Power Showers

Rain. Big rain. The tropical equivalent of showering with your clothes on. Biblical rain. For five days now, at least. It’s not quite what the Aborigines would call the waltjammirri, the legendary Wet of the Arnham Land in the Northern Territory where floods are a regular and seriously debilitating summer occurrence (while the Murray in the south has recently been prone to terrible draughts, thus perfectly demonstrating the fine balance of natural catastrophes prevalent in this huge and beguiling country). In contrast to England, you still won’t want to wear a coat even when the rain comes: the humidity in Brisbane is a constant, and you’ll perspire in places you never thought possible. Harold Jacobson talks of Australia as the perfect place to get to know your own person, from the hair on your toes to the sweat on your back. “Your body is simply up to more in Australia, and you are more your body. You drip therefore you are.”

I don’t exaggerate the intensity of the rain, by the way, even if it has now slightly subsided. Give it three days or so and the clouds will soon rebel, blackened in moist anger to unleash it’s fury yet again. I never understood what my Australian girlfriend said about the English climate until now: “It never rains in England, not properly.” The ceaseless UK drizzle is apparently the one notion to push acclimatised ex-pats over the edge upon their return to Blighty, where the rain is a steady, monotonous droll. Here, torrential downpours are a cleansing, therapeutic relief, greeted warmly by everyone. “Ah, good,” appears to be the local consensus, “we needed it.” Which underlines another similarity between our two nations: a pride in discussing the weather, even when it’s absolutely pissing down.


Turning 26 in Australia (the wrong side of your twenties, so I’m reminded) was full of happy accidents for me, a series of divine interventions, like the TV screening of Enter the Dragon (the best film ever made) and, just before Brisbane ensemble Velociraptor take to the stage at The Club House, the playing of the new Minus the Bear album over the venue's PA system. Not their best, obviously, but still the sort of subconscious planning that, on any other day, would probably have passed without too much significance. The staging seemed so perfect that I was half expecting my family and friends to walk in, holding a custard apple cheesecake and 26 candles.

The night was made suitably cheerful after watching Canadian rapper Buck 65 (who describes himself as the “Tits Magee of hip hop”), playing as part of the Brisbane Festival - an annual cultural event combining art, music and theatre - which follows neatly on from the festivities of the vibrant Valley Fiesta, the Big Sound unsigned music convention and the Brisbane Writer’s Festival. For those who don’t know, Buck 65 writes acerbic and bleak visions of a mostly apocalyptic nature: from the dusty mirage of the long, desert highway, to sleazy bars, red light districts and the threat of a zombie invasion. I described him as a hip hop hobo, despite his boy band good looks which conflict with a slacker baseball cap and his awkward dancing. He was affable company, invigorating a small, seated crowd in a makeshift big top, telling detailed soliloquies on the time his equipment was stolen and he was kidnapped by strippers. We went to the first night of a two day residency, so god knows how he managed to top that.

The Gallery of Modern Art are showing a retrospective of Douglas Kirkland photography. Kirkland was in his mid-twenties when he took possibly the most iconic images of Marilyn Monroe for Life magazine, in which the actress is famously draped in only a single bed sheet. According to Kirkland, this was her idea, and as the photos clearly demonstrate, it would prove to be quite a steamy encounter. Kirkland, already married and with two children, allegedly refuses Monroe’s advances and instead directs any prevailing sexual tensions through his camera lens. It’s a commendable story, a prime example of self-restraint leading to great art, and Kirkland fondly remembers it without a hint of regret. But I’m sure he still had great fun developing the film.

Anyway, I like this one of John Lennon, taken while filming How I Won the War in Spain, 1966. You’ll also find equally revealing portraits of a roll call of Hollywood’s greatest, including Ann-Margaret, Elizabeth Taylor, Audrey Hepburn, as well as Coco Chanel, Peter O’Toole and Michael Jackson, who the photographer met while working behind-the-scenes on the filming of the 1983 'Thriller' music video, just before the madness.

While I’m equally excited about the world premier of Shanghai Lady Killer tomorrow night, which just about ticks every box for a great night out. It’s a theatrical interpretation of traditional Chinese wuxia stories (sort of martial arts folklore, in a somewhat simplistic explanation) in a futuristic neo-noir setting, concentring on a kung fu assassin in a dystopian vision of Brisbane’s Chinatown. It’s being billed as the highlight of the festival, bringing live action chop socky to the stage and starring Wang Fei, who geeks might remember from Sammo Hung’s recent Wushu movie. Just one of many examples of the cross-cultural appeal of the Brisbane Festival and the fantastic work that the organisers here have done.

Altiyan Childs gets my vote in the Australian ‘X Factor’. We’ve now started on the live shows, and it’s already compelling stuff. The other day my girlfriend walked in to see me catching up on excerpts of the show on my laptop and looked genuinely concerned: “This is becoming a problem,” she said in a defeatist tone, as if I had just been caught rolling a joint.

Childs, a 35 year old forklift truck driver from New South Wales, is like a version of Marti Pellow if he had managed to avoid any sense of achievement. He’s often a tearful mess, saying This Is My Last Chance, but it’s OK, because Ronan Keating Believes In You. (When did this become the barometer for pop success?). The relationship between mentor and pupil has already reached a slightly uncomfortable man-crush stage: “You’ve carried me on your shoulders,” Childs says to Ronan, fighting back the tears and the urge for a deep pash. “A plane didn’t get me here. You did.” Childs, it’s worth remembering, had made a constant series of false starts at boot camp and at the initial auditions where he somehow forgot the words to Kings of Leon’s ‘Sex on Fire’, the main refrain being, “Woah/Your sex is on fire.” Tricky for some, obviously.

Every constipated vocal is delivered as if he’s on borrowed time. Every performance is his encore at Woodstock. At the moment, he’s playing the Chico card: hardly the best singer, but there’s something so impassionedly sincere about Altiyan Childs that you can’t help but cheer and cringe at him, usually at the same time. Check out his first live performance by clicking here, where he appears to be dressed as some hybrid Tom Jones libertine in leather pants. Weird.