studio can we be sure it really exists? We don't need to. In fact, we don't want to for these types of bands are invariably peddling exactly the type of turgid, leaden dross that was responsible for putting rock in the casualty ward in the first place. The fact that there exist places where any band in the world, regardless of talent, can perform without restriction is enough. We should be frightened.
Some bands form only to rehearse. It's enough to roll up one night a week after work, haul the pristine, showroom condition gear out the back of the SS Commodore and play. This is true submission of the ego and contains some valuable lessons for the rest of us. All of us ludicrously over inflated ponces floating around like helium inflated rock dolls trying to become stars could learn some lessons from rehearsal studio bands. We who long ago forgot the simple beauty of jamming with our friends. The arcane pleasure of music for music's sake, never needing the artificial validation of applause, no one on hand to pander to a series of pointless and worthless 'needs', borne out of laziness and selfishness, and passing themselves off as 'star quality'. There are no roadies out here. Every last kilogram of equipment is hauled by the person who's using it. Every beer is paid for at bottle shop prices and only consumed in the carefully delineated licensed area. The fruit and cheese platter is unknown in the rehearsal studio. A packet of Samboy salt and vinegar chips and the dehydrated remains of a meat pie are enough to feed the deadened, matchhead - strength creative fires of the rehearsal studio musician. You're not 'in a band' out here, you're a 'muso'. You're lucky to have performed anything more than 'Smoke on the water' at the local guitar shop to a bored sales assistant and your admiring girlfriend but you work on your chops harder than a conscientious butcher. Hanging the guitar back up on the wall you wink at your betrothed, "Only 134 more pay packets love". You caress the Ibanez Steve Vai replete with carry handle and hair fibre width strings one more time. "Then we can start saving for the wedding".
The closest you get to live rock and roll is when you walk past the gig posters for the 'big' bands - 21/20, Aussie Doors Show and Dry as a Bono - on your way to the outside toilet where six month old street press waits obligingly on the cold concrete floor for your reading and wiping pleasure. No one's selling anything out here beyond stale food and six hours of rehearsal time for 50 bucks. There are no agendas, no career paths and no ambition. Everyone is shit and, by degrees, they will all eventually realise it. But when they do it will be with a shrug of the shoulders and a 4 beat count into the next godawful song. No bitterness, no rancour and no angst manifesting themselves in irrelevant solo careers - once famous artists flailing around desperately trying to rekindle the glory days when people cared. It's the culture of low expectations. A 4 week residency at the local boozer and regularly nailing Stevie Ray Vaughan's lead part in 'Scuttlebutt' is as high as anyone's aiming. And that's just as well because it's as high as anyone is going to get out where genuine musical talent is as rare as the meat at Joe's authentic Eskimo Steakhouse.
Before long the local pub will renovate, bring in poker machines and the search for work will start again. 'Guitarist Wanted' ads, hanging askew on mouldering chip board walls will be answered, the little phone number tag pulled from the bottom of the ad singed and barely readable after accidentally being used as a makeshift filter for the post rehearsal joint. Screaming lead vocalists will be auditioned in room sixteen with the underpowered PA and the saliva painted mikes that give a little electric shock everytime anyone walks within a 2 metre radius of them. Lank haired bass players with learning disorders will trudge despondently to the bus stop, once more thwarted by the ubiquitous 'Must Have Own Transport' clause. Still, somewhere tonight, someone's list of influences will match someone else's and another tenuous, star crossed and musically bereft rock partnership will take embryonic form. It will be doomed of course; the guitarist lied about those 'Backing vocals an asset', coming unstuck as they audition him on 'Good Vibrations' and the drummer, realising he lays bricks a hell of a lot better than he lays down rhythms, goes back to his day job. The great thing is, despite the massive attrition rate, there'll always be other bands! In a world of 6 billion we're in no shortage of people who do things badly.
We should never, however, forget the role that rehearsal studios play as a model of the ideal modern multicultural society. Where else in the world can people of such diverse taste and beliefs work along side one another with such a degree of peace and acceptance? Wretched folk acts, dire west coast punk imitators, horrendous grunge units, laughable funk bands. All united in their ordinariness, lack of vision and bleak future. Perhaps a giant rehearsal studio could be built over the Gaza strip and the West bank, ancient Middle Eastern enmities reduced to nothing more than the occasional spat over a car parking spot in the lane out the back. Imagine if the Berlin wall had been made of chipboard lined with hessian! It would have come down long before that alienating, Orwellian concrete one did. After all there's nothing like the hopelessly inadequate soundproofing of a rehearsal studio wall to permit a free and easy exchange of dialogue across it's flimsy divide.
Yes, the rehearsal studio stands as a brilliant working model of the multicultural ideal. The White Australia policy, though officially abandoned as government policy decades ago has reverberated for too long down the years not just culturally and socially but musically. It wasn't until the Whitlam government and their 'Rehearsal Studio Act' of 1973 that we were at last able to shake off the legacy of the past and start to built a truly integrated Australian music scene. There goes Al Grassby now, rehearsing his new band 'Rex Connor and the Bad Loans' for a revival of his old rock opera 'The Khemlani Affair'. Take a break, flick through street press so old it's written on papyrus reed, munching a hot chicken roll that was heated in a French sub atomic particle accelerator and listen as the guys go through the set list - "Kerr is just a four letter word", "Living next door to Juni", "If you refuse supply, can I still govern?" They're all there!
For years we never practiced in a rehearsal studio, preferring instead the rural serenity and low cost of outer suburban Moorooduc. Now we rehearse in Moorabbin and any future rehearsal sites will need to start with the letters Moo also. We're not on the main strip: don't look for us there. We're in some prime, light industrial zoned real estate in the back blocks, out where a man can still illegally mount an overpowered engine under the gleaming duco of a suburban death machine and drag his mates on a Friday night with only minimal chance of police intervention. Sound Rehearsal Studios is situated immediately across the road from the Southern hemisphere's largest retailer of ear protection devices, an irony that has not gone unremarked upon during the course of the several years we have been utilising the facility. Many is the time I have rushed across Cochranes Rd attempting to buy their entire stock of foam Ear plugs with which to line the crepe papers walls of our rehearsal room in a vain effort to dull the brain splintering noise of our neighbouring musicians only to find them closed. They've all long gone home. I guess not even the Southern hemispheres largest retailer of ear protection has the means to sufficiently dampen the decibels once all 18 rooms are cranked and going.
In the early days we'd rehearse for hours. Then we started just doing an hour. Then, realising that some important discoveries of Einstein had been neglected in our reasoning, we factored relativity into the equation and started doing the time that an astronaut jamming in a rocket travelling away from the earth at near the speed of light would experience while his brother rehearsing back on earth played for an hour. Clocking in at around three minutes, this left us the time to practice one of our radio songs before packing up and arranging to meet again in six months time.
I still fervently believe that the food truck, however, was the true cause of our undoing. Every night at eight it would trundle up the driveway at the front of the building, lift it's side door up and start offering it's fatty, starchy and sugary wares at inflated prices for the hungry musos who would plod over like cows making for a hay drop. We started watching the clock, counting the minutes till the food truck would arrive. Then we started knocking off early in an endeavour to be first to the food truck or in preparation for an unanticipated early visit. After a while we ended up just flagging it down on a corner several kilometres away, ordering and not even making it to rehearsal, instead giving the driver a cassette and asking him if he would mind just putting it on repeat play through the PA in the room we had booked.
Crowded House should have played their last show at Sound Rehearsal. They could have sold the live cd exclusively from the little stand that sits on the counter displaying the stuff from all the other bands who rehearse there. The Finn Boys could have got a ride with the Doctor while Doug would have been more than happy to pick up Hess and Seymour. I could have made the booking for them - just so long as they were prepared to indemnify me against the $50 cancellation fee for cancellation not given at least 24 hours notice. Offered a choice of straight or boom mike stands and a friendly reminder to seek assistance from the front desk should they experience any difficulties in setting up the vocal PA, the House could have run through the last ten years of their glorious career with nary an interruption, save for the occasional opened door from some navigationally challenged muso with a $10,000 guitar amp and a $5 brain. No audience; no cameras; no whirring tape recorders; nothing to dilute or in any way defile the essential power of their unadorned music. With the four walls as the only ears, we could have sealed the room off forever once they'd finished and loaded out, a time capsule, an eternal tomb, a monument more worthy than any hollow sponsored event for the masses. A careful short circuit of the wires and the cheap synthetic carpet is alight, a pyrrhic testament to the magnitude of their achievement. A toxic cremation, the whole lot up in flames- the vinyl coating on a vintage amp, a polyester suit from the Split Enz days, acetate and polycarbonates as rare, limited edition releases melt and fuse in a glorious death embrace. Old arguments, disagreements about publishing splits, songwriting credits, who's driving after the show, no I'm not playing that one, who drank all the vodka, where's my set list? Is that my wife you're fucking? All gone. Smoke. Ash. Memories. The ultimate purification. The ego - it's physical manifestations destroyed forever - is set free. The perfect death. To be reborn, pure and unadorned. Naked and perfect. It's over. Forget it. Get on with your life.