For anyone whose been in China for a while, this shouldn’t strike you as surprising at all.

“Chinese guys don’t like it when a girl knows more about something than they do,” Liza told me, when I asked why she only dates foreigners.

“I don’t care if they don’t know about Western culture, but they don’t even know about their own culture…all they care about is money, a car, a house.”

When I asked whether such things–a house, a car, significant income–were a major factor in who she chose to date, she acknowledged that they were. But still, culture matters.

Watching couples dancing and making out at Mao, I had to realise that this much derided relationship–White man, Chinese girl–has its own legacy, it’s own place in China’s modern history; as gingerly as many would admit to it. Shanghai may have been known as the “Pearl of the Orient,” but it was just as commonly known as the “Whore of the Orient” too.

Such relationship norms aren’t exclusive to China. In former European colonies throughout Asia, Africa and South America, intermarriage occurred between European men and occupied colony women. You see the same in non-European mercantilist/trader scenarios, such as the Baba-Nonya mixed descendants of Chinese merchants and their Malay wives in Malaysia. Given the mix of power distribution and traditional gender roles, it makes sense for women from poorer, less powerful host societies to have relations with single (wealthier, powerful) men living away from home.

Meanwhile, why don’t we see the opposite as often? I believe that a mix of both current business staffing and traditional roles lies at the core of the answer.

At present, I think it’s safe to assume that the majority of expats–classically defined as those being sent to China by their employer and making former national salary–are men. There are simply more foreign men than women in China, and thus less women for Chinese men to date. And what of those expat women who are indeed working in China?

Well, I would also imagine that they would have to be highly educated, skilled people who are of some standing within their companies, if not society. In other words, they’re quite a catch, for both foreigners and Chinese. It’s quite safe to say they absolutely wouldn’t fit many traditional Chinese notions of what a woman should do: focus on the family, provide a supporting role to her husband’s career, as opposed to potentially eclipsing it, not travel and work in other countries by oneself. And though many Chinese men don’t require their wives to fall into such old-fashioned gender boxes, many still do.

On top of the smaller foreign woman pool to begin with, the character and lifestyle found within such a community and its conflict with traditional Chinese (and other) beliefs on female gender roles is the issue of male gender roles. Chinese men, bless our hearts, largely do not adhere to the classic, “manly man” stereotype: tall, rugged, athletic, a streak of Holden Caulfield or Steve McQueen rebellion, the primal intensity of Brando’s Stanley Kowalski. Most Chinese guys don’t possess such qualities, and their cards–loyal, responsible, good at making/saving money–don’t really get them as far with many foreign women in China.

Dating, far from the romance of escapist plot denouements and the heady swooning of early love, is, like any other piece of society, a reflection of power, social roles and desires, well beyond matters purely of the heart. It is this way everywhere, but is particularly clearly displayed here in today’s open China.

“Naive” is one of those songs that grabs you on the first listen. Allegedly composed by the Kooks lead singer, Luke Pritchard, whilst still in his mid-teens, it’s fantastically catchy, melodic and distinctly faithful to the great British band tradition. It can be found on their debut album, “Inside In/Inside Out.”
A number of tabs and covers are available online for this song, but I found that none of the versions were quite perfect. This is culled from two of the best sources I came across: a tab located at Tabondant by Tom Corley and a video tutorial by Andy Boylett. There are minor differences between the two versions, but I think that of the two, Mr. Bleyott’s is more accurate.

Introduction:

Chords/bass notes: A flat minor, E major, B flat (bass only), B major, F sharp (C inversion)
A flat | E maj | B flat | B maj | F # (C inversion)
–x——-0———x——-7——6
–x——-9———x——-7——-7
–6p4—-9———6p4—-8——6
–6——-9h11p9–6——-9——8
–x——-7———x——–9——9
2s4——x——-4s6——-7——6

NB: In playing the introduction, you’ll find the same pull-off for the A flat and B flat minor sections, which I think is best fingered with the little finger on the 6th and the first finger on the 4th fret.

In the introduction, Mr. Boylett finishes the progression with an F sharp in inverted C. I think he’s right, and it’s played with a first finger barre on the 6th fret, providing that solid, filling step down the bass note from the B major on 7th.

Verse: Here, I like Mr. Boylett’s use of the diminshed chord, rather than the D sharp chord that Mr. Corley finishes on.

Chord progression: A flat minor, E, F#, B, B flat diminished

B flat diminished (as employed by Mr. Boylett): Though I’m not exactly sure if this is correct, it certainly doesn’t sound bad.

E X
B X
G 9
D 8
A 7
E 6

Chorus: “I know, she knows…” – The key to remember with the chorus is that you should stay on the first chord for two bars, then for one bar for each of the next two chords. The third progression alters slightly, going back to A flat minor instead of F sharp major.

The first chord sounds best as an E maj sus 2 with a B root on the E string.

Chord progression: B/E maj sus 2 (779977), B maj (799877), F# inversion (play progression two times)
Third time: B/E maj sus 2 (779977), A flat minor, F # inversion
Fourth time: as in first two progressions*

Instrumental bridge: this is taken unaltered from Mr. Corley’s tab, which Mr. Boylett’s version is quite identical too, with the addition of some minor licks at the end:

BRIDGE SECTION (strum)
e|———————————————————||
B|———————————————————||
G|–4—/6—/8—/9—-/16——-4—/6—/8—/9—-/11–||
D|–6—/8—/9—/11—/16——-6—/8—/9—/11—/11–||
A|———————————————————||
E|———————————————————||

Outro: taken directly from Mr. Corley’s version, which sounds good to me…

OUTRO (strum)
E D#m7 G#m B
e|-7—–6—–4—–7—————–||
B|-9—–7—–4—–7—————–||
G|-9—–6—–4—–8—————–||
D|-9—–8—–6—–9—————–||
A|-7—–6—–6—–9—————–||
E|-x—–x—–4—–7—————–||
‘just don’t let me down…(hold on to this kite), just don’t let me down’

End on G#m.

*”s” – slide
“p” – pull-off

Lyrics:

I’m not saying its your fault
Although you could have done more
Oh you’re so naive yet so
How could this been done
By such a smiling sweetheart.
Ohh and your sweet and pretty face
In such an ugly world
Something so beautiful.
Ohh that every time I look inside

Chorus: I know, she knows that i’m not fond of asking
True or false, it may be… Well, she’s still out to get me.
And I know, she knows that i’m not fond of asking
True or false, it may be… She’s still out to get me!

I may say it was your fault
Because i know you could have done more
Oh you’re so naive yet so
How could this be done
By such a smiling sweetheart.
Ohh and your sweet and pretty face
In such an ugly world
Something so beautiful.
That every time I look inside

I know, she knows that i’m not fond of asking
True or false, it may be… Well, she’s still out to get me.
And I know, she knows that i’m not fond of asking
True or false, it may be… She’s still out to get me!

So how could this be done
By such a smiling sweetheart
You’re so naive yet so
You’re such an ugly thing
For someone so beautiful
That every time you’re on his side

I know, she knows that i’m not fond of asking
True or false, it may be… Well, she’s still out to get me.
And I know, she knows that i’m not fond of asking
True or false, it may be… She’s still out to get me!

Just don’t let me down
Just don’t let me down
Hold on to your kite
Just don’t let me down
Just don’t let me down
Hold on to your kite
Just don’t let me down
Just don’t let me down
Hold on to this kite
Just don’t let me down

**Mr. Boylett plays in a London cover band named Monkey See, who seem like a good live act to hire if you live in that area: www.monkeysee.co.uk

Thanks to Mr. Corley and Mr. Boylett for their original work.

The Bookworm bookstore, Chengdu, China
October 29, 2007

–

“Crossing the Line,” screened as part of the Bookworm’s North Korea documentary film series, a finalist at the 2006 Sundance festival, provides a thoughtful, stylish portrait of the last remaining American defector still residing in North Korea. James Dresnok, a colorful man who deserted the U.S. Army in 1962 and has never left North Korea since, provides an engaging character study, at equal turns ominous and humorous, set against the backdrop of the sole, final Communist hold-out nation of this post-Cold War era, one whose narrow depiction in Western media makes this documentary’s refreshingly average depiction so revelatory.

Dresnok, an orphaned child with a heavy chip on his shoulder, chose to defect more through a combination of anti-authority foolishness and hopelessness at his own situation, rather than any overt political leanings. He slowly learned to live in North Korean society, along with three other American defectors, and the four became movie celebrities in the country’s homogenous society after playing the roles of Western villains and espionage heroes on North Korea’s silver screen. Dresnok’s personal life is quite interesting: his first wife in Korea (an unidentified European) bore him two Caucasian sons , thoroughly North Korean-cultured sons (one of whom is training to be a diplomat), and his current wife is the offspring of a Togolese diplomat and a Korean woman.

The story reaches a steam when Dresnok and the only remaining American defector, Charles Jenkins, with whom it is evident Dresnok does not get along, reach political loggerheads. Jenkins, whose wife was kidnapped off of a Japanese island by North Koreans in a bizarre spy-training mission, made worldwide headline news in the mid-nineties when he provided a dramatic DPRK-bashing testimony after agreeing to extradition, some 40 years after defection. He ended up serving a mere 30 days in American prison, and is now a farmer in Japan. Dresnok, who claims that Jenkins’ claims were almost all falsified, provides a critical, alternate Western voice that presents North Korea as a much more reasonable, kind state, at least by his own experiences. To the credit of the filmmakers, “Crossing the Line” offers an illuminating, personal tone that manages to remain as impartial as a documentary of this nature could hope to be.

Cinematographer Nick Bennett employs a clean, always interesting eye that he trains on everything from Pyongyang’s deserted, Socialist-grey highways to candid conversations between Dresnok and his fellow aged Korean fishing buddies and trips to Pyongyang’s only bowling alley. Peter Haddon’s editing effectively balances live interview scenes with a wealth of fascinating archival footage, providing a meaningful historical anchor point for Dresnok’s story against the rise of a truly distinct, sheltered society. Anti-American propaganda imagery, intimate Korean war scenes and, most fascinating of all, rare footage of North Korean master director Kim Jong-Il’s 1970s 20-part epic, “Nameless Heroes” present a visual accompaniment which keeps “Crossing the Line” riveting, despite the ebbs and flows of the defector’s tale.

Following the screening, film researcher Simon Cockerell, who also runs Koryo Tours, a North Korean tour service, answered questions. Having been to North Korea 59 times, he provided an informed, well-balanced take on the country and its citizens’ attitudes, covering everything from the availability of Sprite, though not Coke (Oh, the wonders of brand diversification!) to the citizen’s sentiments towards their government (its much more favorable than Westerners would fathom).

“The most important thing in their eyes is that the (North Korean) government has successfully maintained the country’s independence in the face of adversarial pressure from Western adversarial powers,” Simon explained. “They honestly believe that South Korea has simply sold out to the dollar.”

The most important aspect of both “Crossing the Line” and the subsequent discussion, I would posit, is not so much the political side-taking and prophesizing it inevitably leads to as it is the opening up of marginalized, grassroots voices that provide a freshly firsthand viewpoint. Western journalists have gone to town on Kim Jong-Il and North Korea as a whole for decades, continually writing it off, alternating between tones of utter ridicule and spite to false pathos and resignation. I’m certainly not claiming that such depictions are entirely false, but active debate in foreign policy should always be informed by as numerous, involved and varied sources as possible, something that is all too scarce in the way we debate how the West deals with North Korea, amongst other countries considered to be “foreign threats.”

“Those poor, starving North Koreans and their crazy leader,” would sum up the perspective Western media tidily hands us, as we debate nuclear reactor deals through tales of mass famine and disconcerting, militant public parade.

“Crossing the Line”, along with its unique, 6 foot 8, 350 pound subject matter, is important in that it shows North Koreans diving into an Olympic pool, celebrating birthdays, smiling, even joking. These are very small, unextraordinary things. But they are powerful, necessary images, forcing we Western viewers to take a more open look at this country’s people, and to question the rhetoric our governments (theirs and our own) feed us regarding weapons and war.

www.crossingthelinefilm.com/

I sincerely hope you caught the sarcasm in that last statement. Fox News, our current era’s globally-acknowledged founder and continuing leader of broadcast media populism brought tongue-in-cheek irony and the steadfastly literal uneasily close together with its slogan: “fair and balanced.” For this charming institution, whose role in the video game-stylized lead-up to the Iraq invasion and consequent events cannot be underestimated, we have a septuagenerian Australian to thank named Rupert Murdoch. His company, News Corporation, possesses holdings which include British rags such as the Sun, the majority of Australian media, and most recently, the Wall Street Journal. Lou Dobbs, then, is only the little chubby kid on the block compared to Godfather Rupert, one major difference being that Dobbs’ station, CNN, in supporting his evolution from favored CEO pitstop to self-righteous middle America blowhard quickly blurred what little distinction in journalistic integrity it might have once claimed over Fox.

Dobbs’ weekdaily program spends much of its hour discussing “The War on America’s Middle Class.” I can’t claim to have watched with particular frequency, but enough to be slightly unnerved by the tone in which he demanded an Asian interviewee use “plain, Anglo-Saxon” language and the thinly veiled disgust with which he refers to Central American illegal immigrants. I can practically hear the hateful slurs being thrown around living rooms across America, a giant churlish chorus of the disgruntled and distrusting, egging ol’ Lou on. The swarm are surely no less forgiving in regards to the “Red Storm Rising”, particularly given the recent explosion of xenophobia-propelled, if not unwarranted, health fears regarding products manufactured in China.

I find this particularly disturbing because I spent much of my life on the wrong side of populist sentiment. It was a rare week in which I wasn’t on the receiving end of a “Go home boat boy” from a passing car–having been mistaken as Vietnamese–or “Chink” or “Gook” slur dropped as I walked around the shops. Certain events will remain crystal clear. My father’s rare, unbridled furious riposte towards the man in a motel elevator who asked about eating dog meat; the seemingly tireless slanted eye/flat nose face-warping fellow elementary graders paraded before me. Far more consequential, however, was the persistent feeling of being wearily observed and judged. Mine was an Anglo-Australian town of such singular cultural hegemony, multicultural rhetoric as myth, that if anything, I’ve over-compensated for my yellowness. I couldn’t just be familiar with cricket, I had to know more of its history than anyone else. I couldn’t just celebrate this year’s Australia Day in Washington in private, so I co-organized the city’s expat gathering and convinced the pub owner to make meat pies.

This identity is forged, perhaps more than anything, out of the ignorance and mistrust of others. There are innumerable things about Australia which make me proud to tell others of my nationality; cultural tolerance just doesn’t happen to be one of them. I didn’t choose my hometown; rather, my parents leapt at moving there, over the far more publicly sanctioned anti-Sino climate in Malaysia. Which is why I felt something internal click when an acquaintance joked: “Wait…Mark’s Asian?” It’s also why I offer no platitudes when my students ask me why I don’t speak Chinese. I’m yet to meet an African-American whose family speaks Wolof or Yoruba at home. Clearly, my situation was dramatically less severe, but the same no-leeway mandate of “assimilate or suffer” ruled the roost.

So assimilate I did, to the point where one day during high school I partook in the same anti-Aboriginal humor my classmates learned from their fathers, something I had never done before. It was only when I was chastized by my best friend from early childhood, whose parents are South African, that I felt the circle closing:

“Hey. That’s not funny.”

I looked at him, his skin as brown as that of the people I’d just slandered at the cheap cost of earning some acceptance points, and knew exactly what he meant.

It’s why I find the lightly coated populism, and yes–racism–that Dobbs’ program issues forth so despicable. Perhaps he got tired of his corporate suit buddies and wanted to try on a more blue-collar hat. Or, perhaps it’s all one giant power-tripping guise, an elaborate response to tiring of the people who manufacture his goods or cook his restaurant meals. Who knows, he might actually care about the economic future of middle-class Americans, to which I say “very well” and hold no qualms. But international trade is an inherently political issue, and very often the ethnic or nationalist (or as in this case, both), “Us versus Them” card is simply too lucrative to turn down. CNN certainly didn’t. News Corp built its empire off of it. It bears little repeating, but last century ably displayed its utility for any aspiring Fascist movement. However, as the saying goes: you can’t have your El Salvadoran-cooked double cheeseburger and eat it too. Nor can you continue to buy the dirt cheap Chinese goods that fill your home and bite the hardworking hands that assembled them.

In my brief existence, I have personally heard enough slurs to fill a thousand bathroom stall walls: Australians slighting Irish, Chinese slighting Malays, Jews slighting Arabs, everybody slighting Jews, Indians slighting Bengalis, African-Americans slighting Africans, Africans slighting African-Americans, lesbians slighting gay men (but that’s another story), ad infinitum. St. Augustine once wrote that the world is a book and that those who don’t travel “read but only a page.” Well, I’m not sure what book he was reading but most of mine wouldn’t make for pleasant reading. I’ve been blessed to live with and visit a number of dissimilar people, fully aware that it’s an opportunity the vast majority of the world does not have (and that some, alas, have no interest in). Each country I visit, each culture I begin to understand, only reinforces my belief that people are, in essence, all the same.

This has meant for me that people are compassionate towards others, devoted to their children, and often friendly and generous, perhaps in varying degrees but never to the point of untruth. It also means that people are easily swayed by media and hearsay, largely ignorant of other people, and pointedly ethnocentric. Such aspects of our character manifest in qualities of hate, distrust and fear, all traits that politicians have utilized for millennia towards mostly destructive, ultimately worthless causes. We Western republicans entrust so much faith in democracy largely only because of the degree to which we distrust and fear despotic rule. As we commonly say: it is the least bad of our governing systems. But if anything, we have too much faith in pluralism as an end in itself, leaping blindly into its savior arms without considering preconditions to its success, such as an educated populace, an influential middle class, the rule of law or minority safeguards.

The purest vision of freedom I’ve seen played out in reality is the same one the United States has so neatly co-opted (like, as Neruda acknowledged, it’s own name). The American Dream, so to speak, is the globalized 21st Century Dream. It’s the reason that desperate young folks from countries like Guatemala or Honduras die each day in the hope that they can work washing dishes in a Georgetown restaurant; it’s the reason all of my friend Lang’s Chinese classmates have taken the GRE (over 90% of whom score an 800 on the math section, he mentioned). Without doubt, it’s the only reason I’m writing these words. When the government of New Zealand gave my parents an opportunity to attend university, even if it was motivated by economics, it epitomized a marvelous idea: that my parents would be judged and rewarded duly based on the merit of their work. Populism in democracy, more often than not, relies not on the merit of the idea and its logic, but by how many people happen to believe it. Good journalism serves its citizens by informing and enlightening their beliefs and public judgments, not by playing to the most base and vicious of human tendencies for popular or commercial favor.

I hope more Americans consider this as they go about purchasing their General Washington’s chicken (proudly China-free) at the local take-out. Smart Americans know that there’s more to the most populous country in the world than some Communist totalitarian state and over a billion poor, oppressed masses churning out their Nikes and contaminated toys. The stability and health of our tenuous Sino-American relations will depend on it. The Chinese seem capable of distinguishing between political regimes and their citizens, a skill which the Lou Dobbs’ of our media seem incapable of.

Thanks to Carlos at ‘finally insane’ for the original tab.

“Sacred Heart”
- Cass McCombs, from the album PREfection (2005)

*CAPO 7th fret

8 bar intro – Gmaj7 (7 1/2 bars) A7

Melody/Verse – D | D – D/C# | Bm | Bm – A | G | G – A7 | (repeat)
(3rd time) – D | D – D/C# | Bm | Bm – A | G | G | G | G | G |

CHORUS – F#m | F#m – A | C | Bm | Bm – D | (repeat)
(3rd time) – F#m | F#m | Gmaj7 | Gmaj7 | Gmaj7 | G – A | (back to verse)

Ending – stay on Gmaj7 after B section

I haven’t seen a live version of this song, but I believe that the lead guitar melody can be serviceably mimicked playing solo through hammering on the D major chord ( x 2 3 5 ) at the appropriate juncture.

Unusual chords: I’m not entirely sure what to call these chords, nor am I interested enough in technical theory to find out. I play them as such:

G7 – 3 2 O O 3 X

A7 – 5 4 O 2 5 O (play in G chord shape, with ring finger on 6th string and little finger on 2nd, creating a nice E drone)

Lyrics:

Sacred Heart, surveyed from the summit,
a pantheon, distant as ever,
echoing up the mountainside,
escaped sound, like a kiss upon the forehead
Alas! Jimmy
And all the members of the covenant
Noble scholars,
without you I’d have drowned in gutterwater
Alas!
You, of course, have my infinite gratitude
You, My Most Sacred Heart
Yet I piss and moan for the wanker* (x 2)
Dearly Departed,
we are gathered here today in reverence
Dearly Departed,
we all will return to the soil
Alas!
Alas!
For all my Alas!-es
I cannot mend this massive slashing
Futile beacon!
Cinderella’s in the doghouse
The doghouse
The doghouse
No, love doesn’t always boomerang

[*not sure about this, but that's what I hear!]

And, for good measure, an example of the clear Smiths’ influence:

Technorati Tags: Cass, Heart, McCombs, chords, PREfection, tab

They opened with a trio of new songs from Young Modern, an album which continues lead singer Daniel Johns’ continuing foray into pop, this time building upon the ornate, occasionally over-blown pomp of Diorama towards classic rock and even the campy and carnival. As if to illustrate the point, Johns took to the stage in pirate form, wearing a bandanna and eye patch (apparently to nurse a bruised eye), later re-appearing in a bowler hat. As natural as this musical evolution might be, it is an unfortunate and hopefully short-lived misstep. Though Johns is a gifted, imaginative musician, it seems he is still in the process of settling into his own niche within the current field.

Despite their relative obscurity post-grunge era in the States, Silverchair has continued to lead the pack for over ten years in Australian rock. Alongside Powderfinger, with whom they will be co-leading the highly anticipated “Across the Great Divide” tour beginning next month, the trio have been consistently serving up radio hits and collecting ARIAs in their home country. Beginning with third release Neon Ballroom in 1997, through to Johns’ successful collaboration with electronic artist Paul Mac as the Dissociatives, Silverchair’s sound has continued to slide, album by album, further away from the overdrive ballast of grunge towards the strings and falsetto of baroque pop.

The most significant leap during that process was between 1999′s Neon Ballroom and 2001′s recording of Diorama, when Johns was taught and utilized an entirely new method of songwriting. This one, piano-based as opposed to guitar, emphasized melodic innovation and creative phrasing over the simpler chord progressions of popular rock. The cover of Diorama features an opening door, behind which lies a rainbow of color. It’s a fitting image, in that the listener can actively hear the keys turning within the band’s head, both in terms of songwriting and influence: they pay tribute to Zeppelin grandeur in “Greatest View,” to prog-rock guitar heroism in “Without You” and, perhaps most surprising at the time, to cabaret and theatre in “Across the Night” and “Tuna in the Brine,” scored by Van Dyke Parks of Beach Boys fame.

The latter, played on acoustic, was the highlight of the band’s performance at the 9:30, without the album’s full string arrangement. “Tuna in the Brine” succeeds upon the strength of Johns’ unusually rich melodies, which unfurl one after another like a young Mozart first discovering his talents, then pouring out a symphony’s worth of ideas into one piece. “Tuna” remains, along with Rufus Wainwright’s “Poses,” one of the more accomplished pop tunes of recent memory.

Two other clear examples of Johns’ liberated songwriting, “Luv Your Life” and “After All These Years” were, alas, not performed on Tuesday. “After All These Years” is a piano ballad which defies cliche, where Johns provides some of the most remarkable melodic turns on Diorama. It is like a study of the major scale, with Johns’ strong tenor bounding across Parks’ staccato string swoops in a series of triadic leaps. During the bridge, harmonies appear unexpectedly and towards the close, the singer stretches the refrain melody like an opera singer. Released in 2002, the album appeared to signal a farewell to old Silverchair, and provided the metaphorical soundtrack to a new, rosy century, both for the band and for Australia. However, as recent involvement in the Middle East has shown, Australian involvement with the United States often proves to be far more complex.

Inevitably, rock critics ask the ‘grunge’ question of the band during interviews.

“We’ve got a point to prove and we definitely feel like we have to redirect people’s skewed perception of what Silverchair is,” Johns recently told Dose.ca. On Tuesday, the conflict of being a band still pegged within the States as “that grunge band from seventh grade” was most apparent in the transitions between Silverchair’s new, lighter fare and the angsty dirge which they recorded in high school.

“Now for another trip down memory lane,” Johns would say, before launching into a crowd-pleasing Frogstomp-era riff, tuning his voice back into the nasal whine he so famously employed, a fair though always pastiche imitation of Eddie Vedder. It was in his dancing steps that the sticky cocoon of grunge–which has proven so hard to throw off–was apparent. In his dress shoes and fitted jeans Johns looks modern and sophisticated (much like Young Modern‘s Mondrian-esque cover) and his feet suggest him trying to glean as much musical pleasure as possible from the same tired, mid-nineties whinge rock that the band has been regurgitating live for over a decade. It is their scarlet letter, and their fans should be willing to jettison their constant demands for the teenage Silverchair once and for all. Better yet, the band should trust in their ability to get by without turning back the clock each evening.

Johns laid out his goals for the new album in Chart Attack:

“I didn’t want to keep following that ‘bigger is better’ path. I wanted to come up with a pop record, a psychedelic pop record…I wanted to make something that was like [The Beatles'] The White Album, with a lot of genre-hopping and being really psychedelic but maintaining the pop aspect.”

Of the new fare from Young Modern, lead single “Straight Lines” is an early stand-out, a bright burst of pick-me-up pop that makes a credible shot for terrestrial radio. Drawn straight out of the Coldplay/Snow Patrol school of maudlin sentimentality, it employs the same plinking piano and swoony falsetto of hits such as “Clocks.”

“Set me on fire in the evening/Everything will be fine/Waking up strong in the morning/Walking in a straight line,” sung the crowd at the 9:30, having already memorized the song, thanks to the wonders of myspace and online leakage, despite the album’s scheduled US release that same evening.

Elsewhere on the new album, however, the results are far less convincing. “Reflections of a Sound” is full of effortless melody but feels decidedly hollow, much of “The Man That Knew Too Much” is simply Johns referencing Roxy zaniness without authenticity. The majority of Young Modern is pleasant-sounding enough, a disjointed tour of sixties and seventies pop periods with enough tunesmanship and orchestration to keep the listener engaged, but it distinctly lacks the heights of “Ana’s Song” or “Tuna in the Brine.” At the 9:30, it felt as though the crowd was respectful, though still unconvinced, by most of the new songs.

As commendable as the band’s efforts to reframe their American image is, Young Modern doesn’t quite succeed in bringing their collection of influences together in a truly satisfying manner. Johns’ vocals show clear evidence of the recent glam and psychedelic influence of Brian Eno and David Bowie. However, it’s hard not to get the feeling he might be shortchanging himself slightly, following the flashes of greatness that Diorama provided.

The band finished with “Freak,” a popular song from their grunge days which seemed to capture the continuing pull of old fans which the band is still trying to completely wrest free of:

“Body and soul, I’m a freak, I’m a freak,” the crowd moaned, in a collective ode to teen self-loathing, their generation’s precursor to today’s Dashboard Confessional set. The problem with playing to such tendencies, much as with pubescent sentiment in general, is that rampant self-absorption tends to envelop the character of the message and its messenger. Silverchair’s band members are now well into their late-twenties; its clearly time to make the transition into maturity complete. Their show at the 9:30 club, along with the mixed bag album it featured, shows that the band is not quite there.

Rafael Nadal, whose game continues to develop and mature on all surfaces, is finally here to give Roger Federer some competition. To which I say: About time! As incredible as it’s been to watch the young Swissman steam roll through grand slams as if the Roddicks and Hewitts of the world were beginner stage computer drones on Virtua Tennis, great sports viewing requires great rivalries, and Nadal has established himself as the man to bring it.

Being a lefthander who was forced to write with my right by my father, I love the fact that Rafael is a natural righthander who plays tennis lefthanded. It’s reverse appreciation, made all the more wonderful by the fact that it comes during a time when there is a serious dearth of prominent lefties in world tennis. And as powerful as his clean, flashing forehands are, it naturally provides his double fisted backhand game with that much more power. During today’s Wimbledon singles final coverage, McEnroe described this phenomenon as raising the game to “a whole ‘nother level.”

The Spanish thing certainly plays a role, for as easy as it is to admire Swiss precision and craft, it’s hard to root for it with total devotion. I recently spent some time visiting a friend in Barcelona and, like many others, was absolutely enchanted by the passion for life and joy that permeates the city. And as cliched as the metaphor of the athlete and his style as representative of his country or culture might be, you can’t help but feel it with Nadal. It’s that tenacious grimace in the throes of a tight game, the refusal to give up on points, the small body with the large voice, he’s almost…a male Arantxa Sanchez-Vicario!

But on top of that, its Rafa’s dress sense that gives him that extra edge. It’s not difficult for his game–taking the ball on the up, hitting bafflingly good winners from defensive positions, blinding passing shots–to evoke memories of a young Andre Agassi. And when one thinks of young Andre, it’s hard to forget the fashion sense of young Andre.

Here was a man who embraced the early 90s, with its technicolor teal greens, it’s unfortunate hair lengths and big logo branding.

It was loud, perhaps a little too loud, and depite many years of tamed down, bald-headed Andre, people won’t be forgetting the memories of his crazy mulleted era any time soon.
Rafael, on the other hand, is a man of relative taste. The pieces are all there: the long hair, the head band, the derision of the Roland Garros establishment, but he does it smarter.

Instead of going for color, Nadal does it with form. At the top, he strips away the sleeves, providing lady-pleasing views of his oft-fist pumping guns. Down low, he adds significant length to his shorts, bringing them to near-three quarter length. These capris, or pantaloons, are a brilliant meshing of Euro-hip sport casual with American hip hop. But where hip hop goes for both length and width–providing that low-rise, baggy look which is now so firmly established amongst America’s male populace–Raffa keeps it form fitted. The overall result: a slimmed down, sleeker aesthetic that has “I am a modern, sexy tennis-playing machine”written all over its Nikes. (Nadal generally has “Vamos Rafa” written on his)

Which all, of course, provides even more juice for marketers and broadcast networks in articulating the beauty of the Federer-Nadal rivalry.

Roger, whose game is as close to mechanical perfection as we’ve perhaps ever seen, keeps his style decidedly conventional. Apart from the neat bun pony-tail he rocked a couple of years ago, the Fed-machine is all business. Unemotional, pressed whites, shorts kept tidily above the knee and polo collar gently curled, the man is to tennis as Tiger is to golf. Clean-cut, unobjectionable and ridonkulously good.

And, just as the epic Sampras-Agassi battles kept us enraptured for many marvellous years through the 90s during one epic five-setter after another, so I hope Nadal and Federer will offer the same entertainment. Long live the Rafa-Roger rivalry!

Which is why I am so happy for the Georgian revolution, which is currently sweeping across online papers and publications near you.

I believe it was led by the New York Times, which over the past couple of years has transformed itself from an overly busy, smallish-print jumble into its current marvel of elegance and beauty. In large part, it was the work of Georgia. I’m not sure how long they’ve been using it, but I do remember noticing that it isn’t Times New Roman, a font whose place on a printed page I don’t mind, but whose role on the web page should be abolished, and soon. There’s nothing that says: “We live in a globalized, clever world capable of solving major problems and our civilization is not necessarily facing impending apocalypse” like opening a firefox window to the Times’ front page.

And how the others have followed! The Guardian, the Age in Melbourne, now even Wired magazine…all of my favorite news sources are jumping aboard the Georgia parade, in all its handsome, serifed majesty, overthrowing the turgid hegemony of Arial (itself a bastard child of Helvetica) and thus issuing in a new era in web aesthetics (“font 2.0″, anyone?). It doesn’t cost anything (to my knowledge) and offers all of us a more pleasant, beautiful online world in which to wander.

To who do I owe this marvellous graphic design coup d’etat? Who is the Lenin, the Mao, the FDR, the Churchill of this great movement?

Perhaps, Bill Keller, editor of the Times. To which I say, for all of us tired of the pure fugliness of Arial and TNR: thank you oh liberator.

A google search of Georgia offers the following: an IHT article which speaks of a Georgia ‘revival,’ that it was designed in 1993 by a Matthew Carter for Microsoft (wiki), and that it was designed specifically for the screen.

Now, if only I could work out how to change my own template’s body font to Georgia…

PS: How could I forget mentioning my beloved host, WordPress, and their own role as blogosphere Georgia trailblazers. Well done, WP!

As children, we are adept at analyzing our natural topography for its fun-ness factor. It’s part of the early hunter-gatherer instinct. You make sure that you’ve eaten enough, and then you go out and play. And just as I am sure that the first caveman who found a way to turn a dangerous, slippery riverbank into a giant mudslide was amply rewarded, so were the entrepreneurial of us children who decided to take the plunge: to ride our skateboard down that new sub-development hill, to step on to that undeveloped plot of land with its innumerable “boodgies” (hardened sand that makes for effective, if non-lethal projectiles) or the first to roly-poly down that particularly green hill. I was generally a sucker for the roly-polies.

The trade-off with grass hills of course is not so much the danger of the slope and potential oncoming vehicles (as with skateboards) or the angry wrath of future homeowners (as with undeveloped boodgie mines). It is the absolute certainty of death by itchiness. It is the knowledge that for each moment of giddy excitement, as your body tumbles over and over down that grassy embankment before you collapse at the bottom of the slope, there are hundreds (if not millions, for all we knew) of tiny little grass seeds, gleefully latching on to the hairs of your skin. It is the knowledge that scratch and wash as you might, you will be itchy for quite some time following, and that it will be miserable.

But I almost never hesitated in taking that plunge and leaping down the slope. I don’t even know if I got the entrepreneurs award for being first to roll–the riches of childhood friendship or a ruffling of the hair by some impressed Australian father figure—but it didn’t matter. I loved the roly-poly sensation. The power of the roll, the whirling of my senses into some giant tumble dryer. Like a free amusement ride without the vomit. Or simply twirling about until one falls over, except less masochistic and with the added bonus that gravity is involved.

I remember those grass seeds and the way I scratched at them. It was torturous and painful, but I would suck it up knowingly beforehand, then proceed to mutter in itching agony post roly. And now, I still cherish that grass, despite my interaction with it being so sadly limited. Mine today is a world of car seats and carpeted floors, of astroturf town community centers (surely a nod to impending virtual apocalypse, or perhaps utilitarian urban planning accidental genius), of freshly-vacuumed security. In fact, one of the few places I have built into my current routine existence that is genuinely grassy is Merriweather Post Pavilion, an outdoor concert venue.

Last night, I saw a great American rock band called Wilco at the Pavilion. The grass, alas, was wet from an inopportune summer rainstorm. But I enjoyed it nonetheless, the grass and I, together briefly, albeit through the precautionary medium of blanket and plastic. There is nothing that feels more like Summer in Howard County, Maryland than a lawn ticket to a great band at Merriweather, rain or sunshine. It feels almost like home, like a romanticized childhood spent wisely roly-polying down grassy hills. And that’s something I’ll always cherish.

I should also make mention that Wilco played one of my favorite tunes—“California Stars”—as their opening encore last night. Naturally, we looked up and counted stars: all six of them. Thanks for that one, guys. I’m sure you knew I was hoping.

Hmm…”documentary.” The word sends shivers down the spines of some, waves of heavy sleep vibes through others, and flashes of eternally curious excitement through a peculiar few. I happen to love the documentary medium, because it feels–for me at least–like the most direct connection between the subject of the film and its audience. I could spend the rest of my life listening to the stories of other people and times: about the history of something like the Helvetica font or the Chicago riots of 1968, or of folk singers whose songs I know but whose biography I do not, or of comic church groups spreading the “Stop Shopping” gospel.

Watching a good documentary is self-reflexive and introspective: we look upon each other intimately, in ways that are becoming increasingly rare in our modern, ossified existences. It’s the equivalent of arising from months breathing out of a waste dump and inhaling huge mouthfuls of delicious, unadulterated, flavorsome oxygen. Each film is filled with so many grains of universal truth and moments of pure comedy or tragedy.

By far the best highlight of the five days was that, as staff, I got to meet and chat with a number of filmmakers and film subjects. I was impressed by the profound absence of asshole-ish ego and superficiality one would associate with other film festivals. Such are the benefits of working a documentary festival, where the competition and subject matter stakes are so different. The vast majority of filmmakers seemed simply grateful for a chance to screen and talk about their years of obscure toil, staying behind after the screenings to chat informally with everybody in the audience who wanted to talk. I came out of the festival even more convinced of the democratic power of documentary, and respectful of the enormous amount of sacrifice involved in putting together each ‘labor of love.’

My favorite film of this year’s stellar selection was a gentle, humorous film from China named “Please Vote for Me,” a political allegory and cheery “Lord of the Flies” experiment built around the trappings of the democratic process. It features three candidates in a class of third-graders in Wuhan province competing for their classmates’ vote as new class monitor. The kids, naturally, are cute and very funny, whether gathering “fault lists” to use against their opponents or attempting to out-debate one another with their parents’ carefully scripted logic. Intimidation, questionable motives, character, bribery, ruthlessness: some of these darker sides of human nature were played out on-screen by three-foot-tall prima donna Chinese children in a rowdy classroom, edited in a way that was knowingly clever and affectionate. “Please Vote for Me” has moments of total mirth besides those of genuine tenderness, as well as a keen eye for the universal effects that power–no matter the scale–has upon human behavior.

The winners of the Audience Award, screened on Father’s Day, were both–in remarkably prescient manner–built around Father-Son relationships. The short winner, “Son’s Sacrifice”, provided a contemporary day take on long-worn themes, following the relationship between a Bengali-Puerto Rican named Imran and his father, as Imran attempts to prove his capability in taking over the family’s shop-front slaughterhouse in New York. The full-length, “Souvenirs”, tracked Shahar Cohen, a young Israeli filmmaker, and his ex-WWII ‘pappy’ as they retraced his war journey through Europe. On the way, they search for “souvenirs,” potential children that Sleiman left behind during brief affairs during his tour. I can see why it won the audience award: the camera captures some gut-wrenchingly powerful moments–such as when Sleiman is reunited with a Dutch girlfriend he hasn’t seen since the War–as well as the beautiful arc of Shahar and Sleiman’s bond, in a manner that feels so intimate and natural that it makes the socio-historical dimensions of the film quite tangential. I couldn’t help but marvel at the fact that these Jewish/Muslim family stories happened to synch together so perfectly, particularly given last week’s disheartening events in Gaza. Bravo to the festival’s audience for such skillful voting!

The biggest draws of the audience, though, were a couple of the more left-field films in the mix. “Helvetica,” as its title suggests, is concerned entirely with the popular typeface (it means “Swiss” in Latin), which most people are probably more familiar with through its Microsoft Word bastard child: Arial. I have always been naturally observant about the types and design which flood our visual landscape–I can’t walk past a row of subway ads without thoughts about typeface choice or character spacing appearing–and it was totally neat talking to the filmmaker Gary Hustwit about our mutual idiosyncrasy. During the introduction, he asked how many people in the audience were graphic designers…at least three-quarters of them raised their hands.

“And so how many of you others are reluctant dates?” he quipped.

The film itself is clean and artful, with interesting sub-plots about the evolution of typeface in popular culture as well as my favorite score of the festival. According to Gary, half the music is from his iTunes playlist from 18 months back, but he also asked musicians to provide him with music that “sounds like Helvetica.” Little to my surprise, metronomic electronic beats with plenty of blips and syncopated rhythms are what ensued.

The other surprise hit was “Big Rig,” a non-traditional ode to truck drivers and their lives behind and away from the wheel. I had the chance to talk a little with Jesse, one of the truckers featured in the film. In my experience, truck drivers in Australia receive a lot less disregard than their American counterparts, and it was great to see a film cross that class/cultural divide so dramatically at Silverdocs.

Otherwise, I loved “Pete Seeger: The Power of Song,” which opened the festival and leaves you nostalgic for a more unified America in the midst of our current (and repeated) mess, and from what I caught of “Chicago 10″–about the 1968 riots–and “What Would Jesus Buy”–about Reverend Billy and the Church of Stop Shopping–were smart and engaging. “Garbage Warrior,” about an iconoclastic eco-architect who constructs houses out of waste materials like beer cans, plastic bottles and tires, received a rave reception. It comes off as a less preachy, equally worthwhile take on the global warming themes of “Inconvenient Truth.” Also, the film’s subject–Michael Reynolds–speaks his mind with utter disregard for convention or popular opinion, making him infinitely more fun than Al Gore.

Perhaps the most important film of the festival, in terms of sparking action, was “The Devil Came on Horseback,” an old-fashioned call-to-arms to stop the genocide that is taking place in Darfur. It is necessarily graphic and brutally honest about the atrocities taking place, but weaves such elements into a narrative that is palatable and accessible enough for a general audience to absorb. The key now, of course, is gaining widespread distribution and viewership, something that I imagine is a central topic during the Filmmaker’s Conference, held simultaneously at Silverdocs each year.