Why is the world so ridiculously bizarre? Is it just me?

So today I was a total loser and saw a comedy show by myself. Basically, I needed to get out of the house and thought a light-hearted bit of cake-related stand-up might be exactly what I needed. And it was a great show. The only problem was that I spent the whole time being a bit freaked out by how eerily similar the comedian was to a guy I knew at uni.

At first I thought that it was just me, over-reacting as usual. I thought perhaps it was just the fact that he simply wore the same kind of clothes and that both of the guys were guitarists who used the word 'motherlicker' and made jokes about the same indie bands and had the same haircut and the same general comedy style and... then I realised that wow, that's a lot of similarities.

Anyway, it got me thinking about this old friend of mine, let's just call him 'Bones'. As I mentioned, he was a guy I went to uni with and I always got along well with him because we were both musicians with odd senses of humour. I can't remember a single conversation we had that didn't turn into some kind of absurdist comedy piece with no audience.

The way we met was a classic example of a phenomenon known as 'Newcastle Disease'. Yes, the ridiculous hometown of mine was Newcastle but from what I have said about it, anybody could have guessed that. Newcastle Disease was a phenomenon that meant that everybody knew everybody, usually through several different connections. Bones and I were introduced to each other because we were both in bands that had the same drummer, and we were both studying journalism and not taking it very seriously.

Now, we didn't realise it at the time but our official introduction was not the first time we met. We were introduced, exchanged pleasantries and went on our merry ways but I went away with a strange feeling of deja vu, a feeling that I had met this guy before. My suspicions were confirmed when I looked through my phone and discovered his number there. My first thought was 'Uh oh, have I hooked up with this guy before?', but thankfully for our future friendship, that wasn't what had happened. I later remembered that we had actually met while on holidays and exchanged phone numbers with the intention of catching up later that night but due to crappy reception it didn't end up happening. I will admit that I was totally planning on hitting on him though.

When I realised I had his number, I had to make an evaluation that I find myself making all too often: will it be creepy if I text him and tell him what has happened? Being me, I decided that yes, it probably will be creepy but I'm going to do it anyway. Luckily he was a great dude who found the whole thing funny and we ended up becoming fairly good friends. I'm pretty sure I interviewed him for a uni assignment once, just because there were a bunch of musos doing the same course and we were all lazy jerks who interviewed each other for all our assignments. I seem to recall him being the support act a couple of times for the band I played in.

Anyway, he is currently sharing a blog with a girl I only knew briefly but am totally facebook stalking and it can be found here.

Also, he will more than likely read this so: hey man, how's it going? Long time no see, eh?

-Smackie Onassis

"The Jitters" or Smackie Onassis's Triumphant Return To The World Of Music

So, I've been playing a lot of music recently. And I am realising more and more that I want to be playing in front of people. The only problem is that I am so self-conscious about performing, to the point where I usually try to practice when no-one else is home. Today I was tickling the synthetic ivories when Richard Melons poked his head in and was like, "Hey, you're really good!" and I had to confess that the only reason he had even witnessed my playing was because I was sure he was at work at the time. Oops.

Playing in front of people has always been kind of a thing for me. I managed to get over that for the band, but I was always kind of hidden away in the horn section. The focus wasn't really on me and I think that's why I didn't have a problem with it.

I remember one of my last piano recitals before I stopped getting lessons. I was playing a Debussy piece. When I was practicing I managed to play it through perfectly, and received a lot of positive feedback from the couple of people who I hadn't noticed had snuck in early. But when I actually was aware that I had an audience, it was a different story. I knew I could play it, but the fact that there were people watching me made me totally seize up. The way I managed to deal with this was to make a joke every time I made a mistake. Other people's parents came up to me afterwards and told me how much they'd enjoyed my performance, which I thought was strange considering how awfully I had played. I guess there is something to be said for having a sense of humour.

So now, I am going to try to start performing again. Only this time I won't have a band to draw attention away from myself. Admittedly, I have come along way with confidence since then, and when it's singing as well as piano it's a bit easier for me. And hey, I can always do that thing where I make jokes to make my audience forget how awful I played.

I am going to start by playing for my friends, but consider this my public statement that I am going to start doing musics again.

-Smackie Onassis

A Brief Musical History

An amazing thing has happened in the world of Smackie Onassis. I have access to a keyboard.

I'm sure I have mentioned that this past year has made up the longest time I have ever gone without having regular access to a musical instrument. Literally, the longest time I have ever gone. My parents have told me that I started singing complete songs (my repertoire consisting mainly of 'twinkle twinkle little star') at the tender age of 18 months. Following that, I was signed up for an Early Childhood Music class at the local conservatorium as soon as I was old enough. I continued with that until, after much begging, my parents decided that I was no longer too young to take piano lessons, at the age of eight.

From there, I never looked back. I just kept adding more instruments until I was drastically overcommitted, but loving every minute of it.

My musical training was a bit weird in some ways. When it came to piano, I was taught in a completely classical style, very rigidly following sheet music. I didn't know a thing about improvisation, I didn't even know that much about chord structures. I just knew how to play whichever song was placed in front of me. This made for a challenge when I started learning jazz saxophone.

In my piano lessons, I was still learning how to play Debussy and Chopin the way they were meant to be played, with strict instructions from a tiny Ukrainian woman. However, afterwards I would wander over to my sax teacher's rooms and the musical world as I knew it would be turned on its head. A man with a goatee and tattoos would play a chord and I was able to play whatever combination of notes sounded right. It wasn't written out for me, not in any way I had previously known. It was the first I learned of improvisation, and I struggled for so long to get my head around it. Even though it was the saxophone that eventually led me to tour the country playing songs, piano was always my first love, the instrument I always thought I was better at.

I was also studying voice for some time, which was the instrument* that I used for enjoyment more than any others. The only thing that bugged me was my apparent inability to accompany myself. Because I was much more used to tapping out elaborate melodies on the piano than playing simple chords, I had a lot of trouble trying to get it right. It was something that confused every other musician I knew, just because of how incredibly counter-intuitive it was. Because I was so busy, it was a while before I took the time to learn how to do it right.

The way it happened is an interesting story. My first serious boyfriend (I'd had short-lived relationships before that, but none that had been that important to me) broke my heart. When my parents saw that I was still upset the day after it had happened, they decided that the best thing for everyone was to have me committed to a psychiatric institution. I mean, I've never been a parent so I'm not sure I have the authority to question their decisions, but I feel like maybe this was a bit drastic. A hug and the reassurance that things would be ok, maybe a bowl of ice-cream, that probably would have done the job. But my parents were never good at those things, so it was the psych ward for me. I don't know, maybe they had listened to one of my songs.

It was a strange experience, waking up every day in a room with four other people, being brought breakfast on a little tray. It was especially weird hearing the things that the other inpatients would say, the stories they would tell. I remember feeling like a total fraud. I knew full well that the only reason they had accepted my admission was because of who my father was, but I didn't want to feel like I was wasting anybody's time. So, I played along, even embellishing some of my own stories out of fear that I would be found out. Even in a psych ward, I didn't want to look like a fraud.

The way that I got through it, week after week of being a (relatively) rational person locked up amongst the type of people who insisted that it didn't matter what anyone said to them, that they were going to throw themselves under a train the moment they got the chance, was through music. It's a total cliché, I know, but it was what happened. There was a common room that had an old, dusty piano in it. I'm not sure how often it was played, but I'm willing to bet it was never played as often as when I was there. I would spend hours poring over any music sheets I could find, playing every song I could remember. The effect it had was very strange. Some of the other patients seemed to think that I had been hired to play music for them, and started making requests. No-one was more surprised than me that I could actually fulfill these requests. An old woman requested Grieg, so I played Anitra's Dance from the Peer Gynt Suite. Someone asked for some Chopin, I played one of my favourite Nocturnes. The general selection was surprisingly high brow.

There was a man who came in every afternoon. I think he was an Occupational Therapist, I'm not sure, but he believed very strongly in the healing power of music. Every afternoon, he would come in with a guitar, hand out lyrics and assorted percussion instruments and encourage as many patients as were capable to sing along with him. At first I stayed quiet and let him do his thing, not wanting to draw attention to myself. But one afternoon, he arrived when I was a world away on the piano. He listened, and encouraged me to accompany him during his regular afternoon slots in the rec room. Self-consciously, I agreed. For the rest of my time there, I played along with him every afternoon. I was lucky enough to be a skilled sight reader, so any music he handed to me I could usually pick up fairly quickly. Sometimes though, the music he gave me consisted just of lyrics and chords. This is pretty standard, but it wasn't something I was used to. It was my musical weakness, I guess. 

But, I had very little else to do at the time, so I worked hard on it. I was glad to have something to actively work on. An afternoon slot in the rec room of a private psych ward isn't the ritziest of gigs, but it was good enough for me. By the time I left, I was able to accompany myself on the piano in a way I'd never previously been able to. I was glad that it hadn't been a completely useless experience. I remember saying goodbye to that OT, whose name I can't remember, as well as all the nurses and doctors. They all joked that they should hire me to come back every afternoon to play the piano, but I have never since been back.

So, here I am, with a keyboard again. I have found it surprisingly easy to get back into. I have been looking up chords on the internet, playing my own ridiculous versions of songs I have loved for a long time. I have said that my life will be complete when I can perform a cover of 'Object' by Ween, and now I am actually able to practice it in the comfort of my own room.

I was reminded of that story when I realised that I probably wouldn't be finding it so easy to play right now if it weren't for my brief rendezvous with our nation's fine psychiatric facilities. It feels like a strange thing to say, but there it is.

-Smackie Onassis

*Man, I know how pretentious it sounds to refer to your voice as an instrument, but it is totally the easiest way of describing it.

One Degree Of Seperation, Where "Separation" Actually Means Professional Writing

I have mixed feelings about the course I did at uni. I had actually wanted to take some time off to figure out what I wanted to do with myself but everyone sort of convinced me that because I was good at writing, I should do a course that would teach me how to write for a career.

My major was in journalism, although I was discouraged pretty early. The attitude of most of my journalism professors was something along the lines of:

"Guys, don't become a journalist. Don't ever do it, not ever, not if you want to maintain a will to live. The hours are crap, the pay is crap and if you want to make a living you basically have to work for a company that will sell your journalistic integrity on Ebay and pocket the proceeds."*

There was also the fact that, in journalism, it doesn't mean shit if you have a degree or not. You can graduate with honours, but a newspaper will laugh you out onto the street if you can't show them a portfolio of published works. I knew this, but I continued with the degree because I was under the impression that they might actually teach us something useful.

This is how my degree was structured:

Professional Writing 101 -> Lengthy rehashings of subjects covered in Professional Writing 101 -> Irrelevant filler subjects -> Electives

Admittedly, this is probably because I went to a university whose focus was clearly more on bringing in the dollars than actually giving people a useful education. I am sure there are similar degrees at other institutions that are of a much higher quality. I, however, made the foolish choice of trusting a school who had recently been in the news for passing students who could barely write a coherant sentence, solely because they didn't want to lose a full-fee-paying student.

That being said, my degree wasn't a total bust. Some of the topics were quite good, media interviewing in particular was one I enjoyed, as was radio production (funnily enough, I had the same teacher for both these subjects, who was great. She was actually a woman I had known for most of my life, and even done amateur theatre with. She was an excellent teacher). The electives I chose were great, and I actually did learn a few things. Linguistics gave me an even larger basis for being a total language nerd, Film Studies introduced me to the wonderful works of Jim Jarmusch. If you haven't seen Dead Man, watch it now. I am not even kidding. This blog will be here when you get back.

However, the single easiest High Distinction I ever received in my university career was in a little subject called "Introduction to Guitar". This was in the second semester of my second year. I had realised that I still had one elective left to fill, and while browsing the various topics I stumbled across that one. 'Super,' I thought, 'I could do with honing my guitar skills and getting credit points for it'. I signed up to the class.

What I didn't realise was that this was a course aimed at education students, designed for people who had never looked at a guitar before. I was no prodigy on the instrument, my previous experience being based around fiddling with chords in my room as I attempted to teach myself. However, not meaning to talk myself up or anything, but with ten years of classical piano training under my belt, as well as six years of saxophone lessons and five of singing lessons, it was safe to say I knew what an octave was.

Of course, I could have dropped out at any point after realising how basic the course content was, but I didn't. It was just too much of a self-esteem boost. I was not at my most confident at that stage, and to be doing a course where I was top of the class while doing literally no work was pretty excellent. While everyone else struggled to pluck out the melody to Three Blind Mice, they would look over at me in awe as I played it through with no mistakes.

"I am going to rock these three blind mice so hard, their sight will be restored," I would say, as every one else swooned at my feet. 

Ok, so maybe that's an exaggeration, and maybe playing simple tunes is not so impressive for someone with my musical experience, but it really was "Self-Esteem 101" for me. Because the majority of the assessment was based on in-class performance, I literally had to do no work outside of class. There were a few worksheets on scales and chord structures, but I pretty much filled them out on the bus on my way to class, so that doesn't really count. It is a bit ironic that the best grade I received in uni was for the class where I did the least work, but you know me. I dig irony. I love that shit.

Unfortunately, I ended up dropping out of the degree in my final year, feeling that my time would be better spent spiraling into a deep-seated, existential depression and ultimately moving halfway across the country to be with a guy I had known for a month. It was fairly spontaneous, yes, but it was actually one of the best decisions I ever made.

-Smackie Onassis

*They didn't say those exact words, but that was the general gist of it. I am now wondering if I can actually put my journalistic integrity on ebay. I might try this, actually.

Musings From A Washed Up Rockstar #2

I really need to stop updating this blog so much, at least until I get a new pair of glasses. My old ones disappeared mysteriously, and I am getting so many headaches from squinting at a tiny laptop screen all the live long day. However, every now and then, I like to take the opportunity to publicly reminisce about when I was a total rockstar.

The band I was in was never particularly famous. We did a few interviews, got on the radio a bit, and played a bunch of festivals and support slots for significantly more famous bands. Apart from die-hard aficionados of the genre, not many people would have had the slightest clue who we were, apart from maybe a fond recollection of giggling at the pun in our band name, or being hit on by the bass player.

But there was a brief, shining moment when I at least felt totally famous. There was a new year's eve festival one year. Because a bunch of the other bands playing had to leave early to drive to the Peat's Ridge festival (which we had played the previous night), we ended up headlining.

It was one of the most amazing experiences of my life. The crowd estimates we got from the venue guys were that there was around 1000 people in the audience. When I got on stage, I swear, I nearly wet myself. Literally one thousand screaming music fans were in front of me. We did the midnight countdown live on stage, and then started our set with fireworks going off behind us. It was insane.

"Are you ready for some NOVELTY SKA POP?" 

That should never be a question that gets more than a polite spattering of clapping, but yeah. Cacophonous, tumultuous applause, with a garnish of screaming teens. For a moment I thought I had slipped into an alternate dimension and I was actually onstage with My Chemical Romance, but looking around, it was still the same band with whom I normally played at dive bars to disinterested audiences. Admittedly the audience were all probably very drunk at this stage.

It got considerably more insane when I realised, towards the end of the set, there was a teenage boy in the front row yelling my name. My real name, my actual real first name. I freaked out a little bit, because I couldn't possibly comprehend how anyone in the audience would even know that name.

Now, it turned out that this kid was the younger brother of a girl I knew in highschool, but still, I didn't know HIS name. I got him backstage after the gig, and received the biggest ego trip of my life as this star struck youth ranted about how I was, like, famous now.

And yet, here I am, some years later, back in obscurity. I mean, even deeper obscurity. I am still battling with my parents to get some of my intruments sent over. In the meantime, I will fiddle with an out of tune guitar and write silly songs about the futuristic heartbreak of being dumped for your own clone.

-Smackie Onassis