SIDE A:
Welcome to the first 2017 issue of the music section. Your previous music editor, accomplished writer and journalist, songwriter of New Zealand’s most beloved band, and voice of a generation: Millie Lovelock, has vacated her post at Critic. Big shoes to fill…
Who am I? I am a qualified medical terminologist who failed both English and Music. I play the most uncool instrument in the world, the synthesizer, in a band that has been described as “cringe” and falls under the genre “wave-wave”, which means nothing at all.
On the upside, when I was 11 I did dress as Kris Kross, specifically Kris, so I feel I am qualified to be your music editor.
Goals for this year:
- Cram in lots of music related interviews, reviews, and news.
- Have an update on the whereabouts of Frank Ocean.
- Discuss the absence of live music venues in Dunedin.
- Ask the hard questions, like “Who’s headlining your Spotify playlist?” and “Have you ever seen David Bowie’s face on your morning toast?”
Bail out around wintertime when ideas run dry- Write Issue One of the music section for 2017
My musical highlight of the year thus far: seeing The Futurians play on the bad side of the tracks, in our industrial wasteland. Does this gig signal the rebirth of the house party? Can the venue-void be filled? How can these events become more inclusive? When will more students go to gigs? When are Six60 playing at your flat?
We’ve got plenty of issues ahead to address these questions, so charge your Dr. Dre headphones, and tune in each week to the latest from Critic’s music section.
Bianca.
SIDE: B
“What’s that sight in the night? Looks like a UFO!”
The late 1980s. I was 9.
“Look at those lights. Shining in my EYEEEES!”
Inspired by an evening of listening to Guns N’ Roses and AC/DC, I unpacked everything I wanted in a song, and embarked on my maiden voyage into the world of musical composition. A pillow, torn from my single bed, served as percussion. On the pillow I punched out a rolling beat. A series of dulled drum rolls announced the closure of each passage. Searing guitar lines burst from my lips.
The first verse came easy, but the rousing chorus never arrived.
For a long time my poor family were held hostage, forced to hold a battery powered torch on my writhing body as I mimed the entirety of Def Leppard’s Hysteria under its dim light. I swayed to and fro on a stage fashioned from a ply board, a cricket bat slung low at my hips. Hysteria was the first album I fell in love with; it became my first music purchase. I bought the album from my father after an unsupervised attempt to use the turntable failed. The record had a deep arcing scratch across side one. I didn’t care.
For years music served me as novel entertainment. Michael Jackson’s ‘Dangerous’ ruined everything. I became obsessed, wandering around our dead end street with a zombie stagger, ‘Thriller’ blaring through my Walkman’s headphones.
My relationship with music changed when I discovered independent radio and second hand music stores. I found that music existed beyond the greasy mitts of ABC TV’s early Saturday morning top 50 countdown.
That was the mid ‘90s.
It’s now 2017.
Now there’s so much music. Too much. Trash, grit and butts.
But I am the other Critic music reviewer.
My name is Reg.