THE INSECTS THAT ARE NOT ALIENS SURFING CLUB ARE DIGG'N THE CIRCUS-PSYCHE SOUNDS OF ROGERTHAT!
Got to cover these worm holes! Counting them as i go. The world is turning...round, and round. I keep on telling myself – ‘no one is following me.’ But roger that appear. 1, 2, 3...4! Murky at first; growing clarity and colour as they unbuckcle from the 4 holes, from the caves and uncharted subterranean seas below. A labyrinth. Space time continuum. Save me Jimmy, save me! They deliver to my oversized hand an oracle. Composure at last. A stitch in time saves 9, but loose lips sink ships. Regardless, I hear the oracle as it passes by the four in American civil war oufits, moustaches abounding ... Roger that started out playing surf clubs, stomps and bonfires on the gold coast, Australia, with a stack of reverb drippin’ dance hall favourites and lively instrumentals to a mincing following of nerdy men dressed largely in tan, crepe-soul desert boots and duffel coats. The darlings of the surfbeat sect, the nemisis of the inner suburban sharpies, dead meat for the rockers, these ‘four men in coke bottle glasses’ (as they were affectionatelly known by milk bar loiterers and kiosks hangers-on alike) have certainly come a long way since those lean, clean and slightly gay times. What happened, how did these young, straight-parted-hair boys go from bowling hoops in the culdesacs of Coolangatta to become the most progressive pop group of out times, prime perpetuators of the now sound: the sound understood only by the kids, the unheard, the down trodden? A wild, unattached meter of a generation detached from the down beat mood of their fathers, of the lost generation, of the zombie minded? Philosophers in paisley, mystical moon-worshippers. Destined to reside on the other side of the sidewalk. Roger 1 – jimmy! First and foremost, getting up to no good in his fathers tool shed, lead guitarist Jimmy stumbled upon the techniques of home distortion engineering in a Milo stained Boys Own Annual with Skippy on the front cover. The bush kangaroo never made much sound apart from a poorly dubbed – tutt tutt tutt; but when jimmy linked the wires of a discarded slot car set with an array of other rusted gadgets (according to the instructions in the manual), the resulting fuzz pedal created a sound to turn air to cottage cheese. Buzzzzzz! Roger 2 – Mad Daddy Dan! Feeling alone and unreal, drummer Dan transcribed his feelings on a floating scroll. This keith moon like child of the moon had trained his mind years before to move things, but he didnt care to do it anymore. Roger 2 – lord laclan leckie (esQ)! The oracle hovered to bass player lache. He couldn’t read it. But after talking with the caretaker on the plastic telephone, the inward looking lache found reality: solid, beautiful truth my friends. Recalling his desert ramblings, the boy-childs incoherent wandering through the Australian dessert 5 years ahead from now, lache produced a note pad and pecil. Fragmented, crazed sketches reflecting frayed memories strted to draw together into a coherent picture – the outline of a inner space probing moon-tailed vee bottom surfing board, the woolly mammoth, friends. Absenting himself temporarily from the group, lache returned from the soup, his mind still growing. Roger 4 – jesse! Finally, Singer jesse dropped his copy of Disraeli Gears in anticipation of the oracle. He ate Fruit Tingles every day for two weeks. Solid! Upon his return to the group, his only words were ‘When i surf, i dance for Allens’ Ladies and gentlemen and children of the sun, Rogerthat! - kent turkich http://www.myspace.com/rogerthatofficial http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n3b83DaOu9E
Got to cover these worm holes! Counting them as i go. The world is turning...round, and round. I keep on telling myself – ‘no one is following me.’ But roger that appear. 1, 2, 3...4! Murky at first; growing clarity and colour as they unbuckcle from the 4 holes, from the caves and uncharted subterranean seas below. A labyrinth. Space time continuum. Save me Jimmy, save me! They deliver to my oversized hand an oracle. Composure at last. A stitch in time saves 9, but loose lips sink ships. Regardless, I hear the oracle as it passes by the four in American civil war oufits, moustaches abounding ... Roger that started out playing surf clubs, stomps and bonfires on the gold coast, Australia, with a stack of reverb drippin’ dance hall favourites and lively instrumentals to a mincing following of nerdy men dressed largely in tan, crepe-soul desert boots and duffel coats. The darlings of the surfbeat sect, the nemisis of the inner suburban sharpies, dead meat for the rockers, these ‘four men in coke bottle glasses’ (as they were affectionatelly known by milk bar loiterers and kiosks hangers-on alike) have certainly come a long way since those lean, clean and slightly gay times. What happened, how did these young, straight-parted-hair boys go from bowling hoops in the culdesacs of Coolangatta to become the most progressive pop group of out times, prime perpetuators of the now sound: the sound understood only by the kids, the unheard, the down trodden? A wild, unattached meter of a generation detached from the down beat mood of their fathers, of the lost generation, of the zombie minded? Philosophers in paisley, mystical moon-worshippers. Destined to reside on the other side of the sidewalk. Roger 1 – jimmy! First and foremost, getting up to no good in his fathers tool shed, lead guitarist Jimmy stumbled upon the techniques of home distortion engineering in a Milo stained Boys Own Annual with Skippy on the front cover. The bush kangaroo never made much sound apart from a poorly dubbed – tutt tutt tutt; but when jimmy linked the wires of a discarded slot car set with an array of other rusted gadgets (according to the instructions in the manual), the resulting fuzz pedal created a sound to turn air to cottage cheese. Buzzzzzz! Roger 2 – Mad Daddy Dan! Feeling alone and unreal, drummer Dan transcribed his feelings on a floating scroll. This keith moon like child of the moon had trained his mind years before to move things, but he didnt care to do it anymore. Roger 2 – lord laclan leckie (esQ)! The oracle hovered to bass player lache. He couldn’t read it. But after talking with the caretaker on the plastic telephone, the inward looking lache found reality: solid, beautiful truth my friends. Recalling his desert ramblings, the boy-childs incoherent wandering through the Australian dessert 5 years ahead from now, lache produced a note pad and pecil. Fragmented, crazed sketches reflecting frayed memories strted to draw together into a coherent picture – the outline of a inner space probing moon-tailed vee bottom surfing board, the woolly mammoth, friends. Absenting himself temporarily from the group, lache returned from the soup, his mind still growing. Roger 4 – jesse! Finally, Singer jesse dropped his copy of Disraeli Gears in anticipation of the oracle. He ate Fruit Tingles every day for two weeks. Solid! Upon his return to the group, his only words were ‘When i surf, i dance for Allens’ Ladies and gentlemen and children of the sun, Rogerthat! - kent turkich http://www.myspace.com/rogerthatofficial http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n3b83DaOu9E
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