Gig Review: Kraftwerk @ TSB Arena, Wellington, 29 November 2023

You know that feeling you get when you’re under the weather, functioning at less than one hundred percent, but have an expensive ticket to a bucket list gig? You force yourself out and simply hope for the best, well aware that it’s a bucket list gig you’ll (likely) never again get a chance to tick off?

That was my dilemma last Wednesday evening as I headed for Wellington’s TSB Arena to sate a lifelong desire to see Kraftwerk up close and personal. I need not have worried too much, any fatigue factor was partially mitigated by it being an all-seated event, and naturally Kraftwerk’s arrival on stage soon made me forget about any of those initial concerns.

There they were, almost within touching distance. Four glowing figures. Standing behind their four customary lectern-like structures. No other band* equipment in sight. And none required. 50-plus-years’ worth of cutting edge electronic musical innovation standing right there. Well, founding member Ralf Hutter was there, at least, with support from three band* members with considerably less time on the clock. It was Kraftwerk nonetheless.

*are Kraftwerk a band? Discuss, show workings where applicable.

As the German technocrats worked through the opening phase of their set it immediately became obvious we were about to hear something close to a “greatest hits” show - opening with ‘Numbers’, ‘Computer World’, and ‘Home Computer’ hybrids - and I couldn’t shake the notion that much of this stuff was practically inter-planetary back in the late 1970s and early 1980s when it initially surfaced.

Pre-Microsoft, pre-Windows ’95, pre-Apple, magnificence. And quite visionary when you stop to consider how relatively peripheral to our day-to-day world that kind of technology would remain for at least another decade.

The lightshow effectively amounted to projections on the super-sized screen behind the stage, which was more than enough, with each graphic or image perfectly synchronized with what we were hearing. ‘Spacelab’ courted us momentarily with screen shots of Aotearoa and Wellington itself, garnering an additional cheer from many, yet oddly provoking an involuntary bout of inner cringe from yours truly (why does it always have to be about “us”, huh? – Cynical Ed).

And it may have just been me, but five tracks into it, when ‘The Man Machine’ launched itself upon us, it felt like the gig suddenly took on another gear. Was it just a not-so-subtle increase in volume? … or had the pill I didn’t take somehow just kick in? It wasn’t just me, there was an immediate buzz all around me, and I felt sure the entire arena had instantaneously lifted itself couple of feet off the ground, at the very least.

Then the mid-set run: a veritable feast of everything that’s great about technology, and perhaps, 1970s Germany – visually and aurally … ‘Autobahn’, ‘Computer Love’, ‘The Model’ and ‘Neon Lights’, followed immediately by the weightiness of the always relevant but hopefully no longer quite-so-relevant ‘Radioactivity’, which ended with quite a crunch. Deliberately or otherwise (ie. slight technical glitch?), the bass-driven crescendo felt like it fair blew a hole in the very foundations of the venue itself.

‘Tour de France’ took us on a journey, a retro-trip in fact, back to when the world existed only in black and white, whilst simultaneously, musically, steering us well into the distant future. The less familiar ‘Vitamin’ followed, before what might have been the only programming or sequencing hiccup of the night, right at the start of a still quite sensational ‘Trans-Europe Express’; it seemed for a moment as though one of the quartet had briefly fluffed his lines, Hutter glancing sideways at the offender, but no real damage was done.

From there it was distinctly end-game stuff, and the slow build in tension to that earlier mid-set mini-peak was given wider context by a rush of pure unadulterated electro to end the show – after the relatively sedate, but still glorious, ‘The Robots’ had given us the calm before the climactic storm: a ‘Boing Boom Tschak’ / ‘Techno Pop’ / ‘Musique Non-Stop’ hybrid beast of a thing ending a show that will live long in the memory.

No encore, none called for, and none required. Everyone in that crowd had had their fill. And more. It was a gig well worth getting off my woe-is-me lethargic arse for, and one truly befitting the bucket list tag I’d long since given it.

Just a final word for Ralf Hutter himself: that man is 77, yet he stood there for a full two hours directing proceedings, amid the heat, the noise, the visual bombardment, and the pressure to perform; singing, vocoder-ing (is that a thing?), and fiddling with all manner of synthetic gadgetry. But at the end, there he was, the last man standing. Remarkable.

Gig photos courtesy of nothingelseon. With thanks.

San Francisco Nights

Last week saw my latest contribution to local pop culture history site AudioCulture published online (see here). This one was a little bit different. This time around it wasn’t a “scene” piece or a band profile, it was the history of a venue – San Fran in Wellington. A venue that has, a few times across the past couple of decades, been on the brink of terminal closure. But it always manages to survive and bounce back. It wasn’t strictly about San Fran either, because I wanted to offer a brief overview or history of the premises itself as the building located at 171 Cuba Street nears its one hundredth birthday. Which also meant there was a lot of focus on the popular nightclub known as Indigo, the building’s occupant at the turn of the century. This article sat unloved and unfinished in a "drafts" folder for more than three years as I tried to get some buy-in from a couple of people I desperately wanted to talk to, but never quite did. In the end, the "publish and be damned" option seemed the only way it would ever get to see the light of day. Anyway, click the link provided above and see what you think. 

Words Fail Me: A former fanzine writer recalls his days writing fanzines

Craig Stephen on a love of fanzines …

Bored, in between college courses, and with a desire to be noticed, this writer hammered at his keyboard to come up with a string of entertaining fanzines in the heyday of the format.

These A5 wonders were once an important part of the underground media. They were a source of information for music fanatics with music coverage restricted to the weekly newspapers which often bypassed certain bands or genres to the annoyance of many.

In Britain, the black and white paper frenzy began in earnest during punk, with titles such as ‘Ripped and Torn’ and ‘Sniffin’ Glue’, which have virtually entered the mainstream as reference points, and have been compiled into glossy books. As punk was overtaken by post-punk, indie and a myriad of sub-genres, fanzines blossomed, often particular to certain bands or the trend of the month.

In New Zealand, the likes of ‘Empty Heads’, ‘Push’, and ‘Anti-System’ appeared while the Dunedin-based ‘Garage’ fanzine is generally regarded as the daddy of them all, and has recently been compiled in a big fat book costing $59.

My own experience of writing/editing fanzines began while studying at university and with the hopes of having something to add to my rather thin CV. They were an outlet for my writing ambitions as well as my angsty, generally left-wing opinions. And they were also a vehicle to gently annoy people, people who needed to be annoyed. Of course, those people would never have actually read my zines, but that wasn’t the point.

 The first zine was dedicated to the House of Love, and was called ‘Se Dest’ after one of their album tracks. It was a straight-down-the-line band-focused fanzine, with the emphasis on fan. It was short and to the point. While it was strictly a one-off for me, I am pleased to say that ‘Se Dest’ continues as an online publication in the hands of one of the first people to buy that initial edition.

Nevertheless, my mind was more interested on the broader music scene so I did a zine dedicated to the Festive 50, the end-of-year chart of the year’s standout tracks which were aired on the John Peel show during the Christmas break.

It appealed to the list-making side of my brain, and while it was a straight compilation of annual charts from 1976, it had a great title ‘The Recreant Cad’, and a cover star in Kenny Dalglish in a Celtic strip. He wasn’t a cad, just my favourite player growing up. Dave Gedge of the Wedding Present was a buyer.

But the real deal were a series of zines that expanded my musical interest. The first of these, ‘Words Fail Me’, featured a cover drawn in the shape of a whisky bottle and had the words “established in 1997”. The back cover had a map of Angus with my home town Montrose snap bang in the middle.

The emphasis was on not taking myself seriously and to write about subjects that mattered to the still young self. “There is basically no limit to what can be discussed,” I wrote in my introduction trying to entice would-be contributors.

 So, the first article was entitled “Burn the NME” and was a critique of the best-selling music weekly of the time. Just to consolidate my dislike of the owners, editors and writers of that esteemed publication, there was an article called Morrissey versus the Music Press in which I both defended and pilloried the artist, and accused the music press (and that being mainly the NME) of having a vendetta against Mozza. Clearly, I had some internal issues with the music media at the time. Far more constructive was the obituary for Billy MacKenzie of The Associates, a cribbed interview from another fanzine of punk revivalists ‘S*M*A*S*H’, and some record reviews.

The enthusiasm was there, though it’s debatable about the quality. There is certainly a refreshing sense of dry and dark humour throughout, and some of it couldn’t possibly see the light of day in the current climate.

The second edition of ‘Words Fail Me’ is something I am far more prouder of. There are interviews I conducted myself – of Travis before performing one night in Sheffield, of Topper over the phone, Dave Gedge, and Euros from Gorky’s Zygotic Mynci, who wasn’t in the mood to talk after the band’s soundcheck but gratefully did so anyway. I stuffed up the recording of the Topper interview, and after writing up what I recalled of the chat almost immediately, made some stuff up based on what I knew of the band.

There were live reviews of acts performing in Sheffield and Hull, and a piece on French arthouse movie Battle of Algiers. Mates contributed short stories and there was a feeling that this was what a fanzine should look like. It was still stapled together, the font types and sizes are all over the place, and it contained several cut and glue pictures, but it was a move forward.

 The third of these zines was issued when I had moved to Croydon in south London. It was not a suburb renowned for producing great bands nor contained any venues of note, but had several excellent record stores including Beanos, which was apparently the biggest independent record store in Europe at the time. The best thing about it were the trains heading to central London or in the other direction to Brighton.

Unfortunately, I can’t locate my own copy of this so I’m unable to offer judgement on it, but I recall it being a continuation of issue 2. It contained one of my own short stories (which I never want to read again!) and a piece on American gangsta novelist Iceberg Slim.

But at this point, the work involved for modest sales was draining, and a career in journalism was taking precedence. Meanwhile, fanzines were being taken over by the phenomenon that was the internet.

In 2023, there isn’t much need for printed music zines with so many avenues online. The DIY cottage industry still exists, and recent Zinefests in Wellington have been dominated by those focused on identity or other personal issues, or comics.

Some music fanzines exist in the UK where the football zine is surviving via veteran publications such as ‘Not The View’ (Celtic) and ‘City Gent’ (Bradford).

You hear that? That was this writer giving himself a firm pat on the back, not due to an out-of-control ego, but for having the motivation and commitment to do something that took an awful lot more work than the finished product would suggest. I put it down to a start in a career that has taken me to New Zealand, into radio and several quality publications, as well as being a published author.

Long live the fanzine. If you know what I mean.

Gig Review: Kevin Bridges @ MFC, Wellington, 7 November 2023

Walking into the Michael Fowler Centre last Tuesday night I worried that I might already know all of Kevin Bridges’ best material. I’ve seen so many online clips of the prolific comedian’s live performances across the past decade or so, I feared it could be a night of few genuine surprises.

But that outcome, of course, would be completely at odds with one of stand-up’s many unwritten rules; a new tour - in this case, Bridges’ ‘The Overdue Catch-Up’ tour - is almost always about unveiling brand new work. New stories, new jokes, and a bunch of fresh takes. A new tour is the comedy equivalent of a musician or band releasing a brand new album.

 I missed the Glaswegian funny man the last time he performed in Wellington in 2017, but his reputation clearly proceeds him in this part of the world, because he all but sold out the MFC (the kitset-like wooden interior of the venue is “like a giant Ikea” according to Bridges), with a large portion of the capital’s (and beyond) ex-pat Scottish community firmly in tow.

In fact, Bridges must have wondered what all the fuss was about when he arrived on stage, just after a chorus of boos rang out around the venue – on account of some jobsworth “security steward” having asked a group of patrons to remove the large Saltire they’d hung from the front row of the theatre’s second tier.

It turns out “Owen fae Dunfermline” was responsible for that little piece of mischievous patriotism, and the Saltire soon reappeared, exactly where it shouldn’t. Bridges quickly spotted it and immediately had a little fun with Owen during the first segment of his set.

Bridges loves a bit of banter with his audience, and for the most part that’s one of the best things about his comedy. The connection, the humanity, the cheeky-chappy persona, and the sense that he’s really just an ordinary guy getting paid to share his close observations about everyday life. But it doesn’t always work out, and it could be that on this particular night, Bridges overestimated the intelligence of those he was about to banter with.

It was a feature of the night, and not necessarily in a good way. Pass marks and bouquets for Owen, and a “57-year-old” man who challenged Bridges’ assertion that teenagers drink less these days, but a firm brickbat to the clearly drunk English woman who kept wanting to involve herself. “You’re a cunt” she yelled, to the appreciation of exactly nobody, before Bridges reminded her - and perhaps himself, through gritted teeth - that he was “a cunt she was paying money to see”.

And a brickbat to the guy wearing “the Cowboys” tee who refused to engage, and perhaps an only slightly less violent gong for Bridges’ selected “local” translator in the front row, who tried to engage but evidently had issues speaking the language coherently.

Sometimes audience engagement works out just fine and adds to the flavour of the gig, but on this occasion it only seemed to leave Bridges scratching his head and regretting it. At one or two moments, particularly near the end, Bridges had to essentially beg rogue wannabe participants to quieten down just so he could get to the end of his story.

Other than those unforeseen hiccups, Bridges was in pretty good form. He reminded us that so much has happened in the six years since he was last in Wellington, with warzones in Europe and the Middle East, with Covid, and the small matter of him getting married and becoming a father during that period.

Covid and its fall-out is ripe subject matter at present naturally, and Bridges returned to it a few times during the course of a set which also had gags around bullying, cancel culture, insomnia, social media, technology and the internet, yet one of the biggest cheers - but not so much for yours truly - was reserved for a tale about hemorrhoids which crossed over nicely with an amusing observation about Instagram gym junkies.

Now in his mid-30s, although he seems to have been around a lot longer, Bridges also indulged in morsels of obligatory self-deprecation, having a laugh at the boy and young man he was, while also having a wee crack at his older present day self.

He managed around 80 minutes and was good value for most of it, all unwanted interruptions aside. All of his gags were new to me, and I suspect many of these stories will only get better, and probably even added to, as the tour continues.

The opener/support slot was Londoner Carl Donnelly. Not Carl Connelly, as the promo flyers suggested. Imagine getting a career break to perform 12,000 miles from home as the support for a popular headline star and the lazy marketing people only go and get your name wrong?

Donnelly did a relatable and mostly funny 20-minute set covering off his Irish heritage, his physical decline into middle age, and turned his (and his partner’s) struggles with IVF into a series of quips about wanking. He looks like one to keep an eye on.