Old Man by Neil Young

When Neil Young released Harvest in 1972 it was met with quite a lot of indifference, to put it mildly. Fans, who appreciated his constantly changing musical persona, got on board, as opposed to the critics, who rated it as quaint, at best, and complete rubbish at worst. Young has never released anything in response to what he was expected to by either fans or critics. By the time one album was released, he was already deeply immersed in folk, screeching electric rock, country, or what would eventually be called grunge.


The song Old Man now has a place amongst the best of Young’s work, and is one of several excellent tracks on the album. Harvest, Out On The Weekend, and Heart Of Gold are all brilliant compositions, and help create a unified theme and texture on the album. But, Old Man is the track that I play most, and extracts a greater emotional response.

Old man is one of those unique songs that allows for multiple interpretations and responses that shift and grow with the passage of time. With age and experience, we gain a deeper appreciation of the perspective of both the singer and the subject.

Many observers thought the song to be Young’s appraisal of his relationship with his estranged father. However, it has been confirmed by Young that the inspiration for the song was the old ranch manager on Young’s farm. But, could the same song have been written if Neil Young had a different upbringing? Clearly, his relationship with his father, even subconsciously, has influenced the choice of words, and style of music.

Regardless of the subject, the themes resonate strongly across a broad spectrum. If confesses all the fears and hopes of us as young men, a few years into adulthood, and all the promises and regrets that go with it. As we slide through our thirties, there is a dual appreciation of each perspective. Not siding with either but having a greater understanding of both. And finally, when approaching fifty, especially with a son around twenty four, there is a clear bond with the Old Man. Never losing sight of what the song meant when first heard, it grows in meaning and depth with each passing year.

It is a tribute to Neil Young’s song-writing ability to produce a work of art so mature, so complex, and so dynamic. And even though he has a huge repertoire of songs just as impressive, this one piece alone places him equally alongside other modern poetic masters, like Cohen, Dylan, Lennon and McCartney, and Springsteen.

The conviction of Neil Young’s cross-generational conversation rings true with each word sung, and each note played. It is such a beautifully sad and sweet piece of music. Hear the young man pleading for a chance to be heard. Feel the old man pleading for a chance to shake his younger self to listen.

Old Man is a timeless song that you can return to again and again. It’s like a good friend that you comfortably and dependably grow old with. And if you can, you should introduce the Old Man to a younger person and keep sharing the wisdom.

Leonard Cohen At Hanging Rock: A Review (Kind Of)

Initially, we were all very much excited. Leonard Cohen was returning to Melbourne. But, after seeing him the first time at Rochford Winery, I decided not to see him in a concert hall. And then came the news; music industry guru, Michael Gudinski, had secured permission to stage a concert at the evocative Hanging Rock, near Woodend. And what a line up! Dan Sultan, Clare Bowditch, Paul Kelly, and the return of Leonard Cohen.

I’m sure there were many, many people, and I suspect even Cohen himself, who thought that he would not pass this way again, in this life. About nine of us decided to go, and quickly snapped up the tickets online, as only 12000 were to go on sale. Some of our group had only seen him indoors, others in the outdoors, and some had missed him altogether. My brother in law, Joey, was happy enough to just arrive before Cohen hit the stage, but I was eager to take in the whole experience from mid afternoon into the evening, and urged everyone to get there as early as possible.

We planned to meet at Kilmore. Originally, we thought we’d meet at Mac’s Hotel, but quickly dismissed that idea, fearing we’d get stuck into a few drinks, and forget why we’d gone there for. My wife and I took the very pleasant, scenic High Street route to Kilmore, whilst the others had taken the Freeway and Highway. As they rolled around a bend into Kilmore, we pulled in behind them like clockwork. We were off to a good start.

We had agreed to meet at Hudson Park, with a view to quickly checking in and leaving en masse to Woodend. My other brother in law, Barney, knew of a way that would take us there against the heavy flow of Melbourne based traffic. But it was hot. So we had a beer. And then another. One of ladies needed to purchase some fruit or crackers, or some such thing. So we had a beer. And then another. It was a beautiful day. We talked and we laughed. And we drank. It really was a beautiful day. Somewhere in the back of our heads, a little voice was trying to remember something about something to do with getting a move on. So we had a beer. And then another. And then we decided to leave. We were still on time, though. How that was exactly, I am not quite clear. I am sure there is a branch of maths or science that deals with such things. You see, our beer brains seem to know how to manage the time that we absolutely have to leave and the real time that we absolutely have to leave. And it never fails. Forget the Big Bang, Stephen Hawking, just work that out and we’ll be happy.

We hit the road again, out along Foote St, and the Kilmore-Lancefield Road, and winding our way through back roads and byways, taking in the beauty of the lush green pastures, and the sparkle of filtered light through enormous overhanging trees. Thirty minutes later we came to a brief halt. We’d hit the convoy from Melbourne. As far as we could see into the distance was a parade of pilgrims, like us, waiting for their moment to worship and cry out Hallelujah. Fortunately for us, we’d approached from the other direction, enjoying a momentary pause, until the traffic officer held back the masses, and made way for our three vehicles. We’d arrived. So much for the prepaid parking ticket! No one asked for it, no one was checking anything or collecting payment. The ground attendants were just happy to herd everyone into the parkland. Now, I’m not saying we parked a long way away, but, I’m pretty sure I could see the back of my house not too far away.

On a bright day, loaded up with chairs, and hampers, and bags, it was a fair walk through the grass just to get to the queue, which was already strung out over a couple of kilometres. My wife suggested things might be easier if I let go of the stubby, and held something else with my right hand. I swear, I don’t know where she gets these crazy ideas from. Once in line, there was nothing else to do but stand and wait. So we freshened up and enjoyed another beer. We observed a lone figure in the middle of a vast paddock. I guess he was waiting for friends to arrive. He did strike an unusual pose, with his long cloak lightly flapping in the breeze. He seemed to take our jibes quite well: “Hey, Frodo, Gandalf said he’d meet you by the merchandise tent,” or “Harry Potter! Your cloak isn’t working. We can see you!” As I said, he took the gentle ribbing well. Either that or he was lost in thought, trying to figure out what to do with that damned Ring...

As it was the first event there, the organisers were learning as they went. They’d decided they needed more room for parking, and told half the line to squash up ‘concertina like’ in about a dozen rows. This was all very well and good until those at the back of the line, and those just arriving over the hill thought it was every man for himself and all the lines would all start again. From a distance it reminded me of the famous scene from Zulu. Some guys next to us started singing “Men Of Harlech.” Others shouted at them strange words, like: “Ti'n llawn cachu!” That group then started singing: “The Warwickshire Lad.” And the barrage of words continued. “Cau dy ffwcin ceg!” “Cachu bant ti cachu mes!” A scuffle broke out, with one man knocked to the ground. Two handsome African gentlemen near us observed the commotion. One turned to the other and said, “Lesu, mae o'n rel coc oen.” As the horde got closer, it then reminded me of Braveheart. A guy at the front of the approaching mob may have been yelling something about “Freedom” and then abruptly blaming the whole mess on the Jews. Things started to get a little tense. We’d been waiting for around half an hour already, without moving, and we weren’t going to give up any ground. Sanity prevailed, and eventually everyone fell into line, allowing the cars to fill up Frodo Potter’s paddock.

On we marched, around the bend, towards the entrance, for another half an hour. The routine precise: take a few steps, put down the hamper, and the chairs, put down the stubby. Hitch up the pants, pick up the hamper and chairs, and pick up the stubby. Sip. Continue. Along the way, we encountered some new arrivals, oblivious of the ruckus earlier, seeking to jump the queue. These were people that parked their cars in the new spaces in the paddock, and not wanting to join the end of the queue, thought it was okay to just join in at the end of their car park aisle. Luckily, in most instances, there were car park attendants to escort them back. However, not every aisle had an attendant. By the third occurrence, my wife had had enough – loudly identifying and shaming the intruders until they could take no more and departed. One poor fool confronted her, getting into her face, saying “What are you going to do? Start a fight?” To which, her brother, Joey, a short but fiery individual, replied: “Yes,” as he gently, but matter of factly, placed hand on chest and eased the guy away from his sister. It helped that Joey, was shadowed by his older, hulk of a brother, Barney. Both are gentle souls, but both very protective of their family. A ripple of applause rang through the crowd. We arrived at the gates without further incident.

Getting through the gates at an event can sometimes be an arduous experience. Not so at Hanging Rock. I’d decided to leave my camera at home, as, although it is just a standard digital, it looks more ‘pro’ than what it is and I didn’t want to go though the hassle of confiscation and argument, etc. I’d also snuck a flask of whiskey in my jeans (hence the hitching up routine) to curb the price of alcohol likely to be charged inside. Well, I could have taken a slab and a small production crew with me. “Anything in the hamper?” asked the attendant. “No,” I said. “Okay, have a good day.” This was in total contrast to seeing Leonard Cohen at Rochford a couple of years earlier, where I can still hear the snooty patron asking “How are we going to cut the cheese?” as his knife was confiscated. And the full cavity body search still leaves emotional scars to this day. They don’t call. They don’t write...

At last we were inside. We made it.

Hanging Rock. It evokes a profound sense of mystery and awe. We can't help but feel we are standing on sacred ground. Cohen also illuminates a persona of immense mysticism and spirituality. We are told that he was ecstatic about the chance to play at The Rock, being a huge fan of Peter Weir's classic movie. I could think of no better choice of words than those of Leonard Cohen to echo through eternity around Hanging Rock. We set up our chairs and blankets - seeking alignment between the stage, the bar, and the toilets, whilst ensuring a pleasant view of the surrounds.

Having set up, it was now time to check out the merchandise and the all important toilet location. I was really disappointed in the quality of the tee-shirts purchased at his last concert and could see nothing has changed since, so quickly avoided those in favour of a nifty key ring and 'Cup of Mercy' mug. Now, call me pedantic, but it would have been good to know, prior to purchasing it, that the mug has numerous poisonous chemicals applied to its surface to create the decorative emblem, and is therefore not recommended to be drunk from. Drink. Splutter. Cough. Collapse. Hey, that's no way to say goodbye...

The toilet block was neatly arranged between the bars (convenient: empty, refill, empty, refill) and split into Men, Women and Unisex. I'm assuming it meant either, not both. Although, I imagine the couple that crap together are clearly made for each other... The line for the Mens was always about 30 metres long with a wait of over 10 minutes. Yet there was never more than one or two in line outside the Unisex. All evening, I noticed guys seeing the empty Unisex cubicles but unwilling to break free from the deep rooted Aussie males' psyche that proclaims: Real Men Don't Pee In Unisex Toilets. It never failed to amuse me as passed by all of these Real Men, waiting in line, missing three or four songs. After I'd finish I'd walk past, knowing that they'd noticed me, heads down, but the look on their eyes saying, "I know! I'm a fool....But I wanna be a Real Man!" Then they'd dance a little jig so they didn't piss themselves.

Late afternoon drifted by. It was a beautiful day, with a steady wind keeping us cool. We chatted and passed the time in a very relaxed manner, as did everyone present, waiting for the Great Man to appear. The crowd swelled as the first two support acts played their sets. Interesting but not inspiring. Entertaining but not overwhelming. From what we had seen, heard, and read, we expected more, especially considering the reputation of both singers and the high regard for them in music circles. To be fair to Clare Bowditch and Dan Sultan, Paul Kelly and Leonard Cohen were front of mind for most of the crowd. The other factor was the wind. It was quite strong during the afternoon and carried the sound far off into the distance. It eased considerably by the time Paul Kelly played.

Paul Kelly deserves more space than this article can afford him, such is his brilliance. Only someone who is highly skilled, dedicated and hard working, and well versed and passionate about his craft can make it all seem so effortless on stage. His rendition of Everything's Turning To White with Clare Bowditch was superb. Kelly's set alone has more than repaid the cost of admission.

The moment has arrived. Cohen strides out to rapturous applause from the worshippers at the alter. He is our Jim Jones and we are the cordial drinkers. The Messiah in a pin-stripe. From the first note of Dance Me To The End Of Love, the religious fervour of the crowd builds, enraptured with every word, every move. Cohen's timing is impeccable. The performance rehearsed to perfection.

For over an hour, Cohen submerges us in his world of love and beauty, regret, and redemption. He drowns us in melodies and harmonies that flow around his world weary voice. When he finally takes a break, the audience comes up for air, struggling to recapture their breath. Taking some time to compose themselves and clear their minds before the final onslaught. As if timed to the second, darkness and a chill descend upon the crowd. When Cohen and his backup singers reappear they are draped in scarves. It is very cold. This may be a major concern for other concerts at this venue - no matter how glorious the day, it is uncomfortably cold at night.

The show continues. Always the great showman, Cohen knows when and how to extract the most out of his audience. He entices the crowd with a reinvigorated Hallelujah, and then possesses them totally with A Thousand Kisses Deep. Lovers embrace and kiss. Holding hands, swaying to the rhythms, hypnotised by the charlatan with an angel's smile. Is there laughter behind his eyes when recites these words?

And then he was done. Finished. For two and a half hours Cohen swooped us up and gave us a glimpse of the universe through his eyes and then gently let us down again. Calm, but spent. Speechless. Reflective. Serene. The serenity lasted until everyone tried to leave the car park at the same time. Our three cars were separated, but I could see Joey in the distance. After being cut off several times, he was starting to retaliate. First it was queue jumpers, and now it was car park road rage. I was reminded of Michael Douglas in Falling Down. And when Joe stopped to get a warmer jacket out of his boot, I could have sworn he was reaching for his bazooka. We each ended up driving home in different directions yet managed to arrive at our respective homes around the same time, as we always do. Another one for Stephen Hawking.... It was an extremely interesting and entertaining day; well worth the cost

Oh, and the review? It wasn't as good as Rochford.

Ever Heard Of Steve Poltz?

“Ever heard of Steve Poltz?” Probably not. Didn’t he write that song with that woman? Yes, he wrote You Were Meant For Me with Jewel. But there is so much more to him than That Song. The spirit of troubadours and minstrels live on in Steve Poltz. He regularly travels the world, sharing stories and songs of love, death, pain, happiness and laughter.

That Song was not my first introduction to Poltz. I purchased One Left Shoe, based on the look and feel of the cover. I was not disappointed, and over a decade later those songs still make it to playlists and mixed tapes. Over the years I’ve picked up most of his albums, both solo, and in his previous life with the cult band, The Rugburns. It wasn’t until I purchased Mommy I’m Sorry that I realised my very first introduction to him was watching a cover of Sesame Street on some music show. We never got the name of the band, and never saw the clip again.

A Steve Poltz album gives you everything; excellent musicianship, melodies and words rich in texture, with a keen eye for observation. He has an actor’s feel for drama, and a comedian’s sense of timing, with a quirky sense of humour. And he genuinely enjoys sharing all this and more with a live audience.

Steve played The Northcote Social Club on January 22nd, a venue he enjoys returning to. The NSC is a very comfortable, easy place to hang out, being able to enjoy a quiet drink with friends before the show, watching the unusual, weird, and wonderful denizens amble through – none more freaky than the bar staff.

I drifted into the stage bar around 9.15 to catch the support act, Kate Walker. A very gifted guitar player, and singer, Kate was well supported by friends and fans. Two standout songs remain with me. A wry ode to a friend, I Liked You Better Before You Found God, and a breathtaking cover of Over The Rainbow/What A Wonderful World. Kate is as good as anyone you hear on the radio – her biggest step will be in managing self-consciousness on stage, self -confidence once in the songs end, and to develop an entertainer’s presence on stage as a performer. Having said that, it was a strong set and received rousing applause from the gathering crowd.

Steve comes on stage around 10.15 pm and from the first note his enthusiasm is infectious. For the next two and a bit hours he has the audience in the palm of his hand – laughing, singing, and sometimes in total silence as he weaves his way through his repertoire.

I saw him at this venue around the same time last year, getting the crowd in the mood with his intro vox-pop video “Ever Heard Of Steve Poltz?” before exploding into Chinese Checkers that set the scene for the evening. He blew me away with two songs that night, a cover of Dylan’s Forever Young, sung with the effervescent Bushwalla, and my personal request, Salvation Song. There was no Salvation Song this night, but there were equally impressive renditions of his standards, like Once Again, I Killed Walter Matthau, and The Great Mystery, as well as a faultless version of She Moved Through The Fair. He played songs from his most recent album, Dreamhouse (retailers, why is this cd so hard to find?), and that other well known song, You Remind Me, yes, the Jeep ad song. He didn’t play That Song, but no one noticed, such was the energy and passion that he devotes to his set lists.

Steve Poltz transfers his energy and passion to the crowd, encouraging audience participation if and when he can. From his epic Rugburns song Dick’s Automotive, with added baritone and falsetto, to the hands across the world finale of Long Haul, with hilarious commentary, he has that uncanny ability to conscript members of the audience and happily get them out of their comfort zone for a short while, to since or dance, or share a laugh. In turn, he helps them express who they really are.

Clothing is another form of self expression. Have you ever noticed that people like to wear band tee shirts to gigs? I do. I guess it’s a bit vain, it’s a bit of a status thing; look at me, this is who I am and who I like. Can it make a difference to the gig? It did for me. I’d worn one of my favourites – a Big Star tee shirt. Big Star: one of the best ‘unknown bands’ that have influenced countless numbers over the years. I was overwhelmed when Steve Poltz dedicated his cover of Thirteen to Big Star’s late, great Alex Chilton, who passed away in 2010. As always, I purchase a copy of the show on USB, and hang back to pick up an extra cd or offer thanks for a great performance. When I spoke with Steve briefly after his set, I’m not sure who was more gob-smacked: him for seeing someone with a Big Star tee shirt, or me for having one idol play one of my top ten favourite songs. The beauty of Steve is that he appreciates the awe us fans have for our rock stars. He makes a point of getting around to as many people as he can, sincerely acknowledging their support and interested in their comments or questions. And he backs that message up professionally. This show was his last public gig in Australia. But he was performing again – in someone’s lounge or backyard. You see, subject to availability, you can book him for your own private gig. Sure, he doesn’t make much from it – but it keeps him grounded, and connected to his fans. Just like the minstrels of old...

Ever heard of Steve Poltz? You have now. The rest is up to you.

From The Royal Mail To The Forum: Paul Weller

From The Royal Mail To The Forum: Paul Weller

I am a massive Paul Weller fan. And I didn’t even realise it until a few days ago. I mean, I’ve always liked him, and regularly include his songs on mixed compilations. But it finally dawned on me just how much Paul Weller stuff I have. In anticipation of his concert, I began listening to various songs on my iPod. I have a couple of The Jam albums, all of The Style Council, and most of his solo work. In fact, as I look back, Paul Weller has played, and will play, a significant role in the key moments of my adult life.

As a young man I was hooked on A Town Called Malice and That’s Entertainment. They were the type of songs I wished I could write. Sadly, my efforts didn’t even come close. For our wedding, my wife and I chose You’re The Best Thing, which is still a very special song for us. I still remember the DJ we hired did not have a copy of the song, so he bought the album. It makes me laugh now as I recall he announced the married couple to the dance floor and played track 9, not track 10. For those not familiar with Cafe Bleu, track 9 is the rather unwedding- like Strength Of Your Nature. Across the other side of the room, we were frantically waving (and laughing) at him to stop. Finally, he stopped, apologised, announced the married couple again, and then proceeded to play the exact same song again. This went on another two or three times. In the end I had to go over to him, put his headphones on him, point out track 10, and let him hear the song properly. Shouldn’t he have played the song prior to the wedding reception? There was rapturous applause when, at last, we hit the dance floor to You’re The Best Thing. Of special significance to me is the song Brand New Start, which is one of the many songs that feature on my Funeral CD (but that’s another story).

So, it was with much excitement that I caught a train into the city to see Weller. As it was a warm day, I’d decided to meet Scog at the Royal Mail, in West Melbourne. The Royal Mail is just past a short walk from Flagstaff Station. When I say just past a short walk, I mean it is just enough past a short walk in order to build up a healthy thirst, loathe joggers, and appreciate cabs. The Royal Mail is a quiet and unassuming inner city pub, of the old school type. Most of the patrons are locals, and newcomers are greeted happily and welcomed. Everyone dips in and out of each other’s conversations. It’s not flashy or pretentious, and it delivers exactly what it should every time – a perfect cold beer on a hot day. It seemed like the perfect place to be before a Paul Weller concert. The idea was to have a few quiet beers between 5.30 and 7pm and then Scog would make his way to the station and I’d wander on down to The Forum. By 8pm, I was still caught up watching Scog play pool, and chatting about music, football, and family. I called it quits at 8.40 pm and stumbled out to catch a cab to The Forum.

The atmosphere was fantastic. I’m not sure if the people who had seats at the back paid more for them, but I reckon if they did, they were robbed. The real excitement was the standing room right in front of the stage. Perfect viewing, a bit of banter, and a short push and shove to the bar. Although, after taking out a second mortgage to pay for the two Jack Daniels, I decided I’d had enough to drink for the night.

Weller swaggered onto the stage, belting out tracks from his latest album, Wake Up The Nation, as well as from As Is Now. This was no Greatest Hits compilation – I suspect he chooses which songs to play carefully. And, at 52, Weller could easily settle for touring around with Hits and Memories, with such a vast songbook of popular tunes. It is a credit to him that he writes as good as ever, and he plays his songs with such passion and energy, that both old and new mesh together so well. A few songs in and Weller was well settled, alternately chewing gum, smoking, smirking, and singing, with a voice that hasn’t lost any of its vibrancy, or aggression.

The crowd helped to step it up a notch, getting into Shout To The Top, and That’s Entertainment. But, for me, the performances of You Do Something To Me, and Brand New Start were brilliant, as was Fast Car/Slow Traffic and Wake Up The Nation, which showcased the excellence of his backing band. The truth is, it was a perfect set. Each song fitted in place to enhance the whole show.

It was clear that Weller was enjoying himself, too; returning for four encores, including a superb acoustic session. There were a few murmurs about why A Town Called Malice was omitted from the set. Each to their own. The band were so good at what they did, that it was a privilege to watch them play anything. Weller should be congratulated for not being predictable, and having the courage to take some of his more complex arrangements on the road. And, after all, he is The Modfather – he’ll sing you a song you can’t refuse.

Ps: If you don’t own any Weller, you can get Hit Parade, which is a compilation of his better known songs across his whole career. If you can’t afford all his albums but want a deeper insight than Hit Parade, then I suggest three compilations: Compact Snap (The Jam), The Style Council Collection, and Modern Classics (solo work). That should keep you happy for a while.

2010

It's been a tough year, personally & professionally. I have not been able to get to this site as much as I would have liked. Actually, I've done nothing at all. Zero. Nada. Kinda like INXS without Michael Hutchence...You know, it's still around, but of aboslutely no importance, or purpose.

But I'll be back in 2010, just like (insert name of washed of B-Grade rocker making a pathetic comeback attempt here). At least there will be no shortage of material, as this last year has given me a huge backlog of thoughts and ramblings to spew forth on the world.

In the meantim, browse around some old articles, or news feeds, or play one of the cheesey games at the bottom.

Songs Of 2009

A Thousand Kisses Deep - Leonard Cohen (played A Day On The Green at Rochford. Amazing)

Sex Is On Fire - Kings Of Leon

Overcome - Live (Black Saturday Bushfires rage across Victoria)

Will I See You In Heaven? - The Jayhawks

Giving It All Away - Leo Sayer (For Terry, who lost his battle. RIP.)

Leaps & Bounds - Paul Kelly (Sound Relief - The MCG)

Holy Grail - Hunters & Collectors

Redemption Song - Joe Strummer/Johnny Cash

When A Blind Man Cries - Deep Purple

Chain Lightning - Don McLean

Eskimo - Damien Rice

Beat It - Michael Jackson

September Gurls - Big Star

You Gotta Fight For Your Right To Party - Beastie Boys (All those 21sts!!)

Take The Money & Run - Steve Miller (Redundant...again!)

Remember The Days Of The Old School Yard - Cat Stevens

My Guitar Wants To Kill Your Mama - Frank Zappa (10 Years Long Service)

Glory Glory - The Blackeyed Susans (Reveal Yourself CD Box set launch at NSC)

Dear Employer (The Reason I Quit) - The Minus 5

This Will Be Our Year - The Zombies

See you in 2010!

Essential Music Definitions

In our ongoing efforts to educate the reader, we are proud to offer the following definitions. We trust the reader will now have a better undertsanding of the world of popular music and that these definitions assist with the reader in making the right listening choices.



1. Dylanquent (n.): a person, predominantly young, who displays antisocial behaviour as a result of listening to Bob Dylan.

2. Hallelucination (n.): the experience of continuing the belief that Leonard Cohen's original version is superior to Jeff Buckley's cover.

3. Lobosexual (n.): a sensitive singer/songwriter of indeterminate sexuality.

4. Bonophobe (n.): one who fears the "cause du jour" preaching by famous mega rock stars or other celebrities.

5. Silvercherish (v.): to stubbornly hold onto the view that one's recent work has artistic or commercial value despite continual and obvious proof otherwise.

6. Zepplinen (n.): used bed sheets and other bedroom artifacts acquired by groupies and fans in the late 60's and early 70's.

7. Diarrhoereed (n.): 1. the complete works of Lou Reed 2. the result of listening to Lou Reed.

8. Psycholoasis (n): the study of brothers whose combined brains do not even register an IQ reading, yet function quite normally when separated.

9. Jaggernaut (n): any pompous, flambouyant prat who still thinks they are rebelling against the establishment that they have become part of.

10: Mariahcisstic (adj.): an abnormally high opinion of one's own output that has been universally shunned even by peers. To be a Social Mariah.

11: Eaglomaniac (n.): a once great person who comes out of retirement for all of the wrong reasons, usually related to money, and maintains they have current relevance.

12: Reggaelia (adj.): 1. the adoption of a musical form, or lifestyle, primarily to facilitate the smoking of marijuana. 2. the fashion of marijuana

13: Westerburglar (n.): one who obtains success through imitation of obscure innovators. Westerburgaled (v.): the act of stealing the work of another and receiving greater appreciation, fame, success than the originator.

14: Replacementia (n.): the emotional trauma of being Westerburgaled

15: Bjorkward (adv.): 1: the embarassing moment when realisation strikes that what was considered high art genius is merely mediocre madness. 2: when lack of talent is considered art.

16: Supertrampelistic (n.): any person or persons that were highly respected one decade and almost entirely forgotten the next. See also Supertrampelisticexpelledforbeingaudacious.

17: Elvision (n.): the religious like phenomenon of seeing dead rock stars in convenience stores and fast food outlets.

18: Powderfungus (n.): discomfort cause from gunpowder residue as a result of shooting oneself in the foot by accepting the accolades and promotions of commercial pop culture whilst still trying to maintain serious alternative music credibility.

19: Eminemena (n.): anything that may have once been considered new and refreshing, or different, but is now only used to produce a bowel movement. See also Diarrhoereed.

20: Vanillacide (n.): self inflicted musical or creative death by attaching the word Vanilla to any artist name, performance, song, or album.