The Continuing Adventures Of Your Own Personal Jesus

I’ve always been fascinated to discover the exact moment when creative people jump the shark. I’ve often wondered when did Pat Benatar, for example, stop being a vital force in music and start being a nostalgic act and, after careful consideration and listening, I think I’ve found the exact point in time. Don’t get me wrong, I like Pat Benatar. For one she released a series of damned fine pop singles, some of which still hold up today and she can get drunken people singing at parties with ease. For another thing, unlike a lot of her contemporaries, Pat could actually sing. Don’t believe me? Just listen to her rendition of Please Come Home For Christmas, her out-take version of Crying where she leaves Linda Ronstadt and Don McLeon for dead and gives both Roy Orbison and kd lang a serious run for their money or the absolutely beautiful Tell Me Why. In each of those songs she hits notes with an ease that’d make an opera singer smile. And she was cute. Like most people who went to

You see some strange things these days, but, other than the anti-wanking gloves that exist in the Melbourne prison museum, I've never seen anything quite as odd as this anti-wanking machine, which was patented way back in 1903, when the sheer thought of touching your own bits other than to hold it when the beer came out was heresy and enough to send you to hell.  I mean, in the Victorian era, nobody touched their chopper, not even the wife.  The male version of a chastity belt? Read those instructions carefully and if anyone out there can actually make one of these, then I wanna know. The concept is simple - you put it on and when you feel the urge, your main man will go down the chute and hit the spikes.  Plus you can't actually touch your bishop, so you can't start bashing it.  From the looks of things it came in one size only - shut the fuck up and get it on you dirty bastard!  I know some politicians, media 'personalities' (hello Kochie, you freaking ambulan

It's always sad when someone passes away before their time, unless they're someone like Hitler or Churchill, and the recent deaths of Harvey James and especially Steve Prestwich have left a huge hole in Australian music that might never be filled.  Even Nick The Bastard, who'd rather ram a red hot knitting needle into his ears than listen to Cold Chisel admits that the news of Prestwich's passing was indeed sad.  What this means is that there are less and less left that made the music of my upbringing.  From the members of Rose Tattoo, through to Dragon, Skyhooks, Mi-Sex, Sherbet, (who I hated, sorry Harvey), AC/DC, Split Enz/Crowded House, the Ted Mulry Gang, Australian Crawl and now Cold Chisel - people are still here, but the bands that I grew up with are gone in their original format.  Christ, even William Shakespeare popped his clogs not that long ago, not that many people noticed, the poor bastard. With Chisel when all the members were alive we knew that deep do

I love the Hoodoo Gurus .  Ever since Dave Faulkner conned a shirt out of me at a party in Melbourne in the mid 1980s I've had great admiration for them.  It doesn't hurt their cause that they are responsible for some of the best power pop to come from Australia in the past 30 years - I've always maintained that if you put I Want You Back on at a party and nobody gets up to dance or drunkenly sing along then call an ambulance because everyone is either dead or unconscious.  The Gurus are just that - gurus of the highest order. Once we had hair... I have no idea where I got this magazine from or when, but I suspect that it was given to me when I worked in the electronic media as a part time tea towel.  Since then I've had it in boxes and only just found it the other day when I cleared out the carport and threw away several dozen boxes of crap, keeping the cream - and before anyone wants to whine about me throwing stuff out, sure, if you want  Peter Andre press relea