Watching a video on Rage (ABC TV, Australia) by The Hives, not sure what the song’s called but it’s kind of familiar, or generic, or whatever, but it doesn’t matter. Now something from Foo Fighters. Oh well. They’re ok, I guess. Male music that seems, to me anyhow, to fit with the night I’ve had. Just back from an unreasonably drunken evening on streets of Melbourne and I’m thinking again about my home-town, Adelaide, and how unsafe I would have felt stumbling back on the main streets at 1am. I wouldn’t have done it. Watching Rage after many beers, some weird wine, grappa, someone’s expensively bought champagne, can’t remember what else – a table full of amazing spanish speaking people, talking politics, life, passions. Again, rare. Again, risky. Wall of sound aggressive male music seems to fit the mood now I’m home again.

Ah, finally. Now the Wagons are playing on Rage. That feels better. Henry Wagon (I think, not sure, filmed at Hell’s Kitchen??) telling stories of drink and whores. Daggy, australian, second-hand, pots of beer-soaked, happily listening.

Kerrin and I talking tonight about getting back to live-ness. Moving. Getting back into ideas of making work using our bodies, something I was feeling a shyness towards, feeling more drawn to an embodied performance ‘thing’. I am open to that risk. My body is a disappointment so I have to push it to move. I trust it to think, to make thoughts, but to be fluid… uncertain.

Being in bands, playing music live, which I do, a lot, especially in a place like Melbourne, lately, feels weird, in my body, which is 36 years old. There’s a whole new generation of skinny jeans and crazy haircuts. How do these kids find the time to spend in front of a mirror? At least I am bearded: that seems popular. It feels like a risk to play ‘old’ in front of audiences built on myspace profiles these days. Not to mention facebook.

Rage. Risk. Reticence.

Sigur Ros playing now. I gotta say, I love their videos.