Wednesday, August 31, 2005

Sun 28th August - the Wedding

The wedding party (L-R): the father of the groom, Ali (chief bridesmaid), the mother of the groom, Bob, Bec, the mother & father of the bride.

Bec & Bob were married at St Ninian's Church on Sunday 28th August...


Hmmm. Actually, before I talk about the wedding (the main reason I've come to Glasgow, and by extrapolation the rationale behind this whole overseas trip) I should talk a little about the people whose wedding it is, and whose loungeroom I'm staying in!

Bec Carey (now officially Rebecca Carey-Grieve) was my co-CEO and Express Media's general manager. We worked together for four years and formed a long - and I hope lasting - friendship as well as being a great team for that small and special youth arts organisation. Bec is petite, likes the colour red, and is a digital artist/animator.

Bob Grieve (Robert Carey-Grieve) is a visual artist and a founding member of Henry VIII's Wives, a Glaswegian artists' collective who are now scattered all over the world. He's also a deputy manager at the excellent NICENSLEAZY (see previous post), and is possessed of a generous heart and a great sense of humour.

Bec and Bob met in 1996, when Bec was temporarily living in Glasgow and working at The Blob Shop, a now-closed pub just down the road from Sleazy's where Bob liked to drink. He wooed and pursued her for literally years until she finally saw sense.

Background over: on with the story...


Bec and Bob were married at St Ninian's Church, which stands on the corner of Albert Drive & Pollokshaws Road, Glasgow, at 3pm on Sunday afternoon. It was a beaut wedding, despite the weather, which was drizzling and overcast; as someone else has said of the day, 'it was sunny inside the church'.

Bob and his best man Henry looked resplendent in their kilts. I wore one too: an unusual experience I must say, but one I enjoyed immensely. I found that I wore it with a swagger, imperative to setting the pleats a-swinging. And yes, I wore underwear beneath it. I didn't come halfway around the world to flash my goolies at the bride and groom's families and friends! There should be a photo of me in my Black Watch tartan (the unoffocial protest tartan for those who oppose the invasion of Iraq) coming soon to this site - stay tuned!

A paniced moment just as the groom was leaving: his mini had probken down, and Bob, his best man Henry, and myself (all in our kilts) had to push start the damn thing down the street. Comical sight, and appropriate on a wedding day that the groom's car breaks down: thank god it wasn't a Rolls Royce!

Church services often make me a little uncomfortable, but this one had such a strong sense of the bride and groom's personalities to it that I forgot all of my usual reservations. Bec being 20 minutes late due to traffic didn't help with my nerves though!

I'd been asked to do the second reading at the wedding, and was given a brief of looking for a poem or song that wasn't religious and which summarised something about the couple and their history, lives and love: maybe Tom Waits or something...?

Bit of a tricky job but I'm happy to say that I came up with the goods, a song by a great little Melbourne band. This is what I read:

'Guess How Much I Love You'
From the album A Good Kind Of Nervous
(Candle Records)

Good Friday and I’m miles away
And missing you already
From a backyard in Balmain
To the post office and back again
I bought a postcard
I’m getting close
But I haven’t got around to it yet
I know I said I’d write
And maybe I might

You know I’m thinking of you
In the bookstore, in the laundromat
Guess how much I love you
Much more, more than that
More than that

Better Saturday
It’s been that way since I spoke to you this morning
From a pay-phone in a pub
Here’s the rock’n’roll and there’s the rub
And when I spoke to you
You said ‘I’ll see you soon’
But I won’t see you for ages
And your voice sounded so small
The loneliness of the long distance phone call

You know I’m thinking of you
In the bookstore, in the laundromat
Guess how much I love you
Much more, more than that
Guess how much I love you
More than that

Here’s me
Here’s you
Draw a line between the two
This is cartography for beginners
On a map the gap’s three fingers
But it’s more than that
It’s more than that


After whiling a few hours at a nearby pub, a bunch of us shared taxis to the wedding reception at the Pollokshields Burgh Hall, 70 Glencarin Drive, Pollokshields: all stained glass windows and subdued grandeur.

A fantastic meal, excellent company, well-observed speeches and well received speeches (especially Bob's 'I'm Spartacus!' moment) and apart from a hissy-fit by the ceidhl band at the end of the night, who demand more money to play after midnight, it was a fantastic and fun reception.

The bride and groom departed to a hotel in their bright red mini, the rest of us stayed to help stack chairs, eat leftovers, and gossip about the day. Then home to bed, happily exhausted.

Monday, August 29, 2005

Glasgow: Days 2 - 3

Sat 27 - Sun 28 August

Glasgow is a beautiful city. Once an industrial city on the banks of the River Clyde, its streets are lined with sandstone Georgian terraces built in the early 1800's, and its people are friendly (the friendliest people in Scotland, I overheard one local say).

On Saturday, myself, Nerida and Nat (another Australian friend and ex-Voiceworks person) spent the day wandering around the city while Bec & Bob went off to the wedding rehearsal: Nat has been here before so she took us to an excellent record store called Monorail Music (12 Kings Court, King Street: which is also a bar, cafe and performance space as well; I have to go back before I leave and stock up on obscure local bands...

We walked through the countless malls, up a steep hill, and ended the day at NICENSLEAZY (421 Sauchiehall Street) , a fantastic bar & live music venue where Bob works. I was restrained, and only stayed for a few hours, although I could have stayed all night: friendly bar staff and the best jukebox in the world. If you're ever in Glasgow you have to go there!

On the way back to Minerva Street got cheerfully distracted by some amazing architecture, so climbed another hill to check it out. Then I encountered an Australian who works at a nearby backpackers, and who warned me not to walk through a local park at night: apparently its full of rentboys and queer-bashing neds. Okay, I'm more than happy not to get bashed while I'm in town!

Trying to squeeze as many things into my day as possible I then decided to check out one of Glasgow's gay bars, The Polo Lounge. It was - hmmm - ok I guess. Three venues in one - a dance club in the basement, a very trendy bar upstairs, and another fancy bar then felt like, well, a polo club I guess: chesterfield sofas and chairs, that sort of thing. I struck up a conversation with a very cute lad in a Ramones t-shirt who naturally enough turned out to be straight and visiting the club with a gay mate, but he invited me to join them for drinks anyway, and a pleasent hour or two was had by all. I got to bed about 3am, as I recall...

On Sunday, the day of the wedding, I woke up early, and as I had a few hours to kill before I had to put my kilt on (and yes, I will endeavour to get photos!) I went for a long walk through the city to the Glasgow Necropolis, an amazingly beautiful cemetery based on the famous Père Lachaise cemetery in Paris (where I'll be going in a few weeks to sit beside Oscar Wilde's grave and drink champagne or absinthe in his honour). Absolutely stunning views from the necropolis' central hill, overlooking the cathedral precinct and the city proper. Sunday morning was an appropriately windy, rainy day, and I felt very much in my element: Glasgow goths must love the place! See the photo above for an impression of its funeral beauty, and go here: or here: for a little more information/images about the place...

I'm not going to write about the wedding now, I'll save that for my next post, but as I walked back through Glasgow central listening to Clap Your Hands Say Yeah on my iPod, I encountered yet more stunning architecture, a huge bicycle race through the streets of the city, and a ubiquitous Borders bookshop that reminded me I have to pick up some contemporary Scottish short stories to read on the train to London.

I am having a fantastic time here, and I could easily stay in Scotland for weeks. I wish I had more than a month's holiday. *sigh* Anyway, I have to go help set up for the BBQ now - I believe someone said something about making salads...

Sunday, August 28, 2005

Melbourne to Glasgow

Thurs 25th - Fri 26th August

Never one to do things by halves, I decided to combine two of the most stressful things imaginable on the one day: my most important radio program of the year and my first ever international flight.

First off was my Radiothon show for 3RRR. For 10 days RRR announcers badger, beg and sweet-talk our listeners into pledging a subscription to the station. As RRR receives no government funding, and we're not a commercial broadcaster, we rely on listener support for 50% of our annual income. The irony of course is that you don't need to pay to listen to the radio, but bless their little cotton socks, RRR listeners enjoy showing their support for the station by subscribing in droves.

This being my first Radiothon for 'SmartArts' I had no idea how many subscribers I'd get; as it turns out I got heaps. About 126 people subscribed during my three hours, which was a delightful result, and created happy smiles around the station. Many thanks to you if you were one of my subscribers.

Then it was home to finish packing, and out to the airport...

I'd packed my backpack the night before, overseen and guided by my dear friend Martin Liedke, who has considerable experience in these things; certainly far more than me, the travel virgin. I still got flustered and a little panicked on Thursday arvo, stuffing the last few bits and pieces into my cabin luggage, but I eventually got everything done, and out to the airport just after 5.30 to check in for my flight, on Emirates, which flew out at 7.30pm.

In brief, because plane trips are pretty boring at the best of times, we flew 9 hours to Singapore where we stopped for an hour (I wandered around the airport at 2am and treated myself to a vodka, lime and soda for $12.30). The next leg was 7 hours to Dubai, where we arrived at 6am local time. Huge, strange airport and duty free mall. Then onto a new plane for the final leg of the journey, 12 hours to Glasgow. Phew.

We got into Glasgow half an hour late, as we'd been held up in Dubai waiting for some lads on a late connecting flight; when we landed we were kept on the plane for another half hour or so, as one of them had got sick. Once the doctor arrived and told us all it wasn't some virulent contagion, we were allowed off the plane: customs was a doddle (had I stupidly decided to smuggle drugs into Scotland it would have been easy!)

So after passing through customs lugging my bags, out I stroll, expecting to be met by Bec & Bob - and they weren't there!

At this point I had a slightly sinking feeling in my stomach as I realise that I don't actually have their phone numbers or address on me - they're on the coffee table back in Melbourne!

Just as I was wondering what to do I was paged, and once I found the airport information desk I found Bec and Bob waiting for me as well.

Crisis averted: Glasgow awaits.

Bearing in mind that I've only had about six hours sleep in about 36 hours at this point, I was feeling surprising good, and was very chatty as we drove into the city. Bec pointed out my first group of Neds - local hooligans resplendent in tracksuits and trainers, one of whom had his hand stuffed down the front of his boxers having a grand old scratch: such public displays are, I'm told, the visual equivilent of territorial pissing to mark territory and display macho prowess.

To learn more about neds, aka scallys, chavs or charvers, go here and tremble in fear: - and yes, that's a picture of a couple of neds, one of them even scratching, up at the top of this page...

After a kilt fitting literally within half an hour of arriving in Glasgow, and then an hour or so relaxing at Bec and Bob's flat in a beautiful Georgian Terrace in Minerva Street, it was off to Edinburgh for the hen's night. This became something of a highly amusing farce, as the plan was a 40 minute train trip followed by dinner and a show at the Fringe, but due to signal box failures on the Edinburgh line, our train ended up going to Edinburgh via Perth - a round trip of about two hours, 20 minutes! Still, I got to see some stunning scenery, including a couple of castles, and flirted outrageously with the young lad serving refreshments from a trolley: he seemed to be flirting back, although he might just have been trying to be nice to a tourist - I'll just have to see if he sends me an e-mail...

We were in Edinburgh the same night as the Military Tattoo, and after relocating to a pub for a quick dinner and several drinks, we watched hundreds of soliders stroll past at the end of the tattoo. A grand view: so many handsome lads in kilts!

It was at this point, about 1am, that I started to hit a wall, so it was off to the bus-stop and home to Glasgow (I think I slept the whole way) with Nerida, a fellow Aussie friend of Bec's, and Bob's sister Eleanor. Bob's buck's night drinks were still in progress when I got back to Minerva Street, so I stayed up for another hour of drunken conversation, then eventually crashed...

Talk about an eventful 48 hours!

Wednesday, August 24, 2005

Why community radio is so desperately important

It's 12.30am on Wednesday 24th August and I'm sitting at home drinking warm sake and listening to Dominique presenting the excellent punk-ska-rockabilly show Atomic on Melbourne's community radio station 3RRR.

Should you live somewhere other than Australia, community radio may be a foreign concept to you. Take the best elements of college radio in the USA, add a dash of the sadly-missed Peel Sessions from the UK, take away any suggestion of playlisting, and you have some idea of community radio.

I'm a RRR presenter, so I'm biased, but bear in mind that I don't get paid for presenting a three-hour radio show every week - I do it cos I love it, and cos I love RRR and what it stands for.

Without this station broadcasting at 102.7 FM, Melbourne would be so less rich artistically and musically. Commercial radio stations don't play new music unless it originates from a record label who basically/effectively/actually pay them to do so. Commercial radio doesn't interview emerging visual artists whose exhibitions are fundraisers for organisations combatting the trafficking of women as sex-slaves. Commercial radio doesn't allow listeners to call up and be instantly put through to the presenter to inquire about the name of a song that has just gone to air. In my opnion, commercial radio does fuck all to support anything other than its financial interests.

3RRR supports independent artists across EVERY artform. Please subscribe during this year's annual Radiothon:

Postscript: A HUGE thank-you from the bottom of my heart to the 126 people who called up the station this morning to pledge a subscription to 3RRR during my show on Thurs 25th August. You're legends, each and every one of you!

Monday, August 22, 2005

Counting down...

In three days time I have to present my most important program of the year on 3RRR, as part of the station's annual Radiothon. Then that night, at 7.30pm, I fly out of Melbourne on my first-ever trip to the UK and Europe. It surprises a lot of people that I haven't been to the UK before; they're even more surprised when I tell them that, apart from a two-week visit to New Zealand with my parents when I was 14, I've never really even been overseas - not unless Tasmania counts.

It seems almost madatory now for so many Australians in their early 20's to go backbacking for a year(well, middle-class and upper-class Australians, anyway), but I just never got around to doing it.

At a time when half my friends were jetting off to work in London for six months to a year, and from there heading off to wherever their fancy took them, I'd just quit my job and gone onto the dole in order to focus on the creative aspects of my life. Given that I was broke, and that it seemed much more important to me to find out more about myself and what I was capable of than visit the other side of the world, I stayed in Melbourne. This impression was intensified when several of my friends came home from their great adventure and proceeded to get married, get mortgages, and generally started acting like grown-ups. Definitely not an attractive option for me. If that's what travel does to you, I recall thinking as I packed myself another cone of homegrown hydro, I want nothing to do with it!

So, while friend after friend took off overseas I stayed in Northcote. It's a period of my life, from roughly 1991 - 1998, that I regard with enourmous fondness, despite my memories of some of it being a little hazy. I was smoking and ingesting a wide array of substances at the time...

It was a time when I stopped listening to only punk and goth bands and explored music more widely; although, even with my intensely gothic period already behind me,I still helped co-found a gothic club called Apocalypse (later to morph into Abyss) around that time.

I began performing my work at poetry readings, which led to me supporting US bands like Bikini Kill and Propaghandi, as well as Jello Biafaas a spoken word artist. I did my radio training at 3RRR as part of Centrelink's atempt to get me off the dole by making me more employable. My creative output for role-playing game publishers Chaosium and White Wolf was significant (and surprising given that I was almost permanently stoned in those days!), while by 1995-96 I was discovering the gay punk movement known as queercore, which soon led me into publishing my first zine The Burning Times.

Looking back, this confused, colourful and bloody enjoyable period of my life ended in 1998 with the start of a major new relationship with a schoolteacher named Mark Smith. Late that year we moved in together, and then in 1999 we moved to Mullumbimby, in Northern New South Wales, Cue a bout of severe depression, drug-induced psychosis, an explosive relationship breakup which resulted in the two of us still not speaking to each other, and a return to Melbourne in 2000.

A whole new phase of my life started that year. I wonder where it's going to lead next?

It's odd, you know. This post was supposted to be about my flying over to Glasgow for Bec and Bob's wedding, which takes place this coming Sunday 28th August. I was going to write about how I've been totally underprepared and disorganised (I only applied for my passport eight days before I was due to leave Melbourne) and about how much I'm looking forward to seeing Bec and Bob and then having a whirlwind trip through the UK, Portugal, Spain, France and Germany (with a couple of days in Amsterdam squeezed in somewhere along the way). I didn't expect it to turn into a major reminiscence...

For those of you who have read this far, I intend to try and update this blog regularly while I'm overseas: it's going to temporarily turn into my travel diary while I'm overseas instead of a repository for my arts journalism.

So, until the 23rd of September, goodbye Melbourne, and hello Northern Hemisphere!

Sunday, August 14, 2005


Gregg Araki has directed his most mature film to date, in the haunting and disturbing Mysterious Skin.

"What I really wanted to do with this film was have it devastate people in the same way Scott Heim’s book did to me when I first read it," director Gregg Araki says of his controversial new movie Mysterious Skin. "I’ve never encountered a story like it. I get sent a lot of scripts and books and stuff, and there’s really no other story that has moved me, and made me want to make it into a movie, the way this story did."

Mysterious Skin is the eighth feature film from the former bad boy of the 90’s new queer cinema, whose works includes the HIV-positive road movie The Living End and the bleakly beautiful teen drama Totally Fucked Up. Thanks to recent attempts by the religious right to have the film banned here in Australia, its subject matter, an exploration of the devastating impact of child abuse upon two young boys, is already well known.

Araki acknowledges that the film’s sensitive approach to a difficult subject marks it as his most mature work to date.

"People walk into Mysterious Skin with certain expectations of what a Gregg Araki movie is going to be like and they’re surprised; its very unpredictable and not what you think it’s going to be. I appreciate its difference; it’s a big departure for me, but at the same time it like totally fits in with my oeuvre," the Californian film-maker laughs. "There’s so many themes and relationships and stylistic flourishes in common with my other movies, and definitely its sensibility."

Araki has always made films about outsiders, and has also long been fascinated by the grey areas of human sexuality. He explains that this fascination stems from cinema’s ability to be a truly intimate artform.

"Cinema allows you access to these people’s most private moments. Unless you’re having sex with somebody you don’t really get that moment of intimacy with them, and I think that it’s in those private moments that the character is really revealed," Araki says. "I find it really fascinating, the aspects of character that come out in these moments when people are literally naked, but also emotionally and psychologically naked as well."

Ironically, it was the intimate nature of Mysterious Skin that caused Araki to delay making the film for almost ten years, and which has also resulted in its coming under attack by Australian wowsers.

"One of the reasons it took me so long to make Mysterious Skin was that I was trying to figure out a way to shoot the scenes involving the eight year old boys so that the child actors playing them could be protected from what the movie was about," Araki says earnestly. "I didn’t want to make the film without those scenes, because they’re obviously so crucial to the characters and the emotional arc, they’re why the story is as powerful, but I didn’t want to have these child actors, and fuck them up in some way by exposing them to this adult subject matter."

Thanks to judicious cinematography and editing, he says managed to shoot the film he wanted without exposing his young actors to risks.

"Basically the kids knew it was a film for grown-ups, but they didn’t really know the story or the relationships. I got their performances kind of bit by bit; it was frequently just ‘You’re scared and you’re looking this way’. When I saw the film in Venice, the way their performances are so nuanced, and very riveting, I realised they both did such an amazing job."

Mysterious Skin opens nationally on 18th August.

Friday, August 05, 2005


Partially as a result of having the flu for the first week and a half of the festival, and partially as a side effect of having purchased a festival passport for the first time in several years (whereby you book for 75 films, wake up hungover at 10am on a Sunday morning and say to yourself "Hmm, I might pass on the 3-hour subtitled epic at 11am until my brain stops bleeding" and consequently only see a third of the total number of films you'd actually planned to watch), I've only seen about 20 films at the Melbourne International Film Festival this year, and shock! horror! there's only two days left to go.

Bear in mind that 20 films over 18 days is actually not bad going. It certainly provokes the occasional gasp of disbelief in people for whom seeing 20 films in a year is a lot. That said, between 2002-2004, thanks to the fortnightly film reviewing segment I was then presenting on 3RRR on the lovely Nina-Marie Petrik's show Mercury Rising, I saw about 120 new release films a year, not including preview tapes/DVD's. Sadly that's dropped significantly this year, but on the other hand I've seen heaps more exhibitions and really amazing theatre...

I'm getting distracted. MIFF update part two. The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly...

Dead Meat (Ireland, dir Conor McMahon, 2003) was billed as the first ever Irish zombie film, and featured the premise that the undead plague was caused by a mutation of Mad Cow Disease rather than any supernatural means (akin to 28 Days Later in its contemporary rationale of a deadly pandemic). While the film successfully made cows seem menacing, it lacked bite - certainly there was little new on display save for a zombie cow that smashed through a car window and dragged one of the passengers screaming out into the night, although a morbid vein of humour gave me a bit to laugh at. Frustratingly the final reel of the film had gone missing in transit, and the screening ended abruptly, with no resolution. I'm off to see it again tonight, as apparently the final reel has turned up. Hopefully the ending will be worth the wait!

Screaming Masterpiece aka Gargandi Snilld (Iceland, dir Ari Alexander Ergis Magnusson, 2005) was highly enjoyable doco about the Icelandic music scene, and featured the usual suspects (Bjork, Sigur Ros) as well as less-popular outfits (Mum, Amina, Bang Gang). While it lacked depth and critical voices and opinions, and didn't really answer the question of 'Why the hell is an island nation of 300,000 people so damn obsessed with music?' it did present interviews and live performances by a range of bands, from hip-hop and metal to the glorious, cinematic post-rock of Sigur Ros. Despite its flaws I really enjoyed this film, but that's obviously because I'm a huge fan of many of the bands it featured.

Punk: Attiude (UK, dir Don Letts, 2005) conversely was a disappointment, although once again I love many of the bands who appeared in its scenes. Dierctor Letts was on hand as the first wave of punk swelled and broke in the UK, and I had hoped for a personal and intimate examination of the likes of The Clash and The Sex Pistols. Instead we got a detailed but hardly original or inspired, very straight-forward history of piunk, from the 50's and 60's through to the 90's. Some good bands, some great songs, and some badly-aged icons, but nothing especially memorable, unique or exciting.

Born Dead (Poland, dir Jacek Blawut , 2004) was one of those wonderful film discoveries that is part of the joys of attending a festival. It screened with an American film called Juvies about the USA's juvenile justice system, which was the film I actually went along to see. Born Dead totally blew it out of the water. It was a moving and intimate portrayal of 23-year old Robert Jurczyga, a young man who has been incarerated since he was 15 and soon to be up for parol. To aid his potential transition into the outside world, Robert took part in a program that saw him working as a carer for children and teens with sever intellectual disabilities. We gradually saw this tough, angry man opening up to the young people he was caring for, and in the process revisted the essence of humanity: tenderness, compassion and love for our fellows. Without needing to preach, or use laboured voiceovers, this film touched my heart.

Much more to come, but it's time to saunter back into the festival and catch the second half - and the end! of Dead Meat.

Thursday, August 04, 2005

Kissed by Sigur Ros

No that's not a metaphor to try and describe the beauty of last night's gig at Hamer Hall by Icelandic band Sigur Ros; I did actually get a farewell kiss from their vocalist Jonsi at the end of the night, having met him, his very sweet American boyfriend (whose name I've forgotten, dammit - I wish I had a better memory for names), their drummer Orri, and two of the members of Amina, their support-band/collaborators/string section at a bar called Phoenix after the show. Instead of a big, noisy after-party it was a discrete, intimate affair; a perfect end to an amazing gig.

If you haven't heard Sigur Ros, they're an atmospheric, moody, beautiful, dramatic post-rock band. Words fail me. Go track their music down and listen to it for yourself and then try and come up with your own description. A good place to start is their official website 18 Seconds to Sunrise, which features music and video clips:

I've loved their stuff for a couple of years, and was delighted when an Australian tour was announced. Their concert was beautiful, featuring a perfect balance of tracks previewed from their forthcoming album and old material. I had tears in my eyes at one point, it was so sublime.

This is their set-list (courtesy of 18 Seconds...):

Ný Batterí
Sé Lest
Viõrar Vel Til Loftárasa

Afterwards in the foyer I ran into a fellow RRR broadcaster and EMI A&R rep Glenny G, who mentioned that the band might drop in at Phoenix after the show, as it was right next door to their hotel. On a whim, I dropped by on the way home after having post-gig drinks with friends at Cherry.

To my delight, Sigur Ros and Amina were there. Their tour manager Will Lanarch-Jones (whose lovely brother Tom runs Trifekta Records, my favourite Melbourne indie label) introduced me to Jonsi and his partner, and told them I run the best gay bar in Melbourne. *blush* Jonsi then told me that there are no gay bars in Iceland at all (!) and said that he wished that they had a couple more days in Melbourne, so that they could come to Q + A. We chatted a bit about how nice it is to sometimes be surrounded by other queers, even if most gay bars play god-awful music, at which point the guys mentioned that they might be back in January, if they get onto the bill for the Big Day Out as they're hoping.

I so hope they do - not only would it be great to see the band again (it really was an amazing concert - even some of the more jaded RRR office staff were grinning this morning when they talked about it) but I'd be delighted to have Jonsi and his boyfriend as guests in my club. I'm such a fanboy. *grin*

I'm going to go and download the clip for 'viðrar vel til loftárása' from ágætis byrjun now - you should to - the video is a sweet tale of gay teen love, and it's (of course) a beautiful song as well...