I’m well into my third month in New Zealand and thriving, relatively speaking. I’m still not sure what kind of indicators should be in place for Spring here, but if this is what I should learn to expect, well, so be it. Winds have been up near 100 km/h (and sometimes well over) and the rain comes at you sideways. The windows of my apartment are buffetted regularly and seem to bow under pressure, threatening to burst. The harbour looks like a torrid place when it’s like this. But when it’s sunny, and warm, it is a glorious feeling, complemented with a sunny intensity which one must be careful of. It’s not the same kind of get your gear off parade of flesh you’d see in Montreal at the first blush of warmth, but it’s pleasurable enough with plenty to take in as you stroll down Cuba Mall or take your place in a café. Could do without the trucker hats and mullets, though. And the Ugg boots.

Speaking of parades, this past weekend was the Santa Claus parade here in Wellington. Phew what a mess. Corporate and more corporate (and in the bodily sense, too). I got caught in it just trying to get some groceries and the spectacle of it all just depressed me. How do adults countenance this? The tyranny of childhood fantasy and idolatry, I guess. I apologize to my mother for ever putting her and my father through this. Bit of a Scrooge here, really.

Before I forget (which I’ve done in the last couple of posts), I’d be remiss if I didn’t plug a couple of local blogs which keep me occupied with details of Wellington’s nooks and crannies: Well Urban and Wellingtonista. Kudos to them for keeping me up-to-date on local issues and stories of intrigue. And a list of good tapas bars and sunny terraces.

I’m including a file what has to be favourite video of the past couple of years, The Knife’s “Pass This On.” I first saw this on TV in Finland a few years back and failed to catch the artist. Upon moving to Sweden last year, I then had the pleasure of hearing the song again and finally figured out who it was. The Knife’s album, “Deep Cuts,” has some plum tracks on it, including “Heartbeats,” which has a fabulous Rex the Dog remix (you’ll have to get the separate CD single for it, or you can ask me, but if you’re really anybody, you’ve heard this countless times already). I know this might be old hat for some of you, but the video is just something that sends chills up and down my spine, even after repeated viewings. It’s deliciously queer in its way and has a trashy appeal that I find particularly affecting. The veneered-basement setting, that slo-mo which lingers over every body, the sinewy and lithe drag queen, the boys (especially that first breakaway boy in the “Queen’s” sweater, and that petulant scowl on his boyfriend’s face as he dances defiantly at the singer), the older leathery men eventually giving over to the song’s groove, and that slow dancefloor build up. And, of course, the lyrics:

I’m in love with your brother
What’s his name
I thought I’d come by
To see him again
When you two danced
Oh what a dance
When you two laughed
Oh what a laugh

Has he mentioned my age, love
Or is he more into young girls with dyed black hair

I’m in love with your brother
I’d thought I’d come by

I’m in love with your brother
Yes I am, but maybe I
Shouldn’t ask for his name
And you danced
Oh what a dance
And you laughed
Oh what a laugh

Does he know what I do
You pass this on, won’t you
If I asked him to once what would he say
Is he willing, can he play?

I wasn’t really looking for something more than
Some company on the dancefloor and
Does he know what I do and
You pass this on, won’t you and?

Hearing the cut for the first time up close (the video I found just too captivating to actually hear what was being sung), I just loved that sentiment of unrequited lust/love, its intimations of a kind adolescent social taboo of falling in love with your friend’s brother/sister (I think I had too many crushes on my sister’s friends - she’s reading this now, no doubt - I won’t name names….). There’s a kind of erotic innocence and yearning libido mixed with a good dollop of lecherousness which pricks and flirts with some buried memory of your own teenage dancefloor confession. The actual singer, Karin, is the woman left sitting at the table at the end. And the steel drum driving the melody, along with an otherwordly pitched chorus? This song has it all.

(I should note that I got to this Knife reference rather circuitously, through an ad which I saw a couple of weeks ago on television, which uses Jose Gonzalez’s cover of “Heartbeats,” which was coincidentally also referred to by Notes Abbreviated, who I then pointed in the direction of the original song, which led me to track down the video of “Pass This On,” which you have now no doubt seen by now. Gurdy, I hope you’re reading and watching this.)

But just in case the video fails to get you charged up, here are two more songs from my vinyl library to keep you going. One is yet another cover, the other a fanciful language lesson.

Iso G.

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It’s good to be back. After a month+ absence, I’ve re-entered the blogosphere. While those few readers I know I have have no doubt moved on to bigger and better things, I’m counting on a few stragglers to at least make this post worth writing.

So where I have I been? Buried in work and all that. Up to Auckland. Giving seminars. Trying to sort out that damnable New Zealand election. The lot, really.

(Update: The opposition National Party has created a post for “the eradication of political correctness”; and, tragically, the co-leader of the New Zealand Green Party, Rod Donald, died today, aged 48.)

Where am I now? Oh, just as many places, to be honest.

A night worth talking about. It was Guy Fawkes Day yesterday (Saturday). Now in the brief time that I’ve been here, I’ve noted, with some exasperation, that the colonial hangover persists in rather sad ways in New Zealand. Besides the showing of Coronation Street during prime time (an idea which I think the CBC was actually floating just before I left Canada - not sure what happened with that), that pernicious elements of Britishness linger here is perhaps the least appealing thing about New Zealand. Of course, Guy Fawkes Day is not marked in any way in Canada, but we do pay heed to the monarchy through that May long weekend in which we pry open the cottage, drink a few twofours, etc. Canadians are not innocent in their tributes to empire (and in fact, CanWest has extended its reach this far south, owning numerous media outlets in NZ).

Not unlike that day in that other colonial outpost, Guy Fawkes Day is just an excuse to set off heaps of fireworks (and to celebrate failure, I should also note), which seems to start about a fortnight before the actual day and consists mostly of maiming friends and family. More importantly, it seems like a great opportunity to set a few forests and hillsides alight. So while we missed the big fireworks spectacle that happens in the harbour (who starts a fireworks festival at 9 and then lets it run for 15 minutes?), we did manage to witness the ignition of Mt. Victoria. (You should know that this particular hill is one setting for a number of scenes in the Lord of the Rings films and that in 1968, the year of the great windstorm, a colleague’s partner’s family house was literally blown apart.) To see it up in flames, which, as it turns out, is becoming someting of an annual ritual, was rather impressive.

Post-conflagration, the night unfolded as you might well expect: we hit a gay bar, Pound (which I’m tempted to say is yet another Britishism, but the signifier can only be, er, um, so slippery), which was decidedly sans fireworks. The bar felt like it was designed to actually straighten out all the Kiwi queers, evacuated as it was of anything approaching erotic frisson. Highlight for me was being approached by a strapping Samoan drag queen and being told my glasses would look good on him. Gingerly handing them over (”They’re Finnish,” I told him), he put them on and did look rather fetching, though I think something a bit daintier and less-streamlined would have better suited his man-girl frame.

Having tried to sort out a proper dancing kind of joint, we settled on the Good Luck Bar, which was worth it for a few minutes (if only for that remix of Franz Ferdinand’s “Do You Want To,” which has to be my favourite single of the moment). Then it descended into a frightfully dull mess.

In other news: You know you’re getting old when you break a tooth on a bit of tofu.

Cutting to the chase, and the reason you’re all here: music. A few juicy treats for you because I’ve been absent so long and people (well one person) have been clamouring for some more oddities. So, here they are:

Sarah Vaughan - Peter Gunn
Zoo - Jeg, Robot
Zack Ferguson - Skateboard Dancing

They pretty much speak for themselves, but for info, the Zoo track is Norwegian 70s disco. Wonderful stuff.

Iso G.

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