The Psychedelic Booby Trap Issue

FREE VOLUME 9 NUMBER 5

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

This psychedelic image was made by Krystle Cole. She told us they were “inspired by an entheogenic experience.”

VOLUME 9 NUMBER 5 Cover by Angela Boatwright

PLEASURE TO MEET YOU, RAINBOW GUY Now Tell Us About Your Underground Tunnel to Nowhere . . . . 16

PLAYING IT STRAIGHT A Month of Giving Up Everything Gay . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28

WE ANALYZED KEITH MORRIS’S DREADLOCK It Contained Uranium and Arsenic . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18

PSYCHICK CHIC A Lovely Day of Shopping With Genesis P-Orridge . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32

ROSEMARY’S BABIES Satanic Cults and Their Hapless Victims . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20 THERE’S NO TOWN LIKE SNOWTOWN Justin Kurzel Shoots Australia’s Most Notorious Serial Killer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24

A PRAYER AND TWO PARABLES . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54 TOUGH QUESTIONS Ukrainian Police Officers Can Be Very Unpleasant . . . . . . . 58

12 Masthead 14 Employees 36 DOs & DON’Ts 44 Fashion: Put It in Your Mouth 64 Toupee: Dead Dick 66 The Learnin’ Corner 68 The Cute Show Page! 70 Reviews 78 Bob Odenkirk’s Page 80 Johnny Ryan’s Page

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FOUNDERS Suroosh Alvi, Shane Smith EDITOR Royce Akers (royce@viceaustralia.com) EDITOR AT LARGE Briony Wright (briony@viceaustralia.com GLOBAL EDITOR IN CHIEF Andy Capper EXECUTIVE EDITOR VICE GLOBAL Rocco Castoro SENIOR EDITOR Thomas Morton ASSOCIATE EDITOR Ellis Jones FASHION EDITOR Annette Lamothe-Ramos LAYOUT inkubator.ca WEB DESIGN Solid Sender DESIGN ASSOCIATE Ben Thomson (ben@viceaustralia.com) WORDS Hannah Brooks, Alex Dunbar, Brett Gelmen, Tom Littlewood, Paul Maliszewski, Bob Odenkirk, Jamie Lee Curtis Taete PHOTOS Alex Binder, Angela Boatwright, Janicza Bravo, Jason Fuford, Justin Kiersky, Ben King, Aliya Naumoff, Ben Ritter, Jamie Lee Curtis Taete, Oliver Purser, Donald Weber ILLUSTRATIONS Krystle Cole, Johnny Ryan COPY EDITOR Sam Frank VICE AUSTRALIA Send us: Letters, DOs & DON’Ts, all CDs for review, magazines, books, neat stuff, etc.

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EMPLOYEES OF THE MONTH

JOHANN RASHID Joey here once broke his leg by slipping from the lighting rig at the Tote Hotel and slamming down onto that gungy, pre-renovation dance pit. He was then set upon by a horde of shrieking ladies who begged him to keep on singing (we did mention this was during a performance, right?) a request he then carried out with aplomb. Or at least that’s how he tells the story. These days Joey still plays in a bunch of bands, but he’s also become our guy for shooting video stuff. This includes everything from event coverage to shortfilms and all the local content on our live-music website Noisey.com. We like having Joey around because he’s weird, funny, smart, energetic and also, he comes in a package deal with two of the charmingest film production dudes in the world. You know who you are.

See www.noisey.com, as well as the short film LAND MEETS MAN which you can watch now at www.vbs.tv/volley

HANNAH BROOKS This tall drink of water was born in Bowen, a small North Queensland town famous for its delicious mangoes.

At one time, Hannah was the music editor of our Australian edition, which is why you may know her from VBS documentaries like Heavy Metal Gangs of Wadeye and Nimbin Mardi Grass. She is currently exiled in the paradise that is Byron Bay, where her days consist of loafing around the beach, walking the fine line between burning and tanning, riding her bicycle, wearing black on principle (she says there’s “too much colour in Byron”), getting calluses on her fingertips from playing guitar, avoiding bongo players, learning to drive (public transport isn’t an option up there), and conducting interviews with interesting people such as Rainbow Guy, the mastermind behind Byron’s Rainbow Temple and a deep, dark tunnel without a destination.

See PLEASURE TO MEET YOU, RAINBOW GUY, page 16

MAX FINCH When we first met Max, he was a photographer studying literature who worked in a bike shop, all while being lactose intolerant. He’s still doing all of those things, but now he’s also an operations intern here at VICE. It’s become kind of an office challenge to find out exactly how many more balls Max can keep in the air without having a nervous breakdown. To demonstrate to you that we aren’t kidding, in the last month we’ve had him run a fashion shoot for Westfield in Sydney, help organise a super complicated block party in Melbourne, run RSVP lists, act as door bitch at events, officiate at a 3-on-3 basketball tournament, devise a chicken paramagiana cook-off and run around on various wild goose chases. We haven’t cracked him yet, and to be honest, we’re not sure if we still want to. He’s kind of grown on us and more importantly, the resulting clean up would be unimaginable.

PAUL MALISZEWSKI One of Paul’s first short stories, written when he was a Tolkien-obsessed kid in Shreveport, Louisiana, involved a character walking into a pub, draining a pint of mead, and conversing with a face that appears at the bottom of the glass. He composes stories that alternate between painfully realistic examinations of the human condition and dreamlike narratives that reveal as much as they bewilder. Paul has received all sorts of well-deserved attention for his fiction and his essays, including two Pushcart Prizes and a book blurb from editor extraordinaire Gordon Lish that says, “Paul Maliszewski takes no crap,” which is like God saying someone is incapable of sin. Of course, we’re thrilled to be publishing three excerpts from his brand-new fiction collection, Prayer and Parable, which will be released this month by Fence Books.

See A PRAYER AND TWO PARABLES, page 54

ULTRAVIOLET BLACK-LIGHT CALENDAR This very special calendar came into our lives last Christmas during a Secret Santa gift-off. It features 13 classic images from Ultraviolet, a book celebrating the “out-there-ness” of black-light posters. Despite our shock that a publication dedicated to black-light posters actually exists, we’ve really been enjoying it here at the office; we count on its groovy date boxes to keep us on track for deadline and inform us of important psychedelic historical dates like the FDA’s approval of oral contraceptives (May 9) and the signing of the Anti-Ballistic Missile Treaty (May 26). There’s also loads of cool imagery: pretty girls with flowing hair and boobs made of flowers, mustached neon bikers, a naked couple making out in front of an enormous peace sign, outer space, and, of course, an ode to Jimi Hendrix. Now all someone needs to do is send us a black light.

See THE BRICK WALL ABOVE OUR ASSOCIATE EDITOR’S DESK

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PLEASURE TO MEET YOU, RAINBOW GUY Now Tell Us About Your Underground Tunnel to Nowhere INTERVIEW BY HANNAH BROOKS PHOTO BY OLIVER PURSER

hirty years ago, Rainbow Guy (aka Guy Feldmann) was divinely inspired to change his gypsy ways, settle down, and complete two very important missions: build the Temple, a nondenominational gathering place devoted to the pursuit of truth, and burrow an underground tunnel without a destination.

Not one to question the synchronistic flow of the universe, Guy soon secured a suitable patch of land in the hills behind Byron Bay, Australia, and in 1981—on the doubly auspicious occasion of Easter Sunday and a full moon in Libra—began to execute the consecrated tasks bestowed on him.

Since its inception, the Temple has grown in size and reputation. By Guy’s estimate, it currently attracts approximately 300 visitors a year, mainly international travelers and spiritual enthusiasts. It is a place of refuge where people can stay for as long as they want without hassle.

Following the mantra “As above, so below” (we’re still unclear on what that means, but it sounds nice), Guy has no plans to stop digging anytime soon—or ever, for that matter. Guy told us that his tunnel, at 165 feet deep, is still in its infancy. His ultimate goal is to create an ever-expanding labyrinth that stretches for miles.

Wishing to pay our respects to the Temple, and of course witness the intriguing tunnel for ourselves, I found Guy drinking coffee amid a group of Israeli backpackers. As expected, he was incredibly warm and welcoming but a little concerned that our interview would cause him to miss the beginning of a footy match that was about to air on TV. Of course, I kept asking questions so I could talk to him for as long as possible.

Wouldn’t you? I mean, look at him. He’s fuckin’ Rainbow Guy!

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Vice: So you’ve been working on this tunnel for how long?

Rainbow Guy: I had to finish the Temple first, so I didn’t start on the tunnel until about 15 years ago. If you actually add up all of the work time—as in eight hours a day, five days a week—I’ve probably only put in about six months of real labor.

Are you aiming for a certain length?

There’s no end to its journey. Miles, I’d like to think, but obviously this won’t happen in my lifetime. Yet there should be no reason to consider my death to be the end of the tunnel—it should go on.

Does the tunnel represent a certain meaning or sentiment, or are you just really into drilling through rock?

The tunnel complements the Temple. The idea is to build a labyrinth with lots of interior tunnels and egg-shaped rooms that we can use for singing, meditation, storage, retreats, water containment, and sound and light deprivation. But mainly it’s fun, a great adventure, and part of a health campaign. I’m 65 years old, and you know the saying: If you don’t use it, you will lose it. There’s a lot of truth to that.

Have you ever considered joining a gym instead?

Yes, but then there’s the joy of doing this. Every time I come out after a strong session underground, I feel like I could go in again; I’ve got more energy than when I went in. It’s something about being charged by the earth.

Right. How does that tie into sensory deprivation?

I’ve heard that if you spend a period of time in darkness, away from sound and light, that the brain goes through a change to adjust to those circumstances. The left and right brains will eventually meet because nothing separates them anymore—there’s no cause and no effect. Apparently, it’s quite a valuable experience.

You’re not claustrophobic, are you?

Yes I am.

Does it impede your maximum tunnel-boring potential?

I made sure that the tunnel was big and wide enough that it wouldn’t be an issue, and I am not claustrophobic in that tunnel. In other places, yes, but not in there.

Have you experienced any problems with the local authorities?

I imagine it’d be hard to get a permit for something like this.

I probably would have trouble if they were aware of the tunnel, but I don’t because they’re not. You’ll have problems with the council if you pick your nose. You can’t do anything.

I met your son earlier, and he told me that he sees the Temple as the ultimate penis and the tunnel as its accommodating vagina. Is that a sound theory?

The Temple, being such a monolithic structure that reaches upward, is, in a sense, a vertical penis. It’s surrounded by a stage, which is a big, beautiful receptive area, but yes, you could say it’s phallic, tall, and proud. It hasn’t been crowned yet, and I’m sure that it will bring about an orgasm of sorts when it’s finally finished.

Then there’s the tunnel itself, which, when I’m in it, is like being inside the womb of the earth because all I feel there is love; I feel embraced by the earth when I’m in there digging. I get covered in clay and come out dripping sweat and feel like I’ve been through some sort of transformation or conscious metamorphosis.

Any idea why you received this particular calling?

Scientologists have a question: “If you find yourself surrounded by chaos, how do you get out of chaos?” I believe the answer is: Take any point and start from there. This is the point that I have started from, or that the universe has started from through me, to work its way out of chaos.

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WE ANALYZED KEITH MORRIS’S DREADLOCK It Contained Uranium and Arsenic

BY VICE STAFF

hey say eyes are the windows to the soul, in which case your hair is what? The roof? Like a roof, your hair is important but something that most of us hardly ever think about beyond its outward appearance. If you don’t take care of it, it will rapidly be tangled with gunk and tennis balls and dead birds.

Take Keith Morris, former Black Flag vocalist and frontman for the Circle Jerks and the recently formed OFF! He’s been growing his dreadlocks in a variety of configurations for almost 23 years, and they now look like something that was snaked out of a gutter after a particularly bad rainstorm.

This is why, after pondering the cornucopia of disgusting junk that might be found in Keith’s keratin helmet, we asked him and his fellow OFF! bandmates (who would serve as a control group, of course) to send us at least three grams of their locks. The plan was to mail the samples to a lab in Texas that specialises in “Hair Tissue Mineral Analysis.” This not-exactly medically approved hair test determines which vitamins and minerals an individual is lacking and how many hazardous metals are constantly being pushed through his or her scalp. We thought it’d be a good alternative to a normal music feature, because writing about bands is usually about as interesting as taking a shit in your shoe and walking around the block.

The next time we heard from them, they told us that not everyone was into it. Initially, we figured it was Keith who was uncomfortable with the idea because he felt singled out due to the situation on his head. But for the record, we must state that Dimitri Coats, Steven Shane McDonald, and Mario Rubalcaba—three supposed punks who between them were in Burning Brides, Redd Kross, and Rocket From the Crypt—were, for whatever reason, scared of having their precious manes inspected by weirdo pseudoscientists in Texas. Keith, however, was totally game and immediately FedExed us a little furry cigar.

For science’s sake, and because the rest of the band declined to participate, we tested three other samples alongside Keith’s: a black guy’s dread, some ginger strands from one of our photographer buddies, and a bunch of clippings we stole off the floor of a barbershop. After about a week, the lab sent us back pages of charts and graphs that we did our best to process and summarise into language that someone would actually want to read.

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BRAYDEN OLSON Brayden is a photographer with hair like Sideshow Bob’s. He’s also always up to no good (the day before we finished this article, he was stabbed by a cab driver in the arm for arguing over a fare), so we thought he’d make a great candidate for this project.

The lab report’s confusing “Nutritional Elements” bar graph showed that he has lots of minerals like calcium, manganese, cobalt, and iron in his system. We thought that was good, but then the following page told us that the calcium “is not being utilised properly,” and this could lead to joint stiffness or low energy levels. Even more troubling was the presence of excess cobalt, which can be caused by exposure to paint or animal feed, and manganese, which is present in gasoline and fertiliser. The only explanation is that Brayden spends lots of time in a dungfilled flophouse, getting high on fumes from gasoline-coated rags. Clearly, this is not the ideal lifestyle in terms of balancing one’s vitamin and mineral intake. According to the report, he should eat more oysters and pumpkin seeds but cut back on the pickled herring. If Brayden continues his bad habits, he’s at risk for such ailments as fatigue, depression, and bradycardia, which apparently is a condition where your heart rate slows to under 50 beats a minute. Not good.

MYSTERY BARBERSHOP HAIR

A BLACK DUDE’S DREAD

KEITH MORRIS

What can you tell about a complete stranger from analyzing his or her hair? Not a whole lot. This dude’s hair—we’re assuming it’s not a lady’s because it looks like man-hair and we got it from a barbershop—is remarkably similar to Brayden’s in terms of chemical composition. The big difference is that it contains a bunch of cadmium, which is often caused by either tobacco smoke or zinc smelters. He suffers from the same risks of fatigue, allergies, and bradycardia as Brayden (and, suspiciously, all of our other participants) and received the same sort of labyrinthine dietary advice: Eat less cabbage and kale but more rye bread, wheat germ, and blackberries, which contain high amounts of phytates (phytic acid in salt form).

Finally, someone who is actually in pretty good shape! This dreadlock came from a guy who told us that he gave up drugs and alcohol years ago, and his clean living is apparent in the test results. His hair contained more than the usual amount of aluminum, but this isn’t an issue because most food contains the substance. He also had an excess of vanadium, but that’s not likely a cause for concern.

The lab report said he was at risk for allergic reactions, itchy skin, and headaches—but doesn’t everyone who lives in a large city have those problems all the time anyway? Like everyone else we tested, the report also suggested that he buy a bunch of nutritional supplements. In our professional opinion, though, he’s going to be fine.

The first thing we noticed about Keith’s results was that there’s a ton of uranium in his hair. The report said that this isn’t the type of uranium that turns people into superheroes or kills them, but we’re still a little worried for him because it’s fucking uranium.

He also had a bunch of arsenic in his mane, but curiously the report focused more on his apparent excess of copper, which can have an “antagonistic effect on zinc.” High concentrations of copper, the report warns, have also been associated with hair loss. Maybe Keith knows this, and that’s why he’s let his coiffure mat and clump for maximum coverage. The 25-page analysis also includes a chart marked “Tendencies” that lists ailments Keith should expect to experience unless he shifts his day-to-day habits toward metabolic optimization. In Keith’s case, he could suffer from depression and unnamed allergy symptoms, which doesn’t sound that bad considering he’s walking around with the Fukushima reactor on his head. In fact, Keith’s hair was probably the healthiest overall.

Catch OFF! live on our new music site Noisey.com.

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ROSEMARY’S BABIES Satanic Cults and Their Hapless Victims BY TOM LITTLEWOOD PHOTOS

BY ALEX BINDER

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atanism typically conjures thoughts of darkcloaked figures in deeply wooded areas, where they sacrifice livestock over a makeshift altar and whisper mysterious incantations in hopes of appeasing their dark lord. Maybe every once in a while they get creative and throw a baby doll off an overpass or vandalise a Catholic church with swastika graffiti to garner a bit of attention. Chances are, however, that anyone who participates in these types of activities is also a regular at IHOP, works at a mall, and thinks Marilyn Manson is a real person.

Truly terrifying entities don’t advertise their presence, which is the main reason traditional satanic cults have eluded the public and thrived in every sector of our society. For hundreds of years, these secret organizations have relied on the simplest method to recruit and convert: fear. In fact, the only reason we are certain satanism still poses a danger is because it continues to produce victims of severe ritualistic abuse.

Claudia Fliss is a therapist and Germany’s leading expert on the aftereffects of ritualistic abuse.

She has helped rehabilitate former members of satanic cults for the past two decades. Claudia has examined hundreds of correlating accounts from cult members who strayed from the flock, and the examples she gave me made the usual yarns seem like bedtime stories. For starters, victims frequently recount instances of cannibalization and the murder and rape of children. Even more disturbing was the way Claudia spoke of these events with a serene familiarity—she hears these kinds of accounts on a regular basis.

Just when I thought it couldn’t possibly get any worse, Claudia informed me that the majority of her patients were born into satanic orders and “programmed” from an early age to obey their fiendish parents and elders.

One of the initial stages of programming involves locking a child in a box and sounding a corresponding “trigger,” such as a mobile-phone ringtone or whistle. The goal is for the child to associate the noise with feelings of horror and dread, a method of control that proves to be very effective once the child is let out, which, by the way, doesn’t happen until he or she is moments away from total asphyxiation.

After the lid is opened, the child is immediately instructed to do something awful like kill an animal.

In most cases, the youngster refuses and is forced back inside, where he or she must wait for even longer before being hauled out again and given the same instructions. If he or she puts up a fight, it’s back in the box until the kid’s will is broken.

This process is so traumatic that the victim’s mind creates completely new and different personae (often older children or even adults) that can better cope with the agony. When the

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individual is finally released, he or she identifies the box opener as his or her savior and, by extension, instantaneously becomes loyal to the cult.

Then, whenever senior cult members need the victim to do their bidding, all they have to do is repeat the trigger sound; the target will relive the initial traumatic experience and revert to the state he or she was in immediately after being let out of the box.

Victims of satanic ritual abuse are primarily women, and they often suffer from dissociative identity disorder as a result. It’s hard to fathom, but the number of identities within a single individual can exceed 100, and victims usually refer to themselves in the first-person plural.

After my initial interview with Claudia, she called to invite me to meet two victims and raise awareness of their conditions. Claudia also warned me that there was a large risk involved because the cult still had contact with the subjects.

Three days later, we met in a Berlin flat. Claudia introduced me to two girls who were both less than 25 years old. They were reserved and apprehensive, and chain-smoked while drinking cup after cup of coffee. We sat in a small bedroom and spoke for an hour about their experiences with the cult. The conversation would stall when my questions about satanic cults, ritualistic abuse, and sound triggers became too specific.

As they left the room, Claudia turned to me and asked whether I was aware of whom I had been speaking with. It was a weird question to be asked, so I paused for a second before she went on to explain that between the girls she had recognised at least ten distinct identities that had emerged during our conversation. After months of treating the girls, Claudia can easily recognise the nuances of different personae: the 25-year-old hyperintelligent girl, the moody 18-year-old, the mistrustful 45-year-old conservative.

The gravity of the situation was lost on me until I accompanied Claudia to the kitchen to speak in private. When I passed the girls, I noticed that they were slouched on the floor, literally saying, “Goo-goo, ga-ga.” The childlike personaes inside of them had grown tired of grown-up conversation and wanted to play with crayons.

After this first encounter, I met up with the girls on seven further occasions. During one visit, they arranged for me to meet more of the “little ones”—the young children and toddlers within their systems.

We visited a Berlin park just after dawn to avoid parents and their children. The mood was apprehensive, and when they were in eyeshot of the playground a remarkable transformation took place. Both girls began speaking in children’s voices, sucking on their thumbs as they discussed which swings were still dry and safe to sit on. Over the next 45 minutes, I met approximately eight different “children.” They scaled walls, slid down slides, kicked a soccer ball, fell off a swing, and thumped around in the sand.

As we were sitting in the sand, a whistle screeched.

One of the girls hid her head in her hands and began to cry. “I have to see Mommy,” she said. “I

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must see Mommy.” That’s when things became very dark.

Calling for “Mommy,” of course, meant she was expressing a desire to return to a member of the very cult she was now attempting to escape. Claudia later explained that the whistle had triggered a persona in one of the girls.

“We’ve always been several [personae],” said one of the girls in a voice that apparently belonged to a different child than the one I was speaking with just moments before. Her friend sat there hugging herself and sobbing. The girl continued: “Even if we don’t agree on everything, we’re the only company we have.”

I asked Claudia what the girl meant. “One goal of the therapy is to establish certain personae who act as spokespeople for others within the system,” she explained. “They build up a certain trust and deal with everyday encounters.

When a new identity is thrown into everyday life, it is the role of these more stable personae to calm them and explain what is going on.”

This process, called “sorting” by the girls, took a couple of minutes, and soon the small child had calmed down and was replaced by another identity. Had the girls not been capable of a staggering level of self-control, they would be back in the order now, suffering the consequences. The fact that they opened themselves up to me gave me hope that 22 VICE

one day others might follow suit in numbers that will force the public to pay attention to their plight.

“We can’t just live our lives complaining that there is nobody really there to help us without being willing to do something about this ourselves,” one of the girls said.

Even more than the torture, psychological programming, infiltration of governmental offices, and blackmail, the biggest factor contributing to the success of satanic cults is our reluctance to believe in them in a realistic way.

The German police don’t have a specific department that deals with crimes relating to satanism or ritualistic abuse, and the related crimes they do investigate are filed away in different categories and quickly disappear from the agenda. Many times, when victims make the incredible step of breaking away from cult life, the public can’t help but question their legitimacy and look for a way to discredit their stories.

As one of the girls said to me: “People don’t want to believe us because then they’d have to do something about it. I find that so cowardly.”

Then she started talking about the tattoo she was planning to get to cover the pentagram that was carved across her back. She said she was thinking of getting a dolphin.

Stockists: NZ 0800 80 1460 Aus 1800 655 154

Bunting (played by Dan Henchell) wins over the Vlassakis boys

THERE’S NO TOWN LIKE SNOWTOWN Justin Kurzel Shoots Australia’s Most Notorious Serial Killer

BY ROYCE AKERS PHOTOS BY BEN KING

etween 1992 and 1999 Adelaide man John Bunting killed 11 people, which is probably why everyone still thinks of it as the murder capital of Australia (which is wrong, it’s actually Alice Springs). Bunting’s M.O was to target those who wouldn’t be missed; drug addicts, homosexuals, child abusers. Before they died, his victims were tortured and forced to record messages to their families saying they were leaving and didn’t want to be contacted. The remains of eight of his victims were found, famously, inside barrels of acid which were stored in a disused bank vault. Director Justin Kurzel’s new film Snowtown is a chilling psycho-drama that’s based on these events and it totally gave us the creeps. It comes out this month so we thought we’d talk to him about it.

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Vice: Making a film that’s based on true events, are there any challenges associated with that? Especially 24 VICE

when your subject matter has already become folklore in Australia?

Justin Kurzel: I think that there’s a responsibility to make sure you tell the story with integrity, you know, it’s always going to be an interpretation.

Shaun Grant (Snowtown’s screenwriter) and myself, right from the very start, wanted to make sure that the victims were treated on screen with dignity, and that the violence in the film was always connected with the point of view of the lead character and the emotional truth of the scene.

Could you describe the lead guy? When you say the lead, do you refer to John Bunting or the young character, Jamie?

To me the story is told through Jamie Vlassakis, the seventeen/eighteen year old in the film. So when I kind of say the lead character, I guess I mean the point of view which the story is told through, which is his.

Jamie is an interesting character in that, while you sympathise with him, you definitely begin to lament his actions, or his lack there of.

I didn’t ever want to sit there and judge him. I mean, obviously he was involved in some pretty horrific crimes, and the film doesn’t shy away from his involvement in those crimes. I guess to Shaun and I, the most important thing was that the film posed the question of: what would have you done if you

You’ll be crushed if you miss out Sydney Film Festival is now on sale With 161 films from 42 countries, there’s a bit of everything to choose from.

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BEATS, RHYMES & LIFE

BLACK & WHITE & SEX

Actor Michael Rappaport’s engrossing doco traces the sometimes troubled history of beloved progressive hip-hop trailblazers A Tribe Called Quest.

Producer John Winter (Rabbit-Proof Fence) makes his directorial debut with this unconventional film-within-a-film about a sex worker (played by eight different actresses) who reveals disarming truths about the oldest profession during an extended interview.

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CORMAN’S WORLD: EXPLOITS HOBO WITH A SHOTGUN LBF In crime-ravaged Hope Town there is no hope – until Highly stylised ‘pop art film’ based on Cry Bloxsome’s OF A HOLLYWOOD REBEL an unnamed hobo (Rutger Hauer) shows up and novel showcases Aussie indie music and bands Martin Scorsese, Jack Nicholson and many others sing the praises of B-movie king Roger Corman in this documentary tribute.

swaps his walking stick for a shotgun.

including Tortoiseshell, Fergus Brown and Kids at Risk.

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MUTANT GIRLS SQUAD

THE TRIP

TUCKER & DALE VS EVIL

Carnage and comedy collide when a fighting force of foxy female mutants goes into battle for the survival of their species.

Acclaimed indie director Michael Winterbottom casts British comedians Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon as semi-fictional versions of themselves on tour in England’s Lake District in this hilarious but surprisingly elegiac road movie.

A pair of kind-hearted hillbillies are attacked by crazed college kids in this hilarious reversal of horror-movie conventions.

This is the bank building where the infamous barrels were housed

were in similar circumstances, had a similar up-bringing, and came across a figure like John Bunting? Would you have made difference choices than Jamie made?

Jamie’s situation is particularly bleak. He’s from a broken home in a community where there aren’t many opportunities. We get a strong sense of anger and mistrust, of being ignored. Do you feel this contributed to the way his story played out?

I think the fascinating thing about Snowtown is that it was a really group of vulnerable people who were struggling to be heard. And they were quite angry. What’s interesting about that is a figure like John Bunting coming into their lives and exploiting that fear and vulnerability and anger for his own use. I guess with Jamie, at that point in his life, he could have easily come across a positive figure that could have steered him in a different direction. Unfortunately the figure of Bunting came along instead, and his life took a very, very different path.

Could you describe John Bunting?

The film is based on transcripts and also a couple of books.

Particularly a book called Killing For Pleasure by Debi Marshall, who had done a lot of research around the area with a lot of people who had known John Bunting. And while we were casting and doing auditions, we met a lot of people who had known or known of him. Bunting himself rarely spoke while the trial was on so there is little known about him. There were a few outside sources that we spoke

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Richard Green as Barry

to that I guess gave a picture of a guy who was pretty charismatic, a bit of an everyman. We heard that he was incredibly generous to people and that he would look out for kids. For example, when he came into the Vlassakis family he went to parent-teacher interviews and always cooked.

So on face value, there was something quite trustworthy about him and I guess that was kind of important to us. To understand how someone like him was able to so quickly galvanise the community and work his way into a family and have them trust him. He’s a guy who brought a kind of order to the place and that’s definitely something we wanted to show in the film.

Bunting’s mixture of menace and charm must have difficult to find in an actor. Dan Henchell is a great find.

There’s something very likeable about Daniel. He loves being around people and talking with people; he’s very social.

People gravitate to him very easily and there’s something a little trusting about him. As the camera gets in close to his eyes, you feel there’s something else there, and you’re kind of leaning forward to discover but you’re not too sure about. I guess there’s that kind of tension, and that dynamic that we saw in the character of John Bunting and definitely wanted to see in him his portrayal in the actor that was playing him.

What strikes you about the acting in this film is the realness of the performances. It’s so understated.

Well Dan, and Richard Green were the only actors who

Lucas Pittaway as Jamie

had any kind of experience. The rest of the cast were first timers that we found at shopping malls and street castings and so forth, who lived around where the murders occurred. They all had quite an intimate knowledge of the story we were telling and, I guess, the gravity of it. The first-time actors were extremely conscious about doing a good job and it was very important to all of us that we didn’t make them look like idiots, that their performances came off in a natural, believable and chilling way. Which I think they do. They should be very proud of what they achieved.

Describe the impact of being a kid in Adelaide at the time these events occurred.

Well I lived ten minutes away from where the events took place and I have great affection for the area. I have really wonderful memories of the place so part of me want to get a better understanding to how this happened so close to where I was born and grew up.

Did that effect your approach?

It definitely meant I had a much more intimate relationship with it. For me it was about finding a kind of beauty, not only in the people but also the place. And a lot of that came from my appreciation of being in the area when I was younger. To me, an abandoned set of suburban blocks used to be my playground, so I looked at them quite fondly. Whereas some people might look at them as quite barren. I guess I went into the film with

a lot of affection, making sure that we were looking at this story in a very intimate way, rather than the generic clichéd representation.

That sense of respect definitely comes across in the film.

There’s a pronounced lack of exploitation which will be a surprise to anyone expecting a “slasher” type movie. How was it received when you premiered it at the Adelaide Film Festival to people who grew up around the story?

It went really well. We were extremely nervous about it as the film happened really quickly, I finished it maybe two or three weeks before. So the Festival was our first real audience, and at the same time, it’s the place that’s obviously you know, where the events occurred. Then, for the many of actors, it was their first time seeing themselves on a screen, so we were extremely nervous. On the other hand, we were also quite relieved to have it finally playing because I think a lot of discussions had been about it being a horror film or a slasher film. It was great to have the film out there and to have people just respond to it, rather than speculating. It won the audience award, which was an incredible honour for us. I kind of like felt we were connecting to an audience, revealing something new about a story that had been reported in a pretty one dimensional way. I think it surprised a lot of people that there were all these other characters involved in the story.

It was probably a bit different to what they had imagined or heard.

Snowtown is showing in cinemas around Australia literally as we speak.

VICE 27

PLAYING IT STRAIGHT A Month of Giving Up Everything Gay WORDS AND PHOTOS BY JAMIE LEE CURTIS TAETE

hanks to religion and the fact that certain people find butt sex “totally gross,” being gay can sometimes be a huge bummer. Due to this, there are some who would like to “leave the lifestyle.” But can this be done? Were we “born this way,” or do we have a choice? I wanted to find out.

My original plan was to attend one of those Christian retreats where you stay in the woods for a week and learn how to appreciate vaginas, but they all require superintense confidentiality agreements, so I wouldn’t have been able to make fun of it in a magazine. After doing some internet research, I (a 5 on the Kinsey scale, slightly less gay than Elton John) decided to spend a month self-administering treatment instead.

Here are some popular conversion methods that I tested.

T

Gay-to-straight bedroom conversion. The 50 Cent poster helped familiarise Jamie with male nudity in a nonsexual context.

Jamie’s gay iPod (top) and straight iPod (bottom).

REGAINING MY MASCULINITY According to Leanne Payne’s 1985 classic Crisis in Masculinity, the main reason men become gay is because they’ve lost touch with their masculinity. This causes a void in their souls, which they then attempt to fill with other men’s dicks. To rectify this situation, I gave my life a full heterosexual makeover: I started referring to my bedroom as my “man cave,” stopped keeping my clothes in a wardrobe and started throwing them on my floor, replaced my Wii with an Xbox, tacked a poster of 50 Cent on my wall, abstained from using conditioner, and replaced my iPod’s self-conscious mix of fragile indie songs and girly music with white-people rap and soft rock. I also stopped ironically watching Lindsay Lohan flicks and started seriously scrutinising Matt Damon movies, refused to wash my towels or bedsheets, used my bookcase to store empty liquor bottles, read Tracy Morgan’s autobiography, only ate meals that took less than 20 minutes to cook in the microwave, drank protein shakes and beers, and took part in a soccer game “with the lads.”

EFFECTIVENESS: 4 out of 10. The depression that resulted from constantly fixating on every aspect of my behavior served as a welcome distraction from my persistent homosexual thoughts (more on those later).

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Jamie looking at gay porn (left) and straight porn (right).

AVERSION THERAPY Even though I am a total baby when it comes to getting electrocuted, my initial plan was to self-administer electroshock therapy. The thought of it scared the shit out of me, but using instructions I found (of course) on the internet, I fashioned a disposable camera into a Taser and shocked myself while looking at gay porn.

Do not EVER fucking do this. It hurt incredibly badly—like I was simultaneously being punched in the face, being hit by a car, and dry heaving while having cigarettes put out on my teeth. Aversion therapy is supposed to be painful, but I genuinely thought I was going to die. I made an executive decision and downgraded my punishment to self-flagellation. I read somewhere that this is how monks counter sexual urges. Belt at the ready, I prepared a slide show containing a mixture of straight and gay porn. For each gay image I looked at, I whipped myself with the belt. For each straight image, I ate a piece of candy. I did this for about 15 minutes each morning and night for the duration of the month.

EFFECTIVENESS: 1 out of 10. Despite the fact that my left arm began to look like it was covered in rosacea, after a couple days, I got used to the pain of the whipping and started to really enjoy my nightly porn-and-candy sessions.

VICE 29

Jamie discovered Christian indie rock was actually worse than the new music on his straight iPod.

Touch therapy worked about as well as treating alcoholism with beer bongs.

RELIGION

REPARATIVE THERAPY

Because I live in England and not some developing country like Nigeria, Iran, or the USA, I was unable to locate a church that would perform a gay exorcism on me (lame), or even find one with strong antihomosexual leanings. My best bet was an organization called the Christian Revival Church that, according to their website, believes “in heterosexual relationships between a natural man and a natural woman within the confines of lawful matrimony. Adherence to this stated principle of sexual behavior is an inherent requirement of membership.”

It’s been a while since I’ve attended a church service, and they’ve really upped their game since my last visit. For starters, it was held inside a cinema with big La-Z-Boy seats and a Starbucks in the lobby.

Instead of the congregation singing hymnals from a book, a guy with gelled hair and dog tags hanging around his neck led a band that played MGMT and Arcade Fire rip-offs with religious lyrics that scrolled across the movie screen like it was a karaoke party for Jesus. The talking part was as boring as ever, but weirdly, the topic of discussion in my final week was Sodom and Gomorrah. Was this a sign from God? I also started praying regularly, which I’d never done before. At first it was a total snoozefest, but eventually I got used to it and it was kind of nice to have ten minutes of quiet time each night.

Reparative therapy is based around the theory that gays are spawned from a specific parental combination: an overbearing mother and emotionally unavailable father. This doesn’t really apply to me, but that’s cool because there are a TON of other things that cause homosexuality: loneliness, sexual abuse, low selfesteem, “artisticness,” lack of confidence (anyone who has ever been to a gay-pride parade can confirm that queers lack confidence), repressed childhood trauma, and platonic female friendships. Much like a horoscope, this applies to every single person on earth.

All of the reparative therapy I performed on myself was based on information given out by big ex-gay organizations like Exodus International and the National Association for Research and Therapy of Homosexuality. It was a little difficult for me to find specific instructions because almost every sentence on their sites ends with “for more information, buy this $40 book.” Still, I tried my best. The main areas I focused on were “bioenergetics therapy” (hitting a pillow while screaming, “WHY DAD?!?!”), “touch therapy” (no-homo spooning sessions with straight dudes), and obsessing over every homosexual urge to work out why I was having it (apparently it’s because I’m trying to fill gaps in my own personality by having sex with people who possess the traits I want, like a charisma vampire).

EFFECTIVENESS: 1 out of 10 again. I was going to burn in hell forever, I guess.

ABSTINENCE Due to pretty much every psychological group on earth claiming that gay conversion doesn’t work, most ex-gay groups have started to focus on abstinence rather than “curing” gay people. I abstained from sex and masturbation for the duration of my experiment.

Though I thought this would be totally ineffective, it actually had a fairly large impact on my sexuality by making me about 10,000 percent gayer. Now I know why closeted old gay guys cruise undercover police officers in airport bathrooms and hire male prostitutes to “carry their luggage.” I turned into a hypersexual monster. I’m usually a picky person, but by the end of the month I found myself attracted to all adult males, which, when coupled with the fact that I was thinking about sex ALL THE TIME, caused me to develop a really intense and creepy staring problem.

At one point I got turned on while watching an argument between Meat Loaf and Gary Busey on Celebrity Apprentice. Ugh. EFFECTIVENESS: -1,000 out of 10.

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EFFECTIVENESS: 0 out of 10. It’s easy to be cynical about the reparative-therapy movement and say that it’s a giant scam that preys on the hopes of desperate people, which is good because I’m feeling lazy today.

OVERALL EFFECTIVENESS Zip, obviously. I arranged a date with a young lady from the internet to test my heterosexuality, but I canceled at the last minute because leading the poor girl on made me feel like the worst person on earth.

Also, I didn’t need to test it. Pretending to not be gay doesn’t make you any less attracted to men. It just makes you into a self-loathing homo. The only thing I gained from this experiment was a newfound sense of pity for people who stretch this process out over their entire lives. That’s too awful to even think about. To summarise: Baby, I’m a fiiiiiiiiirework!

For Stockists phone: NZ 0800 80 1460 Aus 1800 655 154

We bought Genesis this black shoulder cape at a flea market in Brooklyn. She plans to decorate the back with a custom-made biker patch.

PSYCHICK CHIC A Lovely Day of Shopping With Genesis P-Orridge

BY ANNETTE LAMOTHE-RAMOS PHOTOS BY ALIYA NAUMOFF

32 VICE

s the fashion editor of this very magazine, I frequently have to schlep heavy garment bags around New York City and leaf through lookbooks of clothing Nathan Barley wouldn’t use to hang himself from a closet rod. Consequently, when it’s time to shop for myself it sometimes feels like I’m working. Shopping with friends is also difficult because they don’t understand that I’ve already pored over everything on the racks a dozen times over, so I’d rather not wander around SoHo for eight hours while tourists step on the shoes I just bought.

About a month ago my situation got me to thinking: If I could shop with anyone in the world who would it be, and would I enjoy it for once? A

A

few weeks later, a friend called to ask if I wanted to help her pick out a new dress and I confessed my dilemma. Somehow the conversation led to Genesis P-Orridge, specifically the time she told Ian Svenonius he could look just like her for $50. After we hung up, I opened my laptop, googled around until I found the contact info for Genesis’s publicist, and wrote an email asking whether she would like to go on a shopping spree with me on Vice’s dime.

Later in the day I panicked. I had just asked the pandrogynous, gold-toothed founding member of Throbbing Gristle and Psychic TV to be my gal pal while we spent a day buying crap we didn’t need.

Would she get pissed and cast a hex on me with a psychick cross?

Thankfully, I wasn’t left in suspense for long. I received an email from Genesis the next day: She was very much into the idea. We corresponded throughout the week, and she warned me that she had given up on trying to appear fashionable after being diagnosed with diabetes (a side effect of contracting a parasite during a visit to her beloved Nepal). But she needed to get some biker patches made and could use a new pair of boots, so we set a date.

A few days later, I was knocking on her door. It swung open, and there she stood with a bleached blond bob, denim vest, black t-shirt, raw washed jeans, and Supra high-tops. Things were a bit awkward at first (the photographer, two cameramen, and producer in the room probably had something to do with that), but we tried to make chitchat while Genesis showed us her prized biker vests.

As we waited for the elevator, I could tell she was uncomfortable, but she was still being polite. The drive to a Brooklyn flea market would be the true test of her tolerance.

I attempted some small talk as we walked to our rental van. I asked her about her building, which I had noticed was largely occupied by Hasidic Jews.

She told me that all the children were afraid of her, and everyone had been nicer when she first moved in because they thought she was a “real” woman. I sensed a hint of sadness in her voice and couldn’t help but glare at everyone who gawked at us as we exited the building and piled into the van.

Making our way toward Brooklyn, I casually asked about one of her tattoos—a leather glove with a nurse on top. She told me it was a tribute to her late wife, Lady Jaye, who worked as both a nurse and a dominatrix. The vibe in the van quickly snowballed into noticeable uneasiness as Genesis recounted the story of Lady Jaye’s funeral, specifically her body drifting down the Bagmati River engulfed in flames. I responded with, “That’s a beautiful send-off,” which is easily the dumbest thing I’ve ever said. She ignored that remark and continued to rehash the painful memories that my innocent questions brought flooding back. We were off to a really great start.

As we parked outside the flea market in Fort Greene, I slowly began to feel like Genesis was one of my mother’s best friends instead of someone notorious for jacking off onstage. We walked around the market, digging through piles of 60s erotica novels and discarded grade-school prize ribbons that seemed to interest Genesis for whatever reason.

Genesis with her favorite pillow.

Genesis will always take first prize in our hearts.

Then she saw the bear head. Gen (at this point I felt comfortable enough to abbreviate her name) wanted it for an upcoming museum exhibit. We tried haggling with the lumberjack-looking asshole selling it, but the guy wouldn’t budge. Instead we settled for a Liberace-style velvet cape and some 70s Penthouse mags. Happy with our treasures, we decided to celebrate over some champagne.

We got a table at a nearby Italian restaurant and promptly ordered two bottles of the bubbly. Finally, everyone seemed to loosen up. I listened as Gen recounted some of her past: There was her father, who rode motorcycles in the British Army—a man who never approved of her lifestyle. His last words to Gen were, “You disappoint me.” Then there was her mother, who passed away just last year. Although she was more accepting, she wasn’t exactly supportive, contacting Genesis only once in the last 30-odd years.

Our conversation took a weird turn as she spoke about her devotion to Santeria—Gen’s an Olorisha, an official priestess of the religion. She expounded on various rituals and then explained to me the significance of the life-size 34 VICE

We tried to haggle with the owner of this bear head, but he wasn’t having it.

He wouldn’t budge off his $350 price tag and kept saying, “But he’s such a handsome guy!” What a dick.

doll that once sat in my grandmother’s apartment. I always wondered about that thing because it scared the shit out of me. It was decked out in expensive jewelry, and later she mysteriously buried it fully clothed. Apparently, my sweet Gran practiced Santeria as well. The burial was an offering to a God named Oshun, affectionately known as “the perfumed whore” and the deity worshipped by Gen and Jaye.

Four hours had passed since we first set out, and there was little to show for it except a good buzz and a stack of nudie mags. We weren’t going to hit all the shops we wanted to visit if we didn’t leave soon, so we quickly paid our bill and set off for Greenpoint to order some biker patches from a weird sporting-goods store.

A group of Puerto Rican guys stared us down as we walked into the shop. Gen ignored them, of course, and casually mentioned that they were known as the Lost Boys—a gang she’d frequently seen in Ridgewood, Queens, where she lived with Lady Jaye before relocating to Manhattan after her death. As she browsed the store, she told us that she once owned a 1979 BSA and used to hang

Jimmy Webb of Trash and Vaudeville helps Genesis try on a new pair of biker boots. You should’ve seen how excited he was to kneel at her feet.

Genesis and Annette after a full day of gal-palling around town.

Cheers to you, Genesis.

out with the Hells Angels at their chapter in her hometown of Manchester. Their New York branch is off-limits to Gen because Jaye once dated an Angel, but at 61 years old she wants to ride again. I quickly glanced over at her order form: She wanted a gross quantity of rectangular patches in black and red that spelled FUCK ’EM ALL. It was getting dark as we headed to Trash and Vaudeville, our last stop whether we liked it or not since Gen needed to be home by nine. Jimmy Webb, the store mascot and Gen’s old friend, greeted us amicably. He rummaged through the racks, and as he picked out clothes he looked over at Gen and said, “Isn’t that the most beautiful face you’ve ever seen?” Later, when she told him that his ass was hanging out of his pants, he shrugged and yelled, “If I would’ve known you were going to be here today I wouldn’t have worn any underwear!” I can only imagine what he was alluding to, but we were out of time so I bought Gen some boots and we drove her home.

Before saying good-bye, I invited Gen to a movie the next night. I was speechless when she agreed.

Without a video crew in tow, Sunday night’s vibe was much more intimate and friendly. We started our evening at Employees Only, where Gen downed three fraise sauvages as I stuffed my face with bread in an attempt to keep my rabid enthusiasm at bay. We talked about our dogs and the serial killer who’s recently been terrorising Long Island, and she told me my messy bun looked “very chic.” Then we finished up and headed to the movie. She fell asleep right after the opening credits and snored through the rest of the flick. It was kind of sweet.

By the time the movie let out, it was pretty late, and she was obviously ready to go back to sleep. As we walked out, she claimed the film was just “all right,” but I knew better. In the last few minutes I spent with her, I saw that she’d finally let her guard down and was having a pretty good time. She thanked me for getting her out of the house and told me to give her a call again soon. On the way home, I thought, “Am I now friends with Genesis P-Orridge?” It felt pretty awesome.

We taped our day with Genesis for an episode of From the Pages of Vice… that will air later this month on VBS.TV.

VICE 35

DOs

Though the late 90s nearly killed it with the boot-cut jeans and JNCOs, girls have finally reawakened to the full power of sock culture. It started with leg warmers as a joke, then progressed to those gym socks with the stripes, then dark socks with shorts, then dark socks with shorts with heels, and now men are being treated daily to exotic boner fruit like horse socks in busted loafers that are physically impossible not to picture you naked in. What a time to be alive.

That overlapping border zone between traditional goth girls who’re still pissed at Valor for stealing Christian Death and East LA cholitas who razor stripes into their eyebrows and have 30 terrifying brothers is like the DMZ of sexual minefields.

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Look, ladies love guys who love to lick gash, and the only way they’re going to know this means you is if they see you out there, licking whatever gash you can find wherever and whenever possible. I don’t understand what it is about this you’re not getting.

“I don’t know, I still don’t think you should have taken the drink from that guy.

He keeps looking over at you an—there!

He just did it again. Did you see that, Angie? Angie? Why are you laughing?

Hellooooo? Annnnngiiie? Whaaaaart’s soooooo fuuuuuuuuuuuunnnnnneeeeeee?”

You’re pretty black when your weave also has a weave.

For stockists in Australia call: + 61 (0)3 9386 5544 www.facebook.com/HUNTER.BOOTS.AUSTRALIA

DON’Ts

It’s easy to see a bunch of people at a steampunk meetup at your local bar and say, “Ha ha ha, look at those ridiculous, self-absorbed man-children,” but if you ever had a phase in middle school where you were really into anime I think it’s healthy to take a deep look into these mono-goggled faces and say to yourself, “Wow, there but for the grace of God, taste, dignity, getting laid, work, drugs, friends who’ll call me out on stupid shit, selfawareness, a sense of humor, and not living at my parents’ house go I.”

Rarely can one shirt-and-pant-and-faceand-hairline ensemble capture the essence of staying up till 8 AM doing horrible cocaine and arguing about guitarists in a first-floor LA apartment with no natural lighting, but wow does this one and holy shit did that night suck.

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I guess you’ve got to do something to compensate for that Cro-Magnon brow, but reading Zola at a music festival is the kind of misguided teen intellectualism that only appeals to girls who like to cut their wrists with razors and packs of guys who like to punch your head with fists.

Your older sister’s friends seem like the coolest people in the world until they take you out for your 14th birthday and you suddenly realise that sitting at home on Facebook is way more fun than doing Jäger bombs in Mike’s basement and pretending to be wasted in every photo.

A friend of mine just moved back East from Southern California because he was worried all the sun and outdoor weather might be giving him skin cancer, but personally I’d be a lot more worried about all the people and drugs giving you brain dumbcer.

DOs

Thank you. We have spent the past ten years with our jaws in our collective lap at the grown men like Kevin James sitting around a table and acting 100% seriously about playing cards like it’s free hour at Camp Winnipesaukee. You have no clue what a relief it is to see a pair of bros come clean and say, “You’re right, this is kids’ shit.” Not sure how dude from the Cure got involved, but glad to have him on board nonetheless.

Fuck, do you remember the first time you got really wasted and danced with the guy (or girl) you secretly liked? Your brain was like, “I don’t know where this place is, but y’all need me from here on out, this is where I’ll be.”

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Guess what? Santa finally heard your prayers and brought you a little sister and she’s half-black and she’s into Bad Brains.

Timing could be a little better, sure, but if I were you I’d quit the griping and get some quality time in before she makes it to Quickness.

It’s fun to be a pretentious twat when you’re in college and come up with a bunch of high-concept bullshit that dialectically reorders the nexus of gender and class, but more often than not the best artwork comes from the simplest places. Like having legs on your mind.

While you have to dump him the second you turn 30 or have anything that can be described as a “profession,” dating a lazy goofball version of yourself is a pretty adorable option for attractive beta gals in their 20s.

DON’Ts

Crime is up on the New York subways. And I’m not talking about cool crime, like assault or robbery or murder. I’m talking about sound crime as perpetrated by packs of oldetyme, kazoo-wielding retards who steal the last shred of tranquility from your mind and grind it against a washboard to the tune of “Goober Peas.”

After two decades of complete strangers coming up to him and slapping themselves on the cheeks, Macaulay Culkin has dedicated himself to convincing the world he’s grown up. He got engaged to Meg Griffin and developed a beard and drug habit, but this might be overdoing it a tad.

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The only people more pathetic than that bottom rung of actors they pull from to do infomercials and red-carpet interviews are the ones right below it, practice-laughing in the bathroom mirror and salivating at the thought of asking Chloë Moretz what it was like working with Steve Zahn.

Momentarily sidestepping the crotch shorts, public writing project, and twin loneliness mascots, nothing says “I know less than three black people” more than a Coors Light hat that was pre-tattered at the time of purchase.

Guys, I had no idea Little Britain was an actual documentary series about real human beings in England. I thought the whole thing was a comedy show. I am so, so sorry for laughing at all those poor, sad, brain-damaged wretches.

BIG LOVE DRESS | WORN BY ACTRESS JESSICA CROPPER | BACKSTAGEPRESENTS.COM

PHOTOS BY BEN RITTER STYLIST: ANNETTE LAMOTHE-RAMOS Models: Sandy, Sara, Russell, Chelsea, Moki, Davi, and Jerry

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Altamont t-shirt, vintage scarf

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WeSC jacket

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Altamont jacket, American Apparel hoodie and t-shirt

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WITH SPECIAL GUESTS

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A PRAYER AND TWO PARABLES

BY PAUL MALISZEWSKI PHOTOS BY JASON FULFORD The short stories of Paul Maliszewski are laser-focused and perfectly terse, but they are also enigmatic.

Anyone who knows anything about the form will recognise these as ideal traits. Last December, Vice published Paul’s “The Parable of Wood and Fire” in our annual Fiction Issue. It was part of an ongoing series that began in 1995 and has now been collected in Prayer and Parable, which is out this month from Fence Books. The stories largely fall under two categories: humans hating and loving each other (the prayers) and more oblique narratives that go nowhere but say everything (the parables). It was only logical to excerpt a few of the stories and couple them with three new photos from Jason Fulford, who shot the cover of Prayer and Parable and whose work, like Paul’s, is confounding in the best of ways.

PRAYER FOR THE SAFETY OF THE PUBLIC SCREAMER

FROM MY WINDOW, I CAN SEE THE BUS shelter. A woman is walking away from it, and there’s a man underneath, standing. Both are dressed in the clothes of the season, and both are angry.

The man I have seen before. I call him Screamer. I hear him before I see him. In this way he is not like a jet fighter. Today, Screamer has a splint on his nose, making it longer and more pointed. When he screams, his splint quivers. Much of what he screams is profane, curses and swears. He often screams, Asshole fall off the fucking earth.

In the mornings, I hear him coming from the west, walking toward downtown. Later, in the evenings, he returns, walking toward the suburbs. He keeps a fairly tight schedule, Screamer does. In this way he is not unlike people who work at jobs downtown. Always he is angry. Always he is screaming.

I have seen Screamer look over his shoulder, back at the suburbs in the morning or back downtown in the evening, and I wonder what to make of that looking back. My first thought was that he was being followed. Someone was after him. He had made someone angry. My second thought was that he just believes he’s being followed. Whatever the case, Screamer is always yelling at the place he leaves, yelling at what he leaves behind. In this way he is not unlike you, or us, those, say, who have ever felt disappointed by the most recently passed experience, the last big letdown, that time we let ourselves think we were lucky, blessed, made from gold and promises. Precious stones never did rain on us.

Which brings me again to what I see from my window. The bus shelter. The woman walking away.

Screamer standing underneath.

The woman is angry. Screamer, she thinks, screams at her. And why shouldn’t she take Screamer personally? Perhaps he told her, Asshole fall off the fucking earth. The woman bends down to pick something up, and I think she’s going to throw something. I think, She’s going to hit Screamer. But it’s just snow, and the

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snow is so powdery and dry, it scatters immediately after leaving her hand. She might as well have hurled a handful of dust.

And Screamer still screams. The woman’s hair has come undone under her scarf, and she pauses a second to fix it. Screamer curses her, more loudly this time.

Asshole, he says. Fall off the fucking earth.

The woman walks away, and then the woman comes back.

She walks to the corner, and then she comes back.

This time, the woman spits at Screamer. And still, Screamer screams.

Once more the woman walks away and comes back.

And once more she spits at Screamer.

As she walks away, I hear her say, I could kill you.

From my window, I see the woman crossing the street and walking along the hillside. Screamer is still at the bus shelter and still cursing. Maybe this will be the last time I see him. Maybe someone will kill him.

Maybe some people will return for him and do what, I do not know. Fuck him up good.

I wish I could intervene. I want to manifest myself on the ground, between Screamer and the woman.

I want to move between them. I want to say, Wait, please, you don’t understand. Hold back your blows, OK? Stay, for a second, the stones you’ve selected for this man’s skull.

And what if the woman then came upstairs to my apartment? What if she could see what I see? Look, from my window. I’m asking you. Perhaps something would come of it: me, on the ground, meeting Screamer, while she sits upstairs. With the woman may come the hundreds, maybe the thousands, of people who will ever meet Screamer outside, on the streets and on the sidewalks. They all can crowd into my apartment, jostling for a view, a seat, a spot by the window.

But can I say, really, that I wouldn’t feel insulted?

Asshole fall off the fucking earth.

There is spit, and then there is the anger, like fingertips gripping my scalp.

P A R A B L E O F A M E R C I F U L E N D T O D R E A M S O F F I G H T I N G U N D E RWA T E R

MY OPPONENT ALWAYS ANNOUNCES HIMSELF the same way. He says, I have a bum. Warning. I know he means bomb, but he pronounces it in the pinched way of the British. Bum. Warning. I have a bum. Yet he is not British. He has, in fact, never ventured outside the States. He does, however, have a bomb. That is why he’s my opponent, my dear enemy.

The city is our battlefield. Streets and avenues have, for me, pugilistic significance, a long history of beatings and many losses. You may walk past these sites without knowing it. I have met my opponent in fields, in parks, in city squares. He has met me on board buses, subways, and monorails. We have fought under overpasses and over rivers. I have struggled against him amidst the carnivals of summer. He has found me cowering in the beverage aisle of a grocery store, hiding in the shadow of a pyramid of Coca-Cola. In tropical restaurants, cool rooms, windy vistas, on snowy heights, there is, we believe, no place we haven’t already fought. Were you unwittingly in attendance at some of our more celebrated bouts? We have wrestled atop buildings, decorating the skyline like two feisty hood ornaments. Always the game is simple, as my opponent takes pains to point out: one fall, mano a mano, me or the man with the bomb.

When I fight, however, I am at an immediate disadvantage. When I try to punch him, there’s no force behind it. I draw back my arm, but that’s it; that’s all I have time for. When I try to run, I escape from nothing. I am always caught in midturn, pivoting and pushing off with my strong foot, but no more. Caught and then hit and then hit again, I fall. There is something in me that works against the punch, against my flight; it subverts each of my attempts. It is like misdirection. It is like the fact that water is at its thickest, its most dense, seconds before freezing. It, I say, because it hasn’t any name.

It is all effect and no identity. In my most productive moments I come up with descriptions of it; I test them against my experience, comparing them against my bruises, measuring them alongside my memories of the man standing over me and laying into my body with whatever happened to be handy—a socket wrench, a golf club, a tire iron, a stick. It is like second-guessing raised to the power of ten. It is like an interior monologue as loud as a rock concert. It is like the flashlights of a hundred righteous accusers. Everything I do, anything I try, whatever I can manage, it is in double slo-mo. This is the cruelty of fighting underwater.

Do I even need to tell you that my opponent is not similarly afflicted?

Other opponents trade in casual menace. They like to say, I’ve been watching you, or, I know where you live. My opponent says, I know what you feel. He describes my small, daily failures to me. As if I didn’t know. His assessments are pinches that leave marks on the inside of my skin. He tells me, You are the Neville Chamberlain of your extended family. Or he says, Your love is like the plastic cups left over from a party. My body serves up for him a set of ready metaphors. Your stomach is a growing pit, he says, down which fall the snakes of your seven indiscretions. They are like arrows, their heads like arrowheads, and they move, constantly, one over another. Are you feeling that? he says. When I don’t answer, he asks, Don’t you understand?

I’m not sure, I say. Then, after some thought, No, not really, I guess.

I’m talking about your insignificance, he says, as if it could all be so plain.

I get what you’re saying, I tell him. In general, I mean, but you lose me on the specifics most of the time.

My opponent actually looks sort of hurt. Should I be less gnomic or something? he says.

I shrug. It would, I guess, be a start.

Consider arrows, he says, speaking more slowly this time. Arrows in an empty stomach.

Now do you see why I fight him? Even though my moves are slow? My efforts futile? I fight him because I must. I have no other choice, I think.

When I’m not fighting my opponent, I see other people whom I imagine are fighting their opponents, on other nights, in distant parts of a darkened globe. Between dinner and dawn, the city is turned over to these fights. A long fight card every night.

Many matches and many falls. Who are these people? How can you recognise them? They are those who misbutton an article of clothing. They are those who react last and late to a joke. We are the people whom you find always looking down and seemingly in. Eye contact is for the foolish when it is night and an opponent is about. We stumble frequently, unfazed. We step into traffic, neither surprised nor frightened when we realise our mistake. Not a day goes by that we do not find ourselves stopping people like you and asking for directions in the city of our birth.

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P A RA B L E O F B E I N G I N S I D E

THE NEW NIGHTCLUB OPENED LAST WEEK, and now everyone is trying to get inside. The new nightclub is fabulous, according to every indication, offering entertainment beyond measure, joy and conviviality in unparalleled quantities. Consider the new nightclub’s stereo. Its sound system, speakers, mixing board, and turntables are together larger, more expensive, and more powerful than the stereos of the top five most popular nightclubs combined. The stereo’s wiring would, if stretched end to end, run for seventyseven miles, connecting cities to their suburbs. It loops underground, beneath the glass dance floor, and then circles overhead, in the rafters and around the exposed beams of the building, which, once upon a time, was a warehouse or a tannery, a potato-chip company or dress-shoe factory, something, in any case, that did something for someone, back when. Nobody can remember now. The new nightclub’s wire is bound together in thick, menacing coils, blue wires and black wires all feeding into intricately webbed nodes and impressive muscular bunches. It is as if the club powered itself off the flayed body of a giant. The new nightclub’s blue wire is the blue of 4 AM seen before sleep; its black wire is truly black indeed.

I haven’t yet been inside the new nightclub when it’s turned on, when the lights are up and people pack the open spaces and drinks are being drunk. During the day, I worked on the second auxiliary electrical crew, brought on board by one of the subcontractors, this guy I know who used to date my sister. I wired up a set of lights mounted on these robotic arms, metal appendages, starved in appearance, that supported these other things that someone else, hired by another subcontractor, worked on.

The DJ booth in the new nightclub can unleash various special effects, the sort that would not seem out of place in large-budget movies. I’ve heard talk of lasers and holograms, even green screens. Supposedly parts of the club can be rear-projected into whole other areas, like scenery. Also, the bar is actually three bars, three bars each on three separate levels, each decorated according to a unique style or mood. The owner of the new nightclub is a stickler for details, so the moods of the bars are very much like the moods of people, very lifelike.

The new nightclub is where the old nightclub used to be, before the old owner closed its doors, boarded the windows, and sold off all the furniture and stereo equipment in an auction sparsely attended by bargain hunters and just some curious lookers-on who felt they had some connection to the place. Nothing from the old nightclub survives in the new one.

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People who have never even given a thought to going to a nightclub feel the inkling or perhaps pressure of having to go to this one, of needing to go, if only to see it, maybe just once. To see what it’s like, they say. For something to do, they say. They all have their reasons, and their reasons are the same three or four.

It’s a childish wish, this desire to be inside the new nightclub. Childish not in the sense of being simple, but rather because it reminds me of times I overheard my parents and their friends at parties. It was usually someone’s birthday or anniversary, the occasion was never all that clear or important. What mattered was that I could hear their voices, the sound of their voices, but I could not discern the words themselves. I would hear laughter and I would think, Someone just told a joke. Who told a joke? Who was it? What was the joke, exactly? How did it go? The laughter went on.

Laughter carried, words did not. I could hear nothing except sounds of what I knew to be conversation.

It was incredibly frustrating, this feeling.

Inside the new nightclub there is another, smaller, more exclusive nightclub, and inside that smaller, more exclusive nightclub, there is a smaller nightclub still. Five nightclubs at least are nested inside one another like so.

After work one day, a few days before we finished and the foreman, as they say, let us go, I was talking to a guy who worked alongside me, this guy who put the things on the ends of the metal appendages I was working on.

Anyway, this guy swore that there are at least nine nested nightclubs inside one another. He personally knew of at least nine, and he suspected there could be even more, each smaller, each more exclusive, each located inside the other. And at the center of it all, at the center of this series of clubs within clubs, there is a room, supposedly no bigger than a large box, like the sort of box a refrigerator comes packaged in. The owner of the new nightclub has had this room decorated sparsely, with a table and a chair and a candle on the table and a pillow on the chair. The table is not larger than a pad of paper. The candle is the size of a dime. The chair is plain.

The pillow is more suggestion and gesture than pillow.

What’s more, the walls around the table are not in fact walls. On closer inspection, they reveal themselves to be speakers that look and feel like walls. Solid speakers.

From the floor to the ceiling of the room, nothing but speakers. When the stereo is on, and the music is going, a person admitted to the room that lies at the center of the series of clubs within clubs can hear nothing else, nothing to indicate that there’s anything else anywhere else outside or inside the room, nothing other than the room itself and the person inside it.

TOUGH QUESTIONS Ukrainian Police Officers Can Be Very Unpleasant PHOTOS BY DONALD WEBER

s you can see here, Donald Weber captures painfully intimate photos. His photography has won him all sorts of fancy honors (for starters, a Guggenheim Fellowship and the Lange-Taylor documentary prize), and it makes perfect sense that some of his best work has focused on Russia and Ukraine. The latter is where he completed his Interrogations series. Somehow Donald gained unprecedented access to a police station in Ukraine and sat in on interrogation sessions as the young, old, rich, and poor broke down and owned up to their dirty deeds, even if the charges against them were questionable.

As Donald puts it: “Without confessions and guilty pleas, courts everywhere would grind to a halt in an instant; more than 90 percent of all charges in the Russian and Ukrainian judicial systems end in guilty pleas, and only experienced criminals and highly educated defendants stand a chance. This is what the cops are doing behind their closed doors—the feudal system’s trial by ordeal is still much with us.”

The following pages feature selected photos from the Interrogations book, which will be released by Schilt Publishing this fall. The crimes of the accused are listed underneath their photos. If you can look at them without cringing, chances are you deserve to have an exKGB agent yank your toenails out in a dank basement with soundproof walls.

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Watch Donald in action later this month in a new episode of our photography show, Picture Perfect, on VBS.TV.

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PROSTITUTION

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TOUPEE: DEAD DICK

BY BRETT GELMAN, PHOTOS BY JANICZA BRAVO

This is the second installment of Toupee, a previously unpublished novel by Brett Gelman that Vice unearthed a while back. We will be serialising it throughout 2011. No one has heard from Brett since last October, when he sent us a bag of cat shit in a Ziploc bag along with a note that read, “Keep this safe.” Please get in touch if you’ve seen him. We’re getting worried.

I open up the goddamn door. It’s daytime. The sun slaps me in the eyes with its burning solar cock. Can’t see shit. Next thing I’m expecting is a bullet in my head or a knife to my chest, followed by Hippo Mary’s deep, shitty laugh.

That’s not what I hear, though. Instead, a little, paperthin, annoying-as-fuck voice pierces my eardrums. It’s Shit Bird. He looks like an emu and is a total and complete piece of shit. Hence the name. I hate Shit Bird. He’s the kind of creep who makes you want to kill yourself because it’s impossible to bear the notion that the world would allow someone like him to exist—the type of guy who makes you ask yourself: “Why should I be a part of such a dumb fucking world?”

I shield myself from the UV, just as the little bastard starts flapping his beak lips: “Hey, Toupee. What are you doing right now?”

“Beating off to a murder fantasy, starring you. What do you want, Shit Bird?”

He steps aside and reveals an old beater—the kind of car you’re scared to stand near for fear it’ll explode in your fucking face.

“You giving me a car, Shit Bird?”

“No, asshole. I’m giving you a job. That car’s got something inside, and it needs to be driven off a fucking cliff. Pronto.”

“What’s in it that’s so goddamned get-riddable?”

I watch a tear fall down Shit Bird’s cheek before he meekly says, “Dead Dick. Dead Dick’s in there, and he’s dead. Dead Dick’s dead.”

Holy shit. Dead Dick’s dead, and so is his dick. Must be a bad day for Shit Bird. You see, Dead Dick and Shit Bird, they were fuck buddies, lovers, boyfriends, whatever you want to call it. Dead Dick was pretty much the 64 VICE

worst smack junkie in the desert. Always nodding off, puking everywhere. Bald as fuck too. Puking bald fucks are the worst. Their heads get bright red when they spew.

It’s like watching a baby being strangled to death. Still, Dick wasn’t so bad when he was alive. He was a better boyfriend to Shit Bird than that asshole deserved. Must be hard to drive around with your boyfriend’s corpse in the trunk. He’s probably supposed to get rid of it but can’t handle the job. That’s why these assholes come to me. I can deal. It’s not that I take death lightly. It’s not that I hate people. It’s just that I hate most people.

“Sure, Shit Bird. I’ll do the job. By the way, my condolences.”

“Fuck you, Toupee. You can fuck my asshole with your tongue.”

Next thing I know I’m driving. Should’ve taken the edge off with something. I hate driving sober. Nothing more boring than sitting in a fucking metal box, looking at miles of desert. If that bullshit wasn’t bad enough, I got to listen to my own stupid thoughts like, “What the fuck am I doing with this dead asshole in the trunk? Jesus Christ, are human beings really this expendable? Poor Dead Dick. He just was doing the best he fucking could, and now he’s gone. Probably over some stupid pointless shit. And here I am, going to dump his body like it’s a bag of bat shit.

What is my life?”

If I were high I’d only have two thoughts: 1) “I love drugs” and 2) “I love money.”

I see the cliff ahead. They call it The Dump. I’m sure you can guess why. It really is the best spot to dispose of your baggage. Either that or The Dump Jr., which is like The Dump but smaller. I’m sure you guessed that too, smart-ass.

I reach The Dump. I don’t even stop. I’m used to this part. I just slow the beater down a bit, jump out, and let ’er roll. I scrape my fucking elbow this time, though. I hate that. Scrapes are half-assed cuts. I prefer gashes.

I rise to my feet. Then I feel a kick to my back, and I’m down again, dry-humping the dirt. It’s the pigs. I know it’s them because of the smell. It’s a clean scent. Don’t know which feeling I hate more: the boot stomping the back of my neck or the cold metal around my wrists. Looks like it’s back to the fucking zoo. Rape City. Hope they at least let me wear my toupee.

I know I’m disappointed every time I look at my watch and it doesn’t tell me the date. If you’re in the same boat as me then this could solve all your problems. We’re giving two Casio G-Shocks away on our facebook page, just comment on the G-Shock post. Look at this thing! You could punch God in the face while swimming in lava and it would be totally fine. There is probably even a button on the back or something that gives you an instant erection, even if you’re a female.

THE LEARNIN’ CORNER: DRAGGING FRAME NEIL ASHBY AS TOLD TO ALEX DUNBAR, ILLUSTRATION BY ANNIE ROSEN

Dr. Neil Ashby is a professor at the University of Colorado, Boulder. His research emphasises the practical applications of theoretical general relativity.

The idea behind frame dragging is that a spinning body—or, more specifically, any moving body—tends to have a gravitational effect that propagates through empty space (aka the vacuum) and drags things along with it. This is peculiar because if you put a gyroscope near the axis of a spinning body, it’ll tend to be pulled around in the direction of the spin. But if you place it outside the equator of the same body, then the moving mass drags the gyroscope around the other way.

Let’s use our spinning Earth as an example. The effect of its spinning on its neighborhood is very tiny because it’s not going very fast and it’s not a huge astronomical body. Nevertheless, if a satellite is orbiting Earth, then it will become a gyroscope. The axis of the gyroscope is perpendicular to the orbital plane of the object that’s being dragged around by Earth. If you look at the orientation of the two objects by using an astronomical reference point— distant stars that are very nearly fixed, for example—you can look at the orbit in relation to those distant stars to see that the orientation is turning. The equatorial plane of Earth extends out into space, and at a certain point the orbit of the satellite will go from south to north, through this plane. This is called the nodal point. As the orbit turns, that point will move. Imagine this equatorial plane and the orbital plane of the satellite turning, and as they do, the point of intersection turns. The line intersecting those two planes, which turns a tiny bit, is called the line of nodes.

This concept can also be applied to a binary neutron star system: two very dense, rapidly rotating objects in close proximity. The gravitational field of one spinning object will cause the axis of the other object to turn. Whenever you have a massive spinning object—and the more massive 66 VICE

it is and the more spinning, the bigger the effect—the orbits of satellites around it will reverse.

Because of the frame-dragging effect, someone watching a binary neutron star system from afar would observe that the satellites around that system progress in a different timeline. That is, for things lower in the gravitational field, the clock tends to run slower. These kinds of effects are commonplace on Earth when dealing with the Global Positioning System. Because that system is so precise, one must worry about the clocks in the satellites running faster than those on Earth. They have to be compensated for.

Now imagine that massive binary system again. The sheer massiveness of the two neutron stars will affect time much more drastically. For anyone used to the comparatively mild Earth time shift, it will be a mess. All measurements of time will depend on how close the clock is to one of the other stars, and so on. Another way we can observe this effect on Earth is by watching the orbit of satellites. Picture two satellites in line with Earth, with one object behind the other. In this scenario, light from the object behind is going to pass near the surface of the other and slow down. That is, the actual speed of the light will decrease.

The experiments executed to measure the frame-dragging effect are involved, to say the least. The LAGEOS satellites, for instance, are a series of spacecraft full of lead and covered with reflectors that laser beams are bounced off of. By measuring the time it takes for the beam to bounce back, it’s possible to derive the satellite’s orbit using millions of such measurements. Of course, there are other effects that cause the line of nodes to turn, and that’s been a major stumbling block in the attempt to detect frame dragging.

Earth’s flattening (at the poles), or axial tilt, for instance, causes the line of nodes to turn. We must wait for better models of Earth’s gravitational field—models that account for these stumbling blocks—before we can really see general relativistic frame dragging.

The legendary

BOOKER T. JONES Now that your environment is getting cold and dark (unless you live in Darwin or Cairns or somewhere like that, in which case it’s just becoming bearable), it’s time to think about semi-hibernation. We’re giving away three Asuza relaxation packs which should help ease your way into a warm, gentle, four month nap. I’m told these pants can withstand up to 300 cups of tea and up to 100 bowls of pumpkin soup.

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THE CUTE SHOW PAGE!

BY ELLIS JONES, PHOTOS BY JUSTIN KIERSKY

Red Pandas Red pandas have the right idea. Their lives are a permanent vacation, way up in the trees of the Himalayas, where they get to eat, sleep, and make adorable little faces all day long.

Whenever they’re feeling depressed, they just have to look down to remind themselves how great and smart and lucky they are up above all the idiot bottom-feeders below. Their hobbies are finding shade, napping, and wandering around searching for crisp bamboo shoots and delicious berries to softly nibble on before scrambling right back up the tallest tree to lounge some more. Although they are smaller than giant pandas (duh), they make up for it with striped, bushy tails that are as long as their bodies and feel all soft and cuddly. We’d love to keep one or two around the Vice office, but due to habitat loss and poaching they are currently classified as a “threatened” species. For now we’ll just have to make do with these photos of red pandas shot in Kunming, China, at the Yunnan Wild Animal Park and hope pet stores start selling them very soon.

Watch a brand-new episode of The Cute Show! featuring these red bundles of panda joy later this month on VBS.TV.

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REVIEWS BEST ALBUM OF THE MONTH: ICEAGE

DEL THE FUNKY HOMOSAPIEN Golden Era The Council

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Del is an excellent MC. He’s also one of these dudes who spent years tripping, playing Clockwork Knight, and getting fired from majors. Nowadays he sounds pretty fried—which is bizarre because his technical skills are still totally intact. He’s like an aging, brain-damaged Chop Chop Master Onion still trying to ToeJam & Earl his way through the record.

JACKY MCDOUGLE

TURQUIOSE JEEP RECORDS S/T Self-released

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I’m always worried when taking a shower because of this safety ad they use to play on TV in New Zealand.

Basically there’s a guy that comes out of the shower without putting a bath mat down, slips over, whacks his head and dies. But if I die having slippery shower sex, whilst holding a boombox (plugged into the wall) blasting this album, I’ll die happy. I feel like I’m covered in warm honey.

NATHAN RARERE

Nine 11 started as part of Representing NYC, Hillmer’s series that pairs Brooklyn public schoolers with noise-rock knobtwiddlers. Dark, dubstep-inflected beats from Gang Gang Dance and Skeletons are nice and all, but I’m mostly into Nine 11 because they once tracked down my roommate’s stolen computer. Never mind the fact that they were subletting the room from which it was stolen.

BEN SHAPIRO

WAKA FLOCKA FLAME Benjamin Flocka Self-released

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Another day, another Waka mixtape.

If you’re getting “bored” by Waka’s lack of “artistic development,” you need to void the dust from your butt, turn the woofers up, and load up an angry fantasy from the ol’ memory bank. Then, when the time is right, turn your irrational hatred to action. This is breaking-shit music. Despite its appearing on Flockaveli, Flocka includes the amazingly Lugered “Grove St. Party” as a bonus track on this tape. I only bring this up to mention that the video for “Grove St.” features a dancing, rapping version of Waka’s bejeweled Fozzie Bear medallion.

BOW BOW BOW BOW BOW BOW

BEASTIE BOYS Hot Sauce Committee Part II Capitol

NINE 11 THESAURUS Ground Zero Generals Social Registry

6

These earnest young pillars of the community were discovered by Sam Hillmer from Zs. He’s the scraggly hippielooking dude who plays the saxophone like he’s blowing up a puke-stained mattress.

70 VICE

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Were the Beastie Boys the grandfathers of irony? I mean, did they not get away with taking an important form of black expression and copying it with stupid, some might say annoying, voices? Sure, I listened to them a bit in high-school, but to be honest I could never really work out if they were a real band or a prolonged sketch from Saturday Night Live. With the

release of this album, their eighth, I guess you could say that question has been well and truly answered. Not that it matters now that they’re old as fuck.

GREAT BALL HAIRS OF FIRE

CLAMS CASINO B-Side Instrumentals & Remixes Self-released

9

In April, we made Clams Casino’s Instrumental Mixtape the record of the month. Since then, Clams has released a large handful of fan-requested remixes and instrumentals. This fan-compiled tape is just as good as last month’s release.

Seriously, this guy is one of the best rap producers around, and it’s just a hobby for him: He spends his days studying to be a damn physical therapist. So based.

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DAILY LIFE My Time/Daily Life Glass Coffin

0

I have a big old record player with that drop-down spindle so all the unpleasantness associated with playing a flexi disc is in full effect on my system. In order to keep this thin plastic sheet of a record rotating at a steady pace, I had to tape it to the turntable. There was a lot of hiss, and the needle could pick up all the textures on the rubber mat under the record, which gives everything an ugly thudding quality. It took me a few listens before I could hear it well enough to try an objective review. Both tracks have poppy drumbeats that make them easy to like. The first incorporates some organs and a symphony

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REVIEWS WORST ALBUM OF THE MONTH: MIA DOI TODD:

AUSTRA

of synths, like a lamentation of beautiful swans. There’s lots of echo, because you’ve got to give the people what they want.

Later some guitars come in.

NICK GAZIN

MANIK Armies of the Night: I Declare War Ovum

3

About a minute into this record there’s an acid lick and a tech pulse over huge dirty drums, and I’m like, “Tell me more!”

But then we settle into a plodding 70 minutes of nothing-much New York City slow-house that I can’t believe is getting hype as “the next wave in American dance music.” You people really like super-boring drum programming mixed way out front don’t you? I mean, do you really want yet another record that “takes its inspiration from the cult 1979 film The Warriors”? And DUDE! You probably grew up on the internet too; you’re seriously putting those spaces between the letters of your band name?

C o m e o n n n n n n n n n n n n n n n n n!

ARGON PEACOCK

COLD CAVE Cherish the Light Years Matador

8

Although I’d choose to be stuck on a desert island with a guitar over a keyboard any day, Cold Cave didn’t have to twist my arm too hard for me to admit that I like this. It’s dark and disillusioned enough to work with my generally unsunny disposition but fast enough to keep my legs moving along the beach for 40odd minutes. I bet Cold Cave brain Wesley Eisold would hate it if he knew people work out to his music. He he. In big, ugly, white sneakers. On sand!

SLIM KEITH 72 VICE

Feel It Break Domino

9

Austra is the new-ish project from Katie Stelmanis, an opera singer from Toronto who gave uni and years more music theory the flick to start an awesome band instead. She’s been pumping out amazing music for the past few years, like the track “Believe Me”, which had a brilliant clip featuring witches dancing around with brooms and a synchronisedswimming coven. This time her new single “Beat And The Pulse” has girls dancing around in high-waisted underwear with webbed feet and underarms. Hot. Go ahead and call me a lesbian cause, man, I am in love.

SWEAT PANTS

knowledge that you have a heap of reviews to write that you haven’t even downloaded the tracks for yet, it’s an absolute credit to the enduring genius of Thurston Moore that by the end of track one I am excitedly scribbling down my reactions rather than launching my head through the laptop screen. Thurston Moore just turned my frown upside down! This album is like a good head massage: its hands are strong and familiar and in no way do you feel like its fingers are gonna travel to unwelcome places even though they belong to an arm as old as my father. I didn’t even feel creeped out that he’s singing about menstrual blood, which is an achievement in itself.

SLIM KEITH

JACK LADDER Hurtsville Spunk

JUNIOR BOYS It’s All True Domino

7

When I was growing up, I used to spend a lot of time listening to Wham! on my Walkman while lying on the hood of my parents’ car in the driveway and trying to hump my own thigh by twisting my legs around and gyrating my pelvis. This album reminds me of those simpler times.

KELLY MCCLURE

9

Shame on you, Australia. You’ve let musical mediocrity slip under your covers and lay with you. Yes, in the biblical sense. Lucky we’ve got Jack Ladder and his size 14 boots around. His proud, pained, take-no-prisoner tracks should scuttle that shit out the door. Honestly, thank God this guy keeps grinding against the grain, taking subversion to another level. And praise be for Kirin J Callahan’s guitar while we’re at it, that guy rules. Fuck yeah.

HANK MOODY

FLEET FOXES Helplessness Blues Sub Pop/Inertia

THURSTON MOORE Demolished Thoughts Remote Control/Matador

8

When you wake up at 8am on a Monday morning with a lingering flu and the

7

You beardy nightingales, you. Listening to this album is like snuggling up against a bear’s stomach after he’s just eaten a sack full of butterflies and baroque sheet music. Thanks for keeping me warm

REVIEWS BEST COVER OF THE MONTH: GANG GANG DANCE

and loved when nature would have it otherwise. If that wasn’t enough, it also reminds me of Rumpelstiltskin, a bubbling brook, the Vatican City and, at times, rain.

GENERAL HERPES

PAPA VS PRETTY United In Isolation EMI/Peace & Riot

honest, I just can’t be fucked. I hear they are wonderful, well-dressed, genre-defying sonic saviours on a bland British canvas but what I am really looking for right now is the aural equivalent of a pair of instant-fit, grey tracksuit pants. Preferably with a matching top. Fans will scowl at my intolerance but if ‘missing out’ is the only consequence of turning this off then I’m ok with that.

SLIM KEITH

KATE BUSH

2

Maybe I’ve smoked away all my taste buds but this does nothing for me.

Less than zero. I think I blinked but that’s about it. It only made it into this month’s reviews because the new Jane’s Addiction looked so bad my finger ran away from the download button.

SWEAT PANTS

SINGLE TWIN Marcus Teague Remote Control

6

Nice little ditties with good titles such as “Came Home Dead” and “The Blow (Fell Out the Window)” from a Melbourne dude in double denim who used to front the band Deloris. No, I don’t have anything more to say. It’s nice. Actually, a note to the artist: I found this written about your album on the internet. “Frankie readers would probably bake scones to it on a winter’s afternoon or something.” You NEED to sack whoever wrote that.

SHEIK YA BEAUTY

Director’s Cut EMI

6

What has Ms Bush been doing since the release of her last album Aerial back in 2005? Aside from baking liver pies and sowing potatoes? Tinkering about in her studio reworking tracks from two of her old albums The Sensual World and The Red Shoes. Being a new album of old songs I guess it’s kind of like bubble and squeak, which can sometimes be better than the original meal. While Aerial was great it was heavy on domesticity—that song about washing appears in my head every time I approach a clothesline—but this album sees Kate in banshee mode, at least periodically on tracks like “Lily”, and when she’s there, in all her liturgical glory, the world is once again as it should be.

PELI CAN

CHAD VANGAALEN Diaper Island Sub Pop

WILD BEASTS Smother Domino

5

There’s some nice musical moments on here, especially when Hayden Thorpe is sounding thoroughly limp-wristed and oozing Bowie-esque laconicism but to be 74 VICE

6

Chad’s got an American Robyn Hitchcock vibe, which is a bit of a double-edged sword because the Soft Boys were great and Robyn’s spent 30 years making acid-charged weirdo pop without ever treading into goofy They Might Be Giants territory (Moxy Früvous territory

if you’re Canadian). But at the same time, have you seen the crowd at one of that geezer’s shows lately? Total sausage party.

Good luck with that, Chad.

MILTON CRAMER

MIA DOI TODD Cosmic Ocean Ship City Zen

2

I can’t begin to imagine how hellish your middle school years have got to be if your middle name is “DOY.” My wife’s a single syllable away from “Sarah Queef,” and it gave her such a complex that to this day I can’t make fart sounds without watching her involuntarily tense up like a deer in the headlights. Anyway, every one of these songs sounds like “Midnight at the Oasis.” I know.

TEDDY LINKIN

LITURGY Aesthethica Thrill Jockey

8

I remember seeing the drummer for this group in an Emperor shirt and thinking, “That guy doesn’t know shit about Emperor.” I was so wrong. So, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so wrong. He is actually the King of Emperor, and he can blast a beat so fast you’ll wonder if time is slowing down or your heart’s just stopping. This record will blow minds, make you want to kill people, and it’s also not boring. My only wish is that they were ugly, hate-filled weirdos with bad skin who wore black long-sleeved t-shirts and corpse paint that got all over their shirts when they sweated. Fuckin’ pretty boys.

MARMADUK

SUCK IT AND SEE

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REVIEWS WORST COVER OF THE MONTH: TOURQUOISE JEEP RECORDS

BRAINS Constant Love Forever Blue Mountain Lumber

7

There are three possible outcomes of growing up in small-town NZ. An increased risk of suicide, a degree in Travel and Tourism, or having a punk band that blows the shit out of spoiled big city kids.

These dudes blow the shit out of Dunedin bands, and Dunedin is neither big nor spoilt. How fucking small was the town they grew up in?

DAN TANNER

WOMEN IN PRISON Strange Waves 7-inch HoZac

4

There’s a scene in an issue of Hate where Stinky has Buddy listen to a band and Buddy says, “They just sound like another bunch of Iggy and the Stooges imitators to me…” and Stinky describes them as “Good ol’ back-to-basics, no-nonsense, full-on, no-holds-barred, inyour-face ROCK-N-ROLL!” Oh, Stinky!

These guys are just another nostalgia act.

Save your dough.

SCREAMING FOR HEROIN

that delivers the mind-melters. Angry, intense, urgent: These are words I am listing that describe the record because I am a lazy writer. It makes me feel a little like I want to run around in a tiny circle pit, in my kitchen, by myself.

PRINCESS PISS

MEGASTICK FANFARE THE CLUTTERS

Grit Aglow

Breaking Bones

Other Tongues

Chicken Ranch

5

It seems like the point of this CD is to sell it for $10 on the merch table at a hometown show to people who have seen the band play 15 trillion times. Seriously: We all have this band in our city. Who cares? As totally straight-ahead bar rock goes, you can do way worse, but I can’t imagine listening to this if you don’t either already know all of the words or need a reminiscing session.

CX ZOLA

Dais

9

These are some angry, brooding Danish 17-year-olds, and they made an album that I predict will be on a lot of bloggers’ top-ten lists. Is there anything gayer than top-ten lists? Only my homosocial longing for the angry cuties of Iceage.

Fucking Scandinavians have been doing punk better than anyone since the 60s. Side A is good, but it’s the B-side of this record 76 VICE

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As a kid, I used to draw epic robots with laser eyes and flaming swords and deadly codpieces. These were destroyers of planets, galaxies even. Then I’d show them to my mum and she’d take all that limitless power and neuter it by saying something like “That’s nice”. Well, I hate to do the same thing here. This is some expansive and ambitious work, however it’s as bombastic as an Indian newspaper and much like my mum with the robots, I could take it or leave it.

GREG SMEG

THIS WILL DESTROY YOU Tunnel Blanket Suicide Squeeze

DREW SWINBURNE THE CUTE ALBUM Wham City

ICEAGE New Brigade

puppies as the soundtrack to anything will automatically up its awww quotient by an order of ten. Give it a shot! I just turned a bumfight outside the office into a Bosco cartoon!

SMELMER GREEBLES

9

Drew writes all the music for VBS’s The Cute Show, and this is an entire album of just that! Fifteen tiddly little keyboard ditties and synthesised-dogbark doodahs that will wheedle their way up your heartstrings and worm their widdle way into whatever part of the brain is generally accepted as the most adorable. Seriously, this shit is a 50mg cap of sonic Prozac. As an added bonus, in the same way that putting on “Yakety Sax” can turn the unfunniest footage of 9/11 into a guaranteed laugh riot, using these

6

Hey, it’s another one of those plodalong-athon records. There’s that one guitar in the background with some infinite sustain on, the other guitar run through too many ZOOM pedals, and the super-polished woosh-shcheeew feedback howl. Oh, and a bunch of super-fancy computer stuff. Jeez, and a piano? For a band that sounds so much like Godspeed You! Black Emperor, you sure got some nougats following their lead on the two-words-too-long naming formula.

Honestly, though, I like Godspeed You! Black Emperor—it’s great “writing music reviews” music.

ALEX DUNBAR

BACHELORETTE

by BACHELORETTE

“Driven by a pulsating Black Cherry-era Goldfrapp beat, first single Blanket is as good a single as she’s released” - MESS + NOISE “There’s still no one around that does retro-futuristic electropop quite as well as Bachelorette” - ROSE QUARTZ

THE MAGIC PLACE

by JULIANNA BARWICK

“Barwick layers and processes and twists her utterances into figures that can alternately be described as familiar, soothing, alien, and tense. She might bring to mind the bright harmonies of Panda Bear or the mystical invocations of Elizabeth Fraser, but her approach is her own… It has the feel of a modest classic of post-millennial ambient music, the kind of record that sounds gorgeous and immersive on first listen and never loses its sparkle.“ – PITCHFORK BEST NEW MUSIC (Rating 8.5) “The sense of naive wonder evident recalls the bewitching power of Sigur Rós.” - UNCUT (4 stars)

OUT NOW ON MISTLETONE RECORDS / INERTIA. AVAILABLE AT ALL GOOD RECORD STORES: 78’s (Perth) Abicus (Cooks Hill) Blockbuster (Port Melbourne) Dada’s (Perth) Fish (Balmain + Leichardt + Newtown) Hum (Newtown + Oxford St) JB HiFi (All Stores) Junction Records (Fremantle) Krypton Discs (Glenelg) Landspeed Records (Canberra) Leading Edge (Traralgon) Mills Records (Fremantle) Mojo Music (Launceston) Muses (Adelaide) Music Bizarre (Lismore) Planet Video (Mt Lawley) Polyester (Melbourne + Fitzroy) Redback Music (Wollongong) Redeye (Sydney) Rockeby Records (Subiaco) Rockinghorse (Brisbane) Stop ‘n’ Rock (Bathurst) So Music (Newtown) Sunflower (Broadbeach) Trax (Morley) Urban (Leederville)

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ONE-DAY

“SUCCESS MY WAY”SEMINAR! AT MADISON SQUARE GARDEN

The Secrets to Getting, Hiding, and Keeping YOUR WEALTH! OPENING SPEAKER: Ex-president of Tunisia ZINE EL-ABIDINE BEN ALI Topics of Ben’s famous “Kleptocracy—Sticky Fingers and the Family Beeswax!” speech will include: How to handle employees who are related to you and USE these familial ties to STRENGTHEN your bankroll, reinforce your safety net, and buttress your present and future FINANCIAL SECURITY! Ben served as president of Tunisia from 1987 until 2011, winning his most recent election in 2009 with 89 percent of the vote! He has since moved on to other ventures and promises to share his “Secrets of NEST-EGGING and THE SWISS GAMBIT!” Everyone from smallbusiness owners to corporate honchos NEEDS TO HEAR THIS!

FEATURED SPEAKER: Ex-president of Egypt HOSNI MUBARAK Brace yourself for the debut of Hosni’s inspirational speech “KEEPING YOUR WEALTH AND STAYING IN YOUR HOMELAND! IT CAN BE DONE!” Many modern moneymakers find themselves wealthy but exiled from their own homelands! Hosni, a multi-multi-multimillionaire, has managed to TAKE PLUNDER TO THE BRINK BUT NOT BEYOND! He’s from Egypt, he made his money in Egypt, and though he is also despised in Egypt, he gets to remain there! He will also present a series of tactical financial lessons on “Hidden Fundage/Swiss Cheez,” “Managing Multiple Homes,” and “Negotiating Your Continued Freedom.”

FEATURED SPEAKER: Current president of Zimbabwe ROBERT MUGABE B bh Bob has something thi tto ttell l anyone who ll h wants t tto “h “have it all,” ll ” and d th tthatt iis: Y YOU OU U CAN NH HAVE AVE IT T ALL! As a young entrepreneur, you may wonder if you should go after power, land, money, or all three. Bob says “Go for it ALL! Get it ALL! Keep it ALL!” He will also speak on the secrets to success through TEMPORARY PARTNERSHIPS similar to the one he recently finagled to circumvent an attempted hostile takeover of his wealth and stature. Bob will also share with you his “SWISS NEST-EGG THEORY” of retaining wealth and a special presentation titled “Burning Enemies Alive—Metaphorically and Literally.”

KEYNOTE SPEAKER: DONALD TRUMP Donald Trump was NO NOT OT INV INVIT INVITED TED D tto speak k att thi this h event, t b butt h he’ll ’ll l b be th there anyway. Nothing we could do. He heard there was going to be an advertisement for this seminar in a magazine and accompanying PR buzz, so he just... got in there. Trump will talk about a bunch of crazy bullshit that he considers his “system for success.” He will put his name on things and get attendees pumped up with an address he calls “Trump-eting Your Trumptitude.” He promises that if we let him speak into a microphone he will go away quietly at some point.

LAST-MINUTE SUPER-SECRET HEADLINE SPEAKER: MR. X! We are so lucky to make the last-minute addition of this super-successful and super-wealthy bon vivant. Mr. X is one of the longest-serving rulers in HISTORY! He will give speeches on “NEVER QUITTING, EVER” and “THE MADCAP THEORY OF LEADERSHIP: KEEPING EVERYONE ON THEIR TOES BY SHOOTING AT EVERYONE’S TOES!” Our super-secret headliner wants to share his secrets of WEALTH-BUILDING and will let attendees in on “THE SWISS SECRET OF HAVING A BUNCH OF SWISS BANK ACCOUNTS.”

78 VICE

BY BOB ODENKIRK

TOM VEK NEW ALBUM LEISURE SEIZURE IN STORE JUNE 10 “that form the backbone of this album should prove fairly irresistible.

In short, the wait definitely paid off.”

NME.com

Pre Order through

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80 VICE

THE CHUCK TAYLOR ALL STAR OUTSIDER BOOT

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