Author Archives: justin

What’s that saying? ‘There’s always someone better off than you.’ No, that’s not it. But you know what I mean – ‘there’s always going to be someone ahead of you being more successful.’ Hmmm. That’s a bit clumsy. I think it was one of my Nan’s sayings. ‘You’ve got nothing.’ Yeah, that’s it. Admittedly she wasn’t well at the time and was saying it to everyone, but it rang true yesterday.

I went around to my friend Josh’s house to watch DVD’s. In a boldly idiosyncratic gesture, I grabbed some leftover kangaroo steak (it’s the new beef) and vegetables and put them in a plastic bag with intent to cook over at his house. I added butter, salt and parsley to the potatoes, shook them around, and dished up. Josh popped on The Boosh series two. I chewed and chewed, but suddenly everything tasted desperately plain.

I was already plum jealous of Noel Fielding and Julian Barratt. Series One had firmly established itself as a groundbreaking, aggressively playful, genre bending maelstrom of whimsical, cerebral dialogue, pseudo schlock horror, boldly surreal plotlines, dangerously accomplished music, and two of the coolest, most likable and effortlessly hilarious stars since The Goodies and Monty Python’s lovechildren formed a spin off that only screened on the channel of your dreams.

And now, the bastards have gotten better.

As I watched the dramatically natural progression in script and music production values, my face grew as pink as my steak, a mixture of rage and embarrassment. Another friend had once spoken of this experience. The concept of enjoying a piece of art so much it makes you depressed, at the realisation that under no circumstances will you ever be able to create something as good. (His weakness had been the film Magnolia, which he could not bring himself to take out of its plastic cover. He hadn’t even watched it, based on the inkling that it could destroy him.)

This theory could be criticised as being pathetically defeatist and self obsessed. Why on earth would you make someone else’s artistic triumph all about yourself? Surely part of the basic quality of life is being able to spectate comfortably from the couch of perspective eating a warm meal of self-assuredness? Surely. Surely no one is that needlessly insecure and fallible.

Yep. Captain Jealous and Inferiority Boy were in full swing. I suddenly felt real lame. The Boosh was so funny, clever and aesthetically on the pulse that it ripped through the library of my mental back catalogue like a cyclonic psychedelic tidal wave of English brilliance, leaving my meager writings and primitive songs sodden and scuffed. They had made the art that I would have made if I was them! For God’s sake. Think about that! As if their characters and unassuming dialect isn’t enough, even their music is better than mine – AND MUSIC ISN’T EVEN THEIR GENRE! That’s just…rude.

There’s always going to be someone more successful than you. Whether its that band, that actor, that guy at work, that cousin – it’s a universal law, right down to Pluto getting jealous of Earth because its bigger and more popular. At the very least it makes us realise that we’re always striving to improve ourselves, and are generally just needy little egomaniacs. Was that the point? I’ve forgotten. I’ve gone wrong. I’ve gone wrong in the mind tank.

Facebook. Don’t ignore it. Don’t try and fight it. You can’t escape. There’s nowhere to run. It owns you. It knows where you live. It’s ferocious and intelligent and you’d better let it zombie bite you and start up a game of scrabble or you’ll be the one at home playing with your abacus while everyone’s partying like its 2008.

Most of us are in three technological camps. Those that are whole heartedly embracing this new cyber interface, those that are ignoring it like farmers who don’t trust doctors, and a more ambiguous group who are timidly setting up an account, but whose confidences have been wounded by the notion that Myspace just wasn’t enough. Just like ‘Tom’s little TAFE assignment’ took over from primitive newsgroups and blog sites, Facebook is a natural evolution, and we must accept the fact that one day it too may be surpassed by a superior form of social networking. In fact, I heard a rumour that the creators of Myspace and Facebook are working on an advanced messaging system, called something like…what was it? Oh yeah – GOING OUTSIDE!

Myspace was the virtual roman empire for Gen-Y. We all worked hard to make it the pop culture cyber banquet of good times, but somewhere along the way it got greedy. Once the novelty value of friend collecting and ‘waz up I’m bored’ messaging fun died down, it was revealed for the clunky, spam ridden, corporate sprite-vomit of fabricated-teen try hard lameness it actually is. It’s perfectly fine for artist promotion, but as a simple networking tool it suffers more unexpected errors than the Howard Government. (Ouch!) Facebook, by comparison, is a smooth corvette of clean lines, white space, group messaging facilities and a blatant user-friendliness never before seen on the Interweb. Its event invite function is an effective promotional tool, bands can start up their own groups, hell – you can even play Pacman. It appears to be the perfect prototype for a uniform, universal unilateral union of human connectivity.

Why then, does it give me the e-shits?

Three words. Sideshow freaking alley! I don’t need to return a zombie bite from a girl I sat next to in grade three. I don’t need to compare my movie quiz answers with some dude I’d have nothing to say to if I met in a pub. I don’t want a food fight, a nickname, a virtual hug, a pet fungus, a ‘places I’ve been’ map, an afro kit, a Mr T poetry generator, a Super Poke? – I’m 27 years old! Where’s the ‘email me if something’s important’ or ‘text me and we’ll meet up like adults’ applications?

Nextly, Facebook knows TOO much. Obscure girl from high school asks to be my friend, I accept, and suddenly her ‘newsfeed’ shows her my daily status updates, friends I’ve added, plus a direct copy of comments I write to my close pals. And hallelujah! – now I’m privy to such ‘breaking news’ as the fact that dude I barely know has been tagged in a photo by some git. What am I? Brain damaged and confined to a wheel chair? Link this: www.i don’t have time for this mofo’s! .com!

Solution? I’ve become a closed book. I’ve set everything to private and kept a small list of close friends. I’m keeping Myspace as my ‘popularity contest’ and playing Facebook on my own terms. Being counter culture is so in! Now where’s the pen, paper and phonebook? It’s time to start another chain letter.

Justin Heazlewood AKA ‘The Bedroom Philosopher’ appears, positively relaxed when I catch up with him at his Melbourne compound, located in a secret room in the back end of an abandoned op shop. He leans back in an electric vibrating beanbag eating Doritos, dressed in a brown corduroy jumpsuit with an orange helmet (a short lived 1970’s contraption that administers vitamins through the skin). My first question is possibly one that is on the tips of many readers lips – quite simply, where did he go?

Justin takes off his glasses and gazes off into the distance, as if on the verge of tears. It appears that the subject of his BMA column is one that troubles him.
‘No, no I just got a shock from the beanbag’ he assures me. ‘I knew there was a reason these were discontinued.’ For a moment I think I can see wisps of smoke emanating from his sideburns.
‘Look, I basically got to the point where I just couldn’t write anymore.’
I ask if this was due to an existential hunger for inspiration or something more tangible.
‘No, no, a junkie stole my laptop.’
‘I saw it as a sign that maybe I was supposed to take a break from writing and concentrate more on my day to day activities, like remembering to lock the doors and playing guitar.’

Heazlewood is celebrating the release of a new single as The Bedroom Philosopher, a four and a half minute acoustic ballad called ‘The Happiest Boy.’ Like most B.P. songs it is abundant with witticisms and intensely observational lyrics, this time telling the story of being abducted by friendly, bohemian aliens – the kind that look like ‘a cross between Gumby, Bjork and Richie Benaud.’ I ask Justin about the single, and its advancement in craftsmanship and production values.

‘The song has been kicking around for about three years.’ He says, sipping on a tetra-pak of Ovaltine. ‘And for a long time I didn’t play it because I was mainly doing comedy rooms and I didn’t think the song was quite funny enough. And that’s the main reason why I only do music venues now, because if your songs are your children, then it’s depressing to see the same ones sitting on the bench every night, not getting a go just because they’re a little bit introverted and not the zany clowns of the group. I think now especially in context with the new album, The Happiest Boy has become a benchmark for the level I’m trying to strike between musicality and humour and not compromising one for the sake of the other.’

It’s been 18 months since The Bedroom Philosopher played to a bustling Tuesday night crowd at Toast. He recently supported retro-renaissance man Peter Combe at the ANU.

‘It was mental. For a second I thought it was going to be like when Nirvana played there and people were gonna kick down the doors. My favourite moment was when Peter was halfway through ‘Toffee Apple’ and I started hearing a stream of gunshots. I walked up the back of the room and there was a guy playing ‘Virtua Cop 3.’

This article was originally published in the ‘Secret Lens Business’ section of JMag #11.

This photo, which has had its singed edges digitally repaired, is the only known evidence of the most catastrophic function in the history of Tasmanian event management – my 18th.

The day started well. I already felt blessed that my birthday fell on a Saturday. I stepped out of the hairdressers into the clean north-west coastal sun, my hair freshly tipped and spiked. I was a product of my time, wearing product of my time – fudge factor three from memory.

The week prior I had been arguing with my dear Mum. She didn’t want me to have a big party – but she didn’t understand. I was the president of the Hellyer College S.R.C. I needed a hall! I needed a band! I needed a personalised t-shirt! After a spate of ill advised phone calls trying to convince venue managers I was my own Father, I found a couple who kindly agreed to let me hire out their hall in Hiclare on the proviso there’d be adult supervision. (me.)

I organised a bus to pick people up from downtown, and handed out flyers at school. On the day, I decked out the hall with a games table, giant birthday card, balloons and funny parodies of signs from my footy club’s change rooms. From: No-one ever drowned in sweat. To: No-one ever drowned in beer (except Bon Scott).

At 8pm the first beer was cracked and friends started sprawling in. With a rev of disappointment the bus turned up mostly empty with my best mate Josh telling me I owed the driver $80. I recovered, collected some presents from excitable friends and chugged down my Boags Draught stubbies while the band played Tool. A fire was lit in an outside drum, while behind the glowing laughter a steady stream of Ute’s crunched in like metal bumblewasps. My team-‘mates’ from the South Burnie Under 18’s had arrived, and the pin on the party was pulled…literally…out of a fire extinguisher.

A footy ‘mate’ started spraying it around like Satan’s party popper. By the time he’d finished, my girlfriend ran up to tell me that some footy ‘mates’ had thrown most of my presents in the fire. By the time I made it outside, I was informed that some F ‘M’s’ had used my birthday card pens to write homophobic graffiti about me in the toilets. On my way to the gents I discovered that F ‘M’s’ had started a crude honour wall and were signing their names on the bricks. Across the room I could hear smashing bottles. Some F ‘M’s’ had bypassed my games table and were playing wino darts. I was halfway over to them when I heard a distant explosion, followed by yelling.

A F ‘M’ had stolen a jerry can of petrol from a neighbour’s garage and thrown it in the fire. I came outside to find a parted sea of 200 onlookers, mostly strangers, all staring down at the cement now riddled with spot-fires. While I ran for the other fire extinguisher the F ‘M’ had to be taken to hospital with second degree burns. While all this was happening, the biggest F ‘M’ had managed to pull the huge wooden Hiclare Hall sign out of the ground, snap it in half, and throw it on the roof.

I sat the rest of the party out in the shelter of a friend’s car, smoking ciggies and looking on at the post-war fallout. The next morning, I woke up to heavy rain, having slept on the hall floor with my girlfriend. With the hangovers of our lives, we set to scrubbing at grafitti, breathing in metho, bourbon, urine and vomit.

While sweeping – I broke the broom.

In the tradition of working out your porn star name (your first pet name and first street name), here is a technique I’ve created to find out your self-indulgent rock star name, the name of your globe-trotting, unit shifting band as well as the lazily penned title of your first over-produced, riff pilfering mega-hit.

How to play:

ROCK STAR NAME: The first name is taken from one of your Nan’s or Pop’s. For example, being a dude I’m using my Pop’s name, Leonard. Your last name is two names hyphenated. The first of these names is your second ever pet’s name, the second is your second ever street name. For example, the second pet I ever owned was a cat named Snowy. The second street I ever lived on was Totterdell street in Canberra. Therefore, my rock star name would be Leonard Snowy-Totterdell.
(NOTE: If you’ve only ever had one pet or street name, take that.)

BAND NAME:
Your band name is taken from an anagram of your complete name. The best way to find this out is to hop on the net and download an anagram generator, you can find one HERE

Once you have it running, type in your full name and hit ‘anagram now.’
For example, Justin Marcus Heazlewood gives me:
Simultaneous chow daze jr
Customhouse lizard jew an
Ejaculation who’d suez mrs
Switzerland ouch joe am us
Adolescent whiz jam our us

Take as little or as many words from any one line. Today, I can hear Richard Kingsmill talking up: Switzerland Ouch!

HIT SINGLE:

The title of your single is taken from the last text message you received. You can take as little or as much of it as you like. My last one was rather lovely, so I’m using: ‘nestle into a loving ball.’

Enjoy! You can post your results below.