Over the past month, Barack Obama has been undergoing an intensive training regime at the hands of his newly-elected Vice President, Joe Biden. The following is an edited transcript of one of the training days.
In deference to the White House transcription convention first established by Richard Nixon, all expletives and potentially incriminating remarks have been permanently erased from the tape.
BIDEN: We’re gettin’ creamed out there, Barry.
OBAMA: If we tell the truth, the public will –
BIDEN: That’s bulls**t, Obes. F***in’ bulls**t! Howya gonna take this old man on, man?
OBAMA: By methodically and systematically dealing with his points as they are made, preferably in an official setting.
BIDEN: Oh, f**k me. [He picks up a piece of wood]. See this?
OBAMA: Yes, of course, Joseph. I – [Biden smashes the wood violently across his knee.]
BIDEN [satisfied]: God damn! That’s what I’m talkin’ about! See how that p**sweak Motherf***er shattered like a b****h? That’s what ya gotta do to the old man, Barry!
OBAMA: I hardly think that –
BIDEN: Just… pow! Can’t ya feel it runnin’ through ya?
OBAMA: I’m not sure I fully –
BIDEN: You gotta talk the talk, Baz. I talked to a buncha Hicks yesterday, Baz. Know what I said to ‘em? I said:
“If that Barack guy tries to take my f***in’ guns, I’ll kick his skinny little ass. I got 6 fully auto 9mm Berettas under my pillow. My mattress is stuffed with the f***ers, too. My kids use ‘em to shoot bullies and teachers who give ‘em s**t. F***, I’d shoot my own dawg if he barked too f***in’ loud! Goddamn I love shooting stuff!”
Ya just give ‘em a little red meat, Obes. That’s what ya gotta learn.
OBAMA: Just where is this all coming from, exactly? I didn’t have an inkling of this when I nominated you.
BIDEN: Gotta get mad, man. Hicks f***in’ love mad. And we love Hicks – cos we need ‘em. And if you talk to a Hick right, he doesn’t know you’re sh***in’ him. ‘Bitter’ my ass.
OBAMA: That’s hardly a respectful attitude to take to our constituents, Joseph.
BIDEN: Respectful? These guys gave us eight f***in’ years of Monkey nuts in the Oval Office! Have you seen ‘Bloodsport’?
OBAMA: Is that the delightful Daniel Auteil comedy where –
BIDEN: It’s Van Damme, Barry. VAN-god-damn-DAMME! And that’s the last European name you’re gonna utter during this campaign. You gotta get Bloodsport on McCain. Dip those f***in' kid gloves in broken glass!
OBAMA: Do you mean…physically?
BIDEN: You know those goddamn town hall debates they make ya do? Poke him in his sunken chest. He won’t be able to touch ya, ya wiry b****** - he can’t even raise his arms, man! Vietcong got those, you gotta go for the rest. Ya gotta crush him, man – you seen ‘Karate Kid’, even? S***, you even watch TV? Just keep pokin’ him till he explodes. Like Ralph Macchio.
OBAMA: This is ridiculous.
BIDEN [Holding piece of wood aloft]: I wantya to destroy this, ya raky wimp.
OBAMA: Are you serious?
BIDEN: Just snap one of those little girl hands down on it. (Sniggers). That oughta do it.
OBAMA: That’s a sexist slur.
BIDEN: Girl hands.
OBAMA: That’s quite enough. I’m beginning to think you were a bad choice of –
BIDEN: Girly hands.
[In a sudden rage, Obama splits the plank of wood with the edge of his palm].
OBAMA: I… don’t know where that came from.
BIDEN: That was beautiful. You just won South Carolina with that psycho s**t. Now: I’ll be McCain, and you can be you. [Clears throat]. Why the hell should the American people let you run this country, you dainty little p***k?
OBAMA: Because our tax policy will –
BIDEN [Whispers]: You f****in’ crazy, Baz?
OBAMA: The Democratic Party will reform –
BIDEN [Aside]: F***! You wanna lose this or somethin’?
OBAMA: In these uncertain financial times –
BIDEN [Whispers]: One last f****in’ warning, Dead****.
OBAMA: Call me that one more time, and I’ll rip your f***in’ ornamental arms off, McS**t!
BIDEN: Woah! Yeah!
OBAMA: Shrivelled old Mother*****.
BIDEN: Woof!
OBAMA [coming to]: I can’t understand it. Please don’t make me angry like that again.
BIDEN: Channel it, baby, channel it! Red meat, pal!
OBAMA: Kindly desist.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Broken Connexion
Flinders St station is bedecked with billboards saying something along the lines of:
‘We are making this station carbon neutral’.
Well, thank you for lighting the vending machines with fluorescent globes, Connex. I’m sure that’s a much better way of saving the planet than purchasing enough trains to prevent the disintegration of the Melbourne rail system. But that would be expensive and hard. I'm sorry for even mentioning such a proposal.
Never fear - these seemingly intractable problems are nothing that a pretty girl with a windmill won't fix!
The most annoying part of the ad is the woman on the poster, who looks like the type of person that would have confidently ticked ‘human rights lawyer’ on her year 7 vocational questionnaire. The courageous, defiant expression on her face evokes Abraham Lincoln delivering the Gettysburg address, rather than (as it should) a feckless shill for an incompetent transport company.
Her dignity is further undercut by the fact that she is holding a lightglobe in one hand and a small plastic windmill in the other. Now, pardon me for being skeptical, but I have seen few – in fact, no – wind turbines under construction on Flinders Street station’s roof. I can only assume, therefore, that the customer will have to bear the windmill cost.
CC, I hear you say, you’ve got it wrong. Connex is using that powerful image to illustrate their energy plan – to purchase more of their electricity from renewable sources. The girl holding the little windmill is only a powerful visual representation of this fact.
But this ad is not a representation of Connex’s new energy plan. It is their new energy plan.
*
SCENE: A young man of 29 walks up to the ticket counter in order to buy a train ticket.
YM: I’d like a weekly zone 1, please.
Ticket Guy: Certainly. That will be $34. And here is your small plastic windmill. That will be $150.
YM: $150 for a plastic windmill?
TG: It is a regulation Connex windmill.
YM: What is the difference between this windmill and, say, a regular plastic windmill that I might purchase at, say, a school fete?
TG: This one has been painted in Connex’s colours.
YM: That seems a bit steep.
TG: They are hand-painted by the girl in the ad. Her painting is so exquisite that she can only do 3 windmills an hour.
YM: Why are you selling me a plastic windmill with my ticket?
TG: It will help us to meet our greenhouse target.
YM: How does it work?
TG: When the train is in motion, we would greatly appreciate it if you could stick the windmill out of the window.
YM: Why?
TG: This will enable the small windmill to generate electricity.
YM: For what?
TG: Enough electricity… to power this light globe! (Ceremoniously holds out light globe and extension cord). The light globe is $45. The extension cord is free.
YM: Huh?
TG: Stick the windmill hand out of the window – right or left, it doesn’t matter – so that the lightglobe can function. The faster the train goes, the brighter the lightglobe gets.
YM: That’s a bit counterproductive, don’t you think?
TG: Whatever do you mean?
YM: Well, these windmills aren’t doing any good. They’re not powering the train, are they?
TG: Powering the train?
YM: Isn’t that the aim?
TG: The point, actually, is to offer a purely symbolic contribution to global warming in order to distract customers from our appalling level of service.
YM: That was a remarkably honest answer.
TG: I was fired this morning. This is my last day.
‘We are making this station carbon neutral’.
Well, thank you for lighting the vending machines with fluorescent globes, Connex. I’m sure that’s a much better way of saving the planet than purchasing enough trains to prevent the disintegration of the Melbourne rail system. But that would be expensive and hard. I'm sorry for even mentioning such a proposal.
Never fear - these seemingly intractable problems are nothing that a pretty girl with a windmill won't fix!
The most annoying part of the ad is the woman on the poster, who looks like the type of person that would have confidently ticked ‘human rights lawyer’ on her year 7 vocational questionnaire. The courageous, defiant expression on her face evokes Abraham Lincoln delivering the Gettysburg address, rather than (as it should) a feckless shill for an incompetent transport company.
Her dignity is further undercut by the fact that she is holding a lightglobe in one hand and a small plastic windmill in the other. Now, pardon me for being skeptical, but I have seen few – in fact, no – wind turbines under construction on Flinders Street station’s roof. I can only assume, therefore, that the customer will have to bear the windmill cost.
CC, I hear you say, you’ve got it wrong. Connex is using that powerful image to illustrate their energy plan – to purchase more of their electricity from renewable sources. The girl holding the little windmill is only a powerful visual representation of this fact.
But this ad is not a representation of Connex’s new energy plan. It is their new energy plan.
*
SCENE: A young man of 29 walks up to the ticket counter in order to buy a train ticket.
YM: I’d like a weekly zone 1, please.
Ticket Guy: Certainly. That will be $34. And here is your small plastic windmill. That will be $150.
YM: $150 for a plastic windmill?
TG: It is a regulation Connex windmill.
YM: What is the difference between this windmill and, say, a regular plastic windmill that I might purchase at, say, a school fete?
TG: This one has been painted in Connex’s colours.
YM: That seems a bit steep.
TG: They are hand-painted by the girl in the ad. Her painting is so exquisite that she can only do 3 windmills an hour.
YM: Why are you selling me a plastic windmill with my ticket?
TG: It will help us to meet our greenhouse target.
YM: How does it work?
TG: When the train is in motion, we would greatly appreciate it if you could stick the windmill out of the window.
YM: Why?
TG: This will enable the small windmill to generate electricity.
YM: For what?
TG: Enough electricity… to power this light globe! (Ceremoniously holds out light globe and extension cord). The light globe is $45. The extension cord is free.
YM: Huh?
TG: Stick the windmill hand out of the window – right or left, it doesn’t matter – so that the lightglobe can function. The faster the train goes, the brighter the lightglobe gets.
YM: That’s a bit counterproductive, don’t you think?
TG: Whatever do you mean?
YM: Well, these windmills aren’t doing any good. They’re not powering the train, are they?
TG: Powering the train?
YM: Isn’t that the aim?
TG: The point, actually, is to offer a purely symbolic contribution to global warming in order to distract customers from our appalling level of service.
YM: That was a remarkably honest answer.
TG: I was fired this morning. This is my last day.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Cruel Inventions - Part 2
Household inventions are the cumulation of a long process of gradual perfection. They have been improved incrementally, and these improvements can be undone at a stroke.
Unfortunately, not all inventions are capable of wreaking vengeance as effectively as our friend the pyramadine grater. Here is a short list of everyday inventions that have been destroyed by designers' meddling hands. For your reference, I have also included the specific ways in which I would use these inventions to harm their wretched progenitors.
1. The Torqueless Fork
My workplace possesses forks whose handles have a perfectly round cross-section. Now, forks usually have a handle that is somewhat flat. This allows for manoeuvrability, allowing the user to apply torque to the handle, in accordance to the formula Torque = Force x Distance. As the distance across the handle is about 0.005 cm, and the force applied by an average human hand is around 30 Newtons (I made that up, but it sounds good), the torque generated by a regular fork is 0.15 Newton Metres (Nm).
PHWOOOOAR!, as a reader of 'Street Machine' magazine might say.
But with a circular handle preventing cross-fork leverage, a fork generates no torque. It is the Toyota Celica of forks - a hairdresser's fork.
Vengeance method: Designer to be forked repeatedly.
2. The Nubless Tap
My parents use to possess taps with perfectly smooth, round handles. Again, the evidence suggests that the inventor had not tested invention thoroughly enough: taps worked fine in the dry, but lost traction in the wet.
Vengeance method: Put a well-soaped designer in a small room which is gradually filling with water. The only means of turning off the water is by means of a nubless tap, the handle of which has also been thoroughly soaped. Get out of that one, McGuyver.
3. The Unnecessarily Complex Corkscrew
If, like me, you often wish to empty a bottle of wine of its contents in a hurry, you will be in no mood for corkscrew shenanigans in this time of need.
Corkscrews are simple machines, made even more delightful by their resemblance to a Robot doing starjumps. (Try it at home, and see how many starjumps you can make the little robot do in an hour.)
The complicated corkscrew is designed to increase the status of the head male in the house by making him the sole person capable of understanding its fiendish complexity.
*FLASHBACK*
YOUNG ME: Dad, can you please open this?
DAD (dripping scorn): Can't you open it? Simple turn camshaft A until it re-engages with the friction plate. Then, rotate notched cog B until it initiates the starter relay sequence.
*
Vengeance Method: Inventor is made to walk through desert with a knapsack full of water-filled wine bottles. To overcome thirst, inventor must successfully operate corkscrew. As this is impossible, inventor will perish.
Unfortunately, not all inventions are capable of wreaking vengeance as effectively as our friend the pyramadine grater. Here is a short list of everyday inventions that have been destroyed by designers' meddling hands. For your reference, I have also included the specific ways in which I would use these inventions to harm their wretched progenitors.
1. The Torqueless Fork
My workplace possesses forks whose handles have a perfectly round cross-section. Now, forks usually have a handle that is somewhat flat. This allows for manoeuvrability, allowing the user to apply torque to the handle, in accordance to the formula Torque = Force x Distance. As the distance across the handle is about 0.005 cm, and the force applied by an average human hand is around 30 Newtons (I made that up, but it sounds good), the torque generated by a regular fork is 0.15 Newton Metres (Nm).
PHWOOOOAR!, as a reader of 'Street Machine' magazine might say.
But with a circular handle preventing cross-fork leverage, a fork generates no torque. It is the Toyota Celica of forks - a hairdresser's fork.
Vengeance method: Designer to be forked repeatedly.
2. The Nubless Tap
My parents use to possess taps with perfectly smooth, round handles. Again, the evidence suggests that the inventor had not tested invention thoroughly enough: taps worked fine in the dry, but lost traction in the wet.
Vengeance method: Put a well-soaped designer in a small room which is gradually filling with water. The only means of turning off the water is by means of a nubless tap, the handle of which has also been thoroughly soaped. Get out of that one, McGuyver.
3. The Unnecessarily Complex Corkscrew
If, like me, you often wish to empty a bottle of wine of its contents in a hurry, you will be in no mood for corkscrew shenanigans in this time of need.
Corkscrews are simple machines, made even more delightful by their resemblance to a Robot doing starjumps. (Try it at home, and see how many starjumps you can make the little robot do in an hour.)
The complicated corkscrew is designed to increase the status of the head male in the house by making him the sole person capable of understanding its fiendish complexity.
*FLASHBACK*
YOUNG ME: Dad, can you please open this?
DAD (dripping scorn): Can't you open it? Simple turn camshaft A until it re-engages with the friction plate. Then, rotate notched cog B until it initiates the starter relay sequence.
*
Vengeance Method: Inventor is made to walk through desert with a knapsack full of water-filled wine bottles. To overcome thirst, inventor must successfully operate corkscrew. As this is impossible, inventor will perish.
Cruel Inventions - Part 1
Whenever I come across a humdrum household object that has been needlessly 'updated' in order to make it more 'interesting', I become utterly consumed with the idea of causing the inventor's untimely death - with the very object that they have so foolishly destroyed.
I once had the pleasure of owning a pyramidine cheese grater (most are oblong or cylindrical, for those readers who have their cheese grated for them by servants). 'Cool!', I hear you say.
No. It is most definitely not cool. It is not cool to destroy a useful object in order to serve the whims of fashion. There is a reason that graters are oblong or cylindrical: i.e. to prevent cheese from becoming stuck in the top of the grater. As I think of the impending, violent confrontation with the black-clad, turtleneck-wearing grater updater, catharsis rushes through me.
*
SCENE: A late 19th-century inner-city warehouse, converted into a trendy clutch of studios. Aforementioned black-clad designer sits in original 1960s egg chair at a lustrous Nicholas Datner redgum table. He is talking on his mobile phone. It is, of course, an iPhone. You are supposed to hate him.
DESIGNER: ...And so I said to her - 'Wheatgrass is amazing for your Chakras.' Well, I have to rush, Pantene - I have an appointment with my Iridologist. What's that? No - the cat's still at the acupuncturist. Yes, he's doing quite well. I really do believe that animals respond best to non-invasive techniques.
(THE massive Victorian-era wooden door is forcefully kicked open to reveal a lone figure standing silhouetted against the windswept street. His expression is not visible under his low-brimmed hat. He coolly smokes a cigarillo. The street lights halo the smoke around his head. He looks angrily at the floor, as if to repress some violent inner torment. Losing composure, he advances to the table. His metal heels clink eerily on the floorboards; his poncho swishes behind him like a tattered victory flag.)
DESIGNER: Uh - can I help you?
MYSTERIOUS FIGURE: That's for you to decide. You most certainly have not helped me in the past.
DESIGNER: Who...are you?
MYSTERIOUS FIGURE: I am the angel of vengeance. I speak for household objects that have no voice.
(Mysterious figure unsheaths glittering object from his utility belt.)
MYSTERIOUS FIGURE (Holding grater aloft): And - this? What is this?
DESIGNER: I-I-I-I-it's a grater.
MYSTERIOUS FIGURE (in low, guttural whisper not unlike Batman's): That's what it said on the label. What's wrong with this picture?
DESIGNER: I don't -
MF: It. Doesn't. Grate.
DESIGNER: But it's -
MF: Ok. It grates. All right. But there's a problem.
DESIGNER: I don't underst-
MF: BRING ME A BLOCK OF CHEESE. You do have cheese here, dontya? Hmm?
TERRIFIED DESIGNER: Y-y-yes. (Departs, and re-emerges with CHEESE).
MF: Grate it.
DESIGNER: But I've never-
MF: That's right. You've never grated cheese in your life. Grate it. Grate it. Grate it.
DESIGNER: Ok, ok, I'm grating! (He GRATES).
MF: Enough. Pick up the grater and remove the cheese.
DESIGNER (Shaking and tapping grater: It's not working, sir.
MF: That's because you destroyed something beautiful when you made that grater. (Background music swells: Barber's Adagio for Strings.)
DESIGNER: I had no idea.
MF: You have become death, the destroyer of graters. You took something perfect and you crushed it. And now: it's time to get to know Mr Pyramidine grater just a little better.
FADE TO BLACK. SOUND REMAINS:
DESIGNER: What are you doing? Stop - ouch! He's grating me! He's grating me!
MF: The only thing that's grating here is your hubris.
END
I once had the pleasure of owning a pyramidine cheese grater (most are oblong or cylindrical, for those readers who have their cheese grated for them by servants). 'Cool!', I hear you say.
No. It is most definitely not cool. It is not cool to destroy a useful object in order to serve the whims of fashion. There is a reason that graters are oblong or cylindrical: i.e. to prevent cheese from becoming stuck in the top of the grater. As I think of the impending, violent confrontation with the black-clad, turtleneck-wearing grater updater, catharsis rushes through me.
*
SCENE: A late 19th-century inner-city warehouse, converted into a trendy clutch of studios. Aforementioned black-clad designer sits in original 1960s egg chair at a lustrous Nicholas Datner redgum table. He is talking on his mobile phone. It is, of course, an iPhone. You are supposed to hate him.
DESIGNER: ...And so I said to her - 'Wheatgrass is amazing for your Chakras.' Well, I have to rush, Pantene - I have an appointment with my Iridologist. What's that? No - the cat's still at the acupuncturist. Yes, he's doing quite well. I really do believe that animals respond best to non-invasive techniques.
(THE massive Victorian-era wooden door is forcefully kicked open to reveal a lone figure standing silhouetted against the windswept street. His expression is not visible under his low-brimmed hat. He coolly smokes a cigarillo. The street lights halo the smoke around his head. He looks angrily at the floor, as if to repress some violent inner torment. Losing composure, he advances to the table. His metal heels clink eerily on the floorboards; his poncho swishes behind him like a tattered victory flag.)
DESIGNER: Uh - can I help you?
MYSTERIOUS FIGURE: That's for you to decide. You most certainly have not helped me in the past.
DESIGNER: Who...are you?
MYSTERIOUS FIGURE: I am the angel of vengeance. I speak for household objects that have no voice.
(Mysterious figure unsheaths glittering object from his utility belt.)
MYSTERIOUS FIGURE (Holding grater aloft): And - this? What is this?
DESIGNER: I-I-I-I-it's a grater.
MYSTERIOUS FIGURE (in low, guttural whisper not unlike Batman's): That's what it said on the label. What's wrong with this picture?
DESIGNER: I don't -
MF: It. Doesn't. Grate.
DESIGNER: But it's -
MF: Ok. It grates. All right. But there's a problem.
DESIGNER: I don't underst-
MF: BRING ME A BLOCK OF CHEESE. You do have cheese here, dontya? Hmm?
TERRIFIED DESIGNER: Y-y-yes. (Departs, and re-emerges with CHEESE).
MF: Grate it.
DESIGNER: But I've never-
MF: That's right. You've never grated cheese in your life. Grate it. Grate it. Grate it.
DESIGNER: Ok, ok, I'm grating! (He GRATES).
MF: Enough. Pick up the grater and remove the cheese.
DESIGNER (Shaking and tapping grater: It's not working, sir.
MF: That's because you destroyed something beautiful when you made that grater. (Background music swells: Barber's Adagio for Strings.)
DESIGNER: I had no idea.
MF: You have become death, the destroyer of graters. You took something perfect and you crushed it. And now: it's time to get to know Mr Pyramidine grater just a little better.
FADE TO BLACK. SOUND REMAINS:
DESIGNER: What are you doing? Stop - ouch! He's grating me! He's grating me!
MF: The only thing that's grating here is your hubris.
END
Friday, September 12, 2008
Phonetic Riff Transcription System
Let's face it - the riff is in terminal decline. The 70s, 80s and 90s were all generously served by the bespangled riff gods - but today's bands seem to think that designing a riff is as simple as following one chord by another. Like most of the world's problems, this is mainly U2's fault. What's the matter, 'The Edge'? Your distortion pedal broken or something? Badass nickname, by the way. (I sincerely apologise for just having alienated the entire Noonan family with that comment.)
One of the main problems with riffage is the lack of an objective method of comparison. Fact: the best bands have the best riffs. So, it shouldn't be too difficult to come up with a notation system that allows you, the consumer, to evaluate riffs on the page. This will allow you to make an intelligent and informed purchase: i.e. to choose the albums with the awesomest collection of riffs.
Fortunately, I devised just such a system while on the train today. My system has an advantage over guitar tabulature: it requires absolutely no musical knowledge to understand. In fact, the less musical knowledge you have, the better.
What follows is a transcript of ten of my favourite riffs, using my patented 'Phonetoriff' system (patent pending).
1. Black Sabbath, Paranoid
Intro:
Bow, wow, wow, do-do-do-do-do-do-do-do!
Bow, wow, wow, do-do-do-do-do-do-do-do!
Main riff:
GUG-gug-gug-gug-GUG-gug-gug-gug
GUG-gug-gug-gug-GUG-gug-gug-gug
GOG-gog-gog-gog-GOG-gog-gog-gog ba-ba, BA. (ba!)
2. AC/DC, Back in Black
Ba. Ba-da-da. Ba-da-da.... Be-do-be-do-be-do-be
Ba. Ba-da-da. Ba-da-da. Bompow, bompow, bompow, bompow,
Ba.
3. Rolling Stones, Jumpin' Jack Flash
Intro:
Nung, nung, nung; ving, ving;
Nung, nung, nung, ningningning ning, ning;
Nung, nung, nung, ving, vinggggg;
Nung, nung, nung, ningningning ning, ning
Nununung.
Nununung.
Nununung.
Nununung.
(Jagger: Onetwo!)
Main riff:
BAAMP BAAMP, ba-na-na, ba-na-na, banana
BAAMP BAAMP, ba-na-na, ba-na-na, banana...
4. Metallica, Bridge from 'One'
Dubodabudobadah. Dubodabudobadah. Dubodabudobadah. Dubodabudobadah.
DubodabudobaDAH-NAAA, DubodabudobaDAH-NAAA, DubodabudobaDAH-NAAA, DubodabudobaDAH-NAAA,
Dubodabudobadah. Dubodabudobadah. Dubodabudobadah. Dubodabudobadah.
5. Jimi Hendrix, Voodoo Chile
Intro:
Wuk-o-wuk-o-wuk-o-wukka-wukowuk-a!
A wuk-wuk-wok-owuk-o-wuk-wuk-wukko!
Wuk-wuk-WUK-o-wuk-a-wuk-wuk, ah!
A-wuk-o-wuk-o-wuk-o-wuk-o-wuk-wuk-
Main riff:
Beowwm, ba deoww-deoww bamp-wamp wanna-wanna
Beowwm, ba deoww-deoww wanna. (Wicka)
Beowwm, wa deoww-beoww bamp-wamp wanna-wanna
Beoww, wa beoww-deoww wanna (badoom-chish)
Beowwm, ba deoww-deoww bamp-wamp wanna-wanna
Beowwm, ba deoww-deoww wanna.
Beowwm, wa deoww-beoww bamp-wamp wanna-wanna
Beoww, wa beoww-deoww deeeuuw deeeeuuw dreuuuuw woo...
6. Soundgarden, My Wave
Rababa.
Rababa.
Rababa-screee!
Rababa-screee!
Rababa-screee!
Ranana BA.
Ba, ba, da-wa-na
BA. Bap, bap, da-wa-na
BA. Bap, bap, da-wa-na
BA. Bap, bap, da-wa-na...
7. ZZ Top, Tush
Vam-va dumva-dumva, va damva dumv-aaaa,
Vam-va dumva-dumva, va damva dumv-aaaa,
Vam-va dumva-dumva, va damva dumv-aaaa,
Vam-va dumva-dumva, va damva dumv-aaaa....
8. Guns n' Roses, Paradise City
DUG-a-dug-a-DUG-a-dug-a-DUG-a-dug-a-DUG-aaaaaaaa,
DUG-a-dug-a-DUG-a-dug-a-DUG-a-dug-a-DUG-aaaaaaaa...
I am also developing my patented bassline transcription system. Here are 2 prototypical examples:
9. Pink Floyd, Money
Bom, BOM-be-dom, bom pom bom pommmmmmm
Bom, BOM be-dom, bom pom bom pommmmmmm
Bom, BOM-be-dom, bom pom bom pommmmmmm
Bom, BOM be-dom, bom pom bom pommmmmmm
[Guitar in]: Waaab-waaaaba!
10. Curtis Mayfield, Superfly
Dommmmdo-do dom dom,
Dommmmdo-do dom-dom,
Dommmmdo-do dom-dom,
Dom.... DOM!...DUM!
If anyone would like to use my system to transcribe their favourite riff, they are most welcome. Royalties will be waived during the 30-day evaluation period.
One of the main problems with riffage is the lack of an objective method of comparison. Fact: the best bands have the best riffs. So, it shouldn't be too difficult to come up with a notation system that allows you, the consumer, to evaluate riffs on the page. This will allow you to make an intelligent and informed purchase: i.e. to choose the albums with the awesomest collection of riffs.
Fortunately, I devised just such a system while on the train today. My system has an advantage over guitar tabulature: it requires absolutely no musical knowledge to understand. In fact, the less musical knowledge you have, the better.
What follows is a transcript of ten of my favourite riffs, using my patented 'Phonetoriff' system (patent pending).
1. Black Sabbath, Paranoid
Intro:
Bow, wow, wow, do-do-do-do-do-do-do-do!
Bow, wow, wow, do-do-do-do-do-do-do-do!
Main riff:
GUG-gug-gug-gug-GUG-gug-gug-gug
GUG-gug-gug-gug-GUG-gug-gug-gug
GOG-gog-gog-gog-GOG-gog-gog-gog ba-ba, BA. (ba!)
2. AC/DC, Back in Black
Ba. Ba-da-da. Ba-da-da.... Be-do-be-do-be-do-be
Ba. Ba-da-da. Ba-da-da. Bompow, bompow, bompow, bompow,
Ba.
3. Rolling Stones, Jumpin' Jack Flash
Intro:
Nung, nung, nung; ving, ving;
Nung, nung, nung, ningningning ning, ning;
Nung, nung, nung, ving, vinggggg;
Nung, nung, nung, ningningning ning, ning
Nununung.
Nununung.
Nununung.
Nununung.
(Jagger: Onetwo!)
Main riff:
BAAMP BAAMP, ba-na-na, ba-na-na, banana
BAAMP BAAMP, ba-na-na, ba-na-na, banana...
4. Metallica, Bridge from 'One'
Dubodabudobadah. Dubodabudobadah. Dubodabudobadah. Dubodabudobadah.
DubodabudobaDAH-NAAA, DubodabudobaDAH-NAAA, DubodabudobaDAH-NAAA, DubodabudobaDAH-NAAA,
Dubodabudobadah. Dubodabudobadah. Dubodabudobadah. Dubodabudobadah.
5. Jimi Hendrix, Voodoo Chile
Intro:
Wuk-o-wuk-o-wuk-o-wukka-wukowuk-a!
A wuk-wuk-wok-owuk-o-wuk-wuk-wukko!
Wuk-wuk-WUK-o-wuk-a-wuk-wuk, ah!
A-wuk-o-wuk-o-wuk-o-wuk-o-wuk-wuk-
Main riff:
Beowwm, ba deoww-deoww bamp-wamp wanna-wanna
Beowwm, ba deoww-deoww wanna. (Wicka)
Beowwm, wa deoww-beoww bamp-wamp wanna-wanna
Beoww, wa beoww-deoww wanna (badoom-chish)
Beowwm, ba deoww-deoww bamp-wamp wanna-wanna
Beowwm, ba deoww-deoww wanna.
Beowwm, wa deoww-beoww bamp-wamp wanna-wanna
Beoww, wa beoww-deoww deeeuuw deeeeuuw dreuuuuw woo...
6. Soundgarden, My Wave
Rababa.
Rababa.
Rababa-screee!
Rababa-screee!
Rababa-screee!
Ranana BA.
Ba, ba, da-wa-na
BA. Bap, bap, da-wa-na
BA. Bap, bap, da-wa-na
BA. Bap, bap, da-wa-na...
7. ZZ Top, Tush
Vam-va dumva-dumva, va damva dumv-aaaa,
Vam-va dumva-dumva, va damva dumv-aaaa,
Vam-va dumva-dumva, va damva dumv-aaaa,
Vam-va dumva-dumva, va damva dumv-aaaa....
8. Guns n' Roses, Paradise City
DUG-a-dug-a-DUG-a-dug-a-DUG-a-dug-a-DUG-aaaaaaaa,
DUG-a-dug-a-DUG-a-dug-a-DUG-a-dug-a-DUG-aaaaaaaa...
I am also developing my patented bassline transcription system. Here are 2 prototypical examples:
9. Pink Floyd, Money
Bom, BOM-be-dom, bom pom bom pommmmmmm
Bom, BOM be-dom, bom pom bom pommmmmmm
Bom, BOM-be-dom, bom pom bom pommmmmmm
Bom, BOM be-dom, bom pom bom pommmmmmm
[Guitar in]: Waaab-waaaaba!
10. Curtis Mayfield, Superfly
Dommmmdo-do dom dom,
Dommmmdo-do dom-dom,
Dommmmdo-do dom-dom,
Dom.... DOM!...DUM!
If anyone would like to use my system to transcribe their favourite riff, they are most welcome. Royalties will be waived during the 30-day evaluation period.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
The Large Hadron Collider
The recent debate within the scientific community (or to be more precise, between the scientific community and a couple of mescalin-snorting hippies who happen to own lab coats) sounds suspiciously like an episode of Futurama. For those who haven’t been paying attention, they opened a machine today called the ‘Large Hadron Collider’. (This is not to be confused with the ‘Large Hardon Collider’, an equally imposing structure which had its funding cancelled at the last moment by anxious parenting groups).
The LHC is the biggest particle accelerator ever built, straddling the French-Swiss border. It is therefore the most exciting thing to come out of Switzerland since the Kinder Surprise. As far as I can tell, it is basically a racetrack for atoms, half of which are driving the wrong way.
The aim of this machine is to recreate the conditions that existed at the beginning of the universe, some 14 billion years ago. (Previously, the most accurate means of doing so was to imagine John McCain as a small boy).
With luck, the resultant explosions will generate a hitherto-unproduced particle, called a Higgs Bosun. Scientists’ enthusiasm for this particle is remarkably undiminished by the fact that its name sounds like a drunken Scottish sailor.
If such a particle is able to be produced for the first time on earth, I predict that it will soon be co-opted by the fashion industry:
Rich Lady 1: Esmerelda, I couldn’t help but notice – your scarf – is it…Higgs?
Rich Lady 2: It’s one hundred per cent bosun, Martine! Organically farmed, too! And your blouse – (shocked) oh, it’s –
Lady 1: (downcast): Yes, I'm afraid. It’s *sigh* just cashmere.
Lady 2: Oh I’m so sorry – but if your husband can’t afford bosun, it's time you found one whocan!
The debate between the two professors on Radio National this morning was interesting: to say that they held ‘divergent views’ would be like saying that Paris Hilton and Osama bin Laden hold ‘divergent views’ on the virtues of miniskirts worn without underpants.
To summarise this healthy disagreement:
Professor #1 thought that the Hadron Collider was ‘perfectly safe’, and
Professor #2 thought that the Hadron Collider would create an exponentially expanding black hole that would suck the earth up its own orifice in an micro-instant.
Listening to each über-nerd state his position, I couldn’t help but feel a little cheated at my choice of university course. My lunchtime conversations were never quite as important as the professors’, e.g.:
Me: Do you think that Dickens’ novels warrant a deconstructive reading?
Colleague: No, not really.
Me: Oh. Could you please pass the cheese slices? Thank you. I quite like these.
The particle physicists’ lunchtime conversation, meanwhile, may have gone something like this:
Professor #1 (to roomful of lunching scientists): The collider is perfectly safe.
Professor #2: Don’t listen to him!
Professor #1: The collide…is perfectly…safe.
Professor #2: He’s lying!
Professor #1: His words mean nothing. The collider will crush you all like the insignificant ants that you indeed are.
Professor #2: See! I told you! He must be stopped! (Lunges at #1).
Professor #1 (effortlessly sidestepping attack): Crush you, I mean, in a perfectly safe and efficient manner. Fools! Midgets! Untermenschen!
Professor #2: It’s hopeless. Nothing will save the world now. Seize him! (Grabs brass candlestick from science lunchroom mantelpiece) – We must immobilise him and destroy the collider before it’s too late!
Crowd of supportive, lunching Professors: Kill the Prof! Bash his brains! Smash his quarks!
Professor #2 (charging bravely at #1, brandishing candlestick): Yaaaaaargh!
(The heroic Professor #2’s words are cut off suddenly as he accidentally rushes past Professor #1 and flings himself headfirst into the open collider, which has been sitting quietly by the water cooler. In a burst of flame, he explodes dramatically into his constituent atoms.)
Professors: Oooooooh. Aaaaaah.
Professor #1: I think we’ve all learned something today.
Crowd: What?
Professor #1: Particle colliders are cool.
The LHC is the biggest particle accelerator ever built, straddling the French-Swiss border. It is therefore the most exciting thing to come out of Switzerland since the Kinder Surprise. As far as I can tell, it is basically a racetrack for atoms, half of which are driving the wrong way.
The aim of this machine is to recreate the conditions that existed at the beginning of the universe, some 14 billion years ago. (Previously, the most accurate means of doing so was to imagine John McCain as a small boy).
With luck, the resultant explosions will generate a hitherto-unproduced particle, called a Higgs Bosun. Scientists’ enthusiasm for this particle is remarkably undiminished by the fact that its name sounds like a drunken Scottish sailor.
If such a particle is able to be produced for the first time on earth, I predict that it will soon be co-opted by the fashion industry:
Rich Lady 1: Esmerelda, I couldn’t help but notice – your scarf – is it…Higgs?
Rich Lady 2: It’s one hundred per cent bosun, Martine! Organically farmed, too! And your blouse – (shocked) oh, it’s –
Lady 1: (downcast): Yes, I'm afraid. It’s *sigh* just cashmere.
Lady 2: Oh I’m so sorry – but if your husband can’t afford bosun, it's time you found one who
The debate between the two professors on Radio National this morning was interesting: to say that they held ‘divergent views’ would be like saying that Paris Hilton and Osama bin Laden hold ‘divergent views’ on the virtues of miniskirts worn without underpants.
To summarise this healthy disagreement:
Professor #1 thought that the Hadron Collider was ‘perfectly safe’, and
Professor #2 thought that the Hadron Collider would create an exponentially expanding black hole that would suck the earth up its own orifice in an micro-instant.
Listening to each über-nerd state his position, I couldn’t help but feel a little cheated at my choice of university course. My lunchtime conversations were never quite as important as the professors’, e.g.:
Me: Do you think that Dickens’ novels warrant a deconstructive reading?
Colleague: No, not really.
Me: Oh. Could you please pass the cheese slices? Thank you. I quite like these.
The particle physicists’ lunchtime conversation, meanwhile, may have gone something like this:
Professor #1 (to roomful of lunching scientists): The collider is perfectly safe.
Professor #2: Don’t listen to him!
Professor #1: The collide…is perfectly…safe.
Professor #2: He’s lying!
Professor #1: His words mean nothing. The collider will crush you all like the insignificant ants that you indeed are.
Professor #2: See! I told you! He must be stopped! (Lunges at #1).
Professor #1 (effortlessly sidestepping attack): Crush you, I mean, in a perfectly safe and efficient manner. Fools! Midgets! Untermenschen!
Professor #2: It’s hopeless. Nothing will save the world now. Seize him! (Grabs brass candlestick from science lunchroom mantelpiece) – We must immobilise him and destroy the collider before it’s too late!
Crowd of supportive, lunching Professors: Kill the Prof! Bash his brains! Smash his quarks!
Professor #2 (charging bravely at #1, brandishing candlestick): Yaaaaaargh!
(The heroic Professor #2’s words are cut off suddenly as he accidentally rushes past Professor #1 and flings himself headfirst into the open collider, which has been sitting quietly by the water cooler. In a burst of flame, he explodes dramatically into his constituent atoms.)
Professors: Oooooooh. Aaaaaah.
Professor #1: I think we’ve all learned something today.
Crowd: What?
Professor #1: Particle colliders are cool.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
All aboard!
Someone told me something really scary once: people's taste in music doesn’t change significantly once they hit about 20. How horrible, I thought at the time – fancy being stuck with your late-adolescent musical taste for the rest of your days!
Now, though, I realise that this advice was wrong. My taste in music stagnated once I hit 14. Radiohead, Jeff Buckley, the Smashing Pumpkins, Nirvana, Soundgarden. All of these bands were meaningless distractions from the real deal. The band. I'll give you a clue: there's only one time signature worth worrying about in music, and it ain't 5/16, you fancy-arse Conservatorium graduates.
Today's headline on the Yahoo! email website was:
"The new AC/DC album, ‘Black Ice’, will be released next month."
Now, my often-bored friends will tell you that I’m not the most enthusiastic person about anything much at all. But this event excited me in ways that less important ones, such as Russia's recent invasion of Georgia, failed to do. I realised how deep my affection for AC/DC went when considering how excited I was about the superficially unpromising material at hand. Let us look, for a moment, at the thin soil from whence my newfound happiness sprang.
The new single from Black Ice is called ‘Rock and Roll Train’. This title is, to be polite, not particularly promising. ‘Rock and Roll Train’ (henceforth R&RT) is the type of phrase that a lenient mother might be mildly proud of - mildly, mind you - if it was the very first phrase formed by her beloved two-year-old infant out of alphabetic fridge magnets. It is the type of phrase that one might expect to be created if the Teletubbies formed an AC/DC cover band, with Tinkie Winkie on lead, La-la on vocal duties, and Po smashing the skins into the ground. (I thought of it first). Even the neglected Bon Scott classic ‘Big Balls’ ranks higher on the grammat-o-meter. Lynn Truss, and other grammarians, would choke on their Royal Doulton cups of camomile tea at the mere mention of this song. Noam Chomsky may have considerable difficulty applying his theory of universal grammar to this song. It is, in short, a brain-slayer of a song.
Other titles from AC/DC’s back catalogue have their charm. ‘Rock n Roll Ain’t Noise Pollution’, for example, sounds tough and old-school working class – something a blackened Pittsburgh steelworker might say when his poncy, starched boss asks him politely to turn down his portable radio. (“Hey – screw you, man. Rock n’ Roll ain’t noise pollution, man.” Cue whistles & cheers.) ‘Rock and Roll Train’, meanwhile, brings to mind a dim-witted yellow cartoon boy pulling a large plastic train behind him while yelling ‘I choo-choo-choose you!’
But despite these rather deep-seated structural difficulties, R&RT succeeds quite nicely on its own terms. It’s good to know, too, that the band haven’t become slaves to fashion. That is a slight understatement: Brian Johnston still dresses with all the panache of someone who might expose himself to schoolchildren in a public toilet. Angus Young still dresses like someone who may fall under the 'high risk' category of being flashed by Brian Johnston in a public toilet. And the other people in the band, whoever they may be, still look like Australian Pub Band Extras from Pugwall (look it up). So – all aboard the Rock and Roll Train, kids!
Those who know me will realise that the above statement is not meant to convey disrespect in any way. R&RT succeeds excellently on its own terms. But more importantly, AC/DC’s terrifyingly genuine air of moral degeneracy – i.e. the feeling, when looking at publicity photographs, that something is actually ‘wrong’ with them in some fundamental way – make the current batch of 70s Rock-revival bands seem about as immoral and dangerous as the Obama Family Barbershop Quartet.
The lyrics. Well, I think it’s safe to say that Peter Carey needn’t look too nervously over his shoulder at this year’s Miles Franklin awards ceremony. I have only heard the song once, but I will try to recreate some of the magic (it helps here to think of R&RT as AC/DC’s Finnegan’s Wake, as compared to Back in Black’s Ulysses):
Well, I’m on a big train (real big train)
A really fast train (real fast train)
It’s a big, fast train (big big train)
It’s a rock and roll train (rock and roll train)
CHORUS Rock and rock and, rock and rock and rollllllll…..
Train. (Train. Rock and roll train)
Train. (Train. Rock and roll train)
Train. (Train. Rock and roll train)
Train! (Train! Rock and roll train!)
While the second verse violates the UN charter for the protection of the child, it is also the lyrical highlight.
Now schoolgirls wear short skirts (real short skirts)
And they wear them on the train (train. Rock and roll train)
They wear them till it hurts (hurts. Rock and roll hurt).
I like going on the train (train – the rock and roll train!)
REPEAT CHORUS 13 TIMES, TO CODA.
Here’s the link to the song:
http://www.acdcrocks.com/
Comments welcome.
Now, though, I realise that this advice was wrong. My taste in music stagnated once I hit 14. Radiohead, Jeff Buckley, the Smashing Pumpkins, Nirvana, Soundgarden. All of these bands were meaningless distractions from the real deal. The band. I'll give you a clue: there's only one time signature worth worrying about in music, and it ain't 5/16, you fancy-arse Conservatorium graduates.
Today's headline on the Yahoo! email website was:
"The new AC/DC album, ‘Black Ice’, will be released next month."
Now, my often-bored friends will tell you that I’m not the most enthusiastic person about anything much at all. But this event excited me in ways that less important ones, such as Russia's recent invasion of Georgia, failed to do. I realised how deep my affection for AC/DC went when considering how excited I was about the superficially unpromising material at hand. Let us look, for a moment, at the thin soil from whence my newfound happiness sprang.
The new single from Black Ice is called ‘Rock and Roll Train’. This title is, to be polite, not particularly promising. ‘Rock and Roll Train’ (henceforth R&RT) is the type of phrase that a lenient mother might be mildly proud of - mildly, mind you - if it was the very first phrase formed by her beloved two-year-old infant out of alphabetic fridge magnets. It is the type of phrase that one might expect to be created if the Teletubbies formed an AC/DC cover band, with Tinkie Winkie on lead, La-la on vocal duties, and Po smashing the skins into the ground. (I thought of it first). Even the neglected Bon Scott classic ‘Big Balls’ ranks higher on the grammat-o-meter. Lynn Truss, and other grammarians, would choke on their Royal Doulton cups of camomile tea at the mere mention of this song. Noam Chomsky may have considerable difficulty applying his theory of universal grammar to this song. It is, in short, a brain-slayer of a song.
Other titles from AC/DC’s back catalogue have their charm. ‘Rock n Roll Ain’t Noise Pollution’, for example, sounds tough and old-school working class – something a blackened Pittsburgh steelworker might say when his poncy, starched boss asks him politely to turn down his portable radio. (“Hey – screw you, man. Rock n’ Roll ain’t noise pollution, man.” Cue whistles & cheers.) ‘Rock and Roll Train’, meanwhile, brings to mind a dim-witted yellow cartoon boy pulling a large plastic train behind him while yelling ‘I choo-choo-choose you!’
But despite these rather deep-seated structural difficulties, R&RT succeeds quite nicely on its own terms. It’s good to know, too, that the band haven’t become slaves to fashion. That is a slight understatement: Brian Johnston still dresses with all the panache of someone who might expose himself to schoolchildren in a public toilet. Angus Young still dresses like someone who may fall under the 'high risk' category of being flashed by Brian Johnston in a public toilet. And the other people in the band, whoever they may be, still look like Australian Pub Band Extras from Pugwall (look it up). So – all aboard the Rock and Roll Train, kids!
Those who know me will realise that the above statement is not meant to convey disrespect in any way. R&RT succeeds excellently on its own terms. But more importantly, AC/DC’s terrifyingly genuine air of moral degeneracy – i.e. the feeling, when looking at publicity photographs, that something is actually ‘wrong’ with them in some fundamental way – make the current batch of 70s Rock-revival bands seem about as immoral and dangerous as the Obama Family Barbershop Quartet.
The lyrics. Well, I think it’s safe to say that Peter Carey needn’t look too nervously over his shoulder at this year’s Miles Franklin awards ceremony. I have only heard the song once, but I will try to recreate some of the magic (it helps here to think of R&RT as AC/DC’s Finnegan’s Wake, as compared to Back in Black’s Ulysses):
Well, I’m on a big train (real big train)
A really fast train (real fast train)
It’s a big, fast train (big big train)
It’s a rock and roll train (rock and roll train)
CHORUS Rock and rock and, rock and rock and rollllllll…..
Train. (Train. Rock and roll train)
Train. (Train. Rock and roll train)
Train. (Train. Rock and roll train)
Train! (Train! Rock and roll train!)
While the second verse violates the UN charter for the protection of the child, it is also the lyrical highlight.
Now schoolgirls wear short skirts (real short skirts)
And they wear them on the train (train. Rock and roll train)
They wear them till it hurts (hurts. Rock and roll hurt).
I like going on the train (train – the rock and roll train!)
REPEAT CHORUS 13 TIMES, TO CODA.
Here’s the link to the song:
http://www.acdcrocks.com/
Comments welcome.
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