Eurgh. There’s no way to intriguingly weave a review of Hurricane that will leave you guessing and tantalised. Quite simply, Hurricane is the worst music video ever produced. It’s one of the most tortuous 13 minutes you’re likely to spend. If you thought Kubrick’s Eyes Wide Shut was breathtakingly up-itself, then you ain’t seen nothing
Polo. Please help me to understand. From where I’m sitting, polo is a horse picnic. It’s a day at the races without the bogans. So why does it have hoity-toity connotations? People have ridden horses for eons. Dozens of civilizations around the world play a version of polo. Head to the high steppes of Central
I’ve been putting this moment off for months now, but no more. The Video Watch spotlight wheels around to be confronted by something even brighter: the incandescent visage of a cherubic Justin Bieber. Why the change of heart? Well, clearly there will soon come a time when Justin’s voice will break and things will be
Filthy Strumpet. Stroppy Cow. It’s really quite amazing what people choose to stick to the back window of their cars. Leaving aside the Bundy ute phenomenon for a minute (“I’d rather be passed out in a puddle of me own spew at the Chunderdoo B&S Ball”) which probably deserves its own thesis, increasingly it’s the
Back when we launched venue around five years ago a 42-inch screen would set you back $5000+. And I’m not talking about a household name you can trust, I’m talking about a Soney or a Firrips, straight-off-the-back-of-a-Chinese-truck flat panel… probably held together with egg white and sticky tape. Still, we revered the ‘big’ screen like
The sleepy city of Hobart has woken up to an invasion from within. Local upstart David Hales has unleashed four venues in the last three years and taken control of a big chunk of the city’s nightlife. venue journeyed south to see how the campaign is faring. Photo: Corey Sleap It’s success by annihilation down
Thrash metal and war? It’s a perfect match made in hell. As natural a fit as Pavarotti and super-slow-mo sports footage, or Dwight Yokoam and Nascar racing. If you’re scudding along the Airport Road out of the Green Zone, what better soundtrack than the mayhem of chainsaw guitars and a voice that’s gargling razor blades.
Justin Hemmes lived the playboy life like it was no one’s business. Now he’s turned his life around, and the playboy life is his business. Photo: Corey Sleap It’s twilight hour; cocktail hour… beer o’clock even; and Justin Hemmes scoots in. Three weeks abroad — half-business/half-leisure, where business meant checking out bands in London and
Phamish: 30 The Esplanade, St Kilda, VIC (03) 9534 3800 or www.phamish.com.au Across the road from the fledgling restaurant Phamish sit two enduring St Kilda icons; the gaping clown mouth of Luna Park and the old world Palais Theatre. Beyond these gatekeepers, the streetscape melds into a wake of eclectic venues left by the gentrification
Mr B’s: 396 Pitt St, Sydney NSW (02) 8080 7777 or www.mrbshotel.com.au The old Mandarin Club was a Sydney CBD institution. Founded in 1965, it was situated at the corner of Pitt and Goulburn Streets until a relocation in 2009. The place to be for the who’s who of the entertainment industry in the ’60s