On Saturday night we went to see The Brunettes, aka The Monsters of Twee (thank you Brent), at the Masonic in Devonport. They're a very cute band with a kind of poppy American Paul and Paula sock hop-ish vibe. Lots of boy and girl call-and-response songs and xylophone and faux-square clothes. (I saw them once ages ago - in 1998? - at a house party in Ponsonby. They were playing in the lounge of an old villa and immediately after their set my workmate Malcom and his band covered The Stooges' 'I Wanna Be Your Dog'. A more incongruous line-up could not be imagined.) Anyway, the show was fun, we got to catch up with Devonport-dwelling Greg and sister Jacqui, and the support band, the Boxcar Guitars, were also adorable! Probably the only band in New Zealand doing old-school country/rockabilly, and certainly the only band I've ever seen wearing playing-card shirts and other stylish retro western gear! I actually felt a bit homesick-ish for the States, so they must have been doing something right. (Although as I was saying to Jacqui, that stuff is fairly obscure even in America... it's not like it pulls big crowds anywhere, which is sad.) I realised half-way through their set, in typical New Zealand fashion, that the bassist works with me in the library. Naturally. You can't go somewhere in this country without running into someone you know coincidentally. It just wouldn't be right.

Greg came up with a great musical theory between sets, as a Beach Boys compilation played on the PA. The coolest songs in the world are ones in which there's a lot of incredibly wacky shit going on... and yet they still take over and become enormous hits! You are forced to submit to their power despite their weirdness - even despite yourself! His example was 'Good Vibrations', which is obviously overly familiar golden oldie territory... and yet! It's fucking *strange*. Listen to that theremin! I was struck again by this thought when playing 'Be My Baby' this afternoon. (At my advanced age, I remain one of the 'little girls who understand'.) It's like Ronnie Spector is singing in an everlasting cave of funhouse mirrors or something. Is she even in a room? How big was Phil's recording studio, anyway?

Waffle, me?