The insects that are not aliens surfing club is about to release the Count 3 from the grave, the 66 space/time port hole, now as then - joy. Shaped by Jordan Nobel, glassed by Sean Nettleton, speculated upon by Kent Turkich. Arise!
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
FROM THE CAVES AND CULDESACS OF COOLANGATTA, AUSTRALIA, ROGERTHAT!
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
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
DON'T BE AN EGG...VINTAGE PACIFIC SURFCRAFT
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belly boards rise again this easter weekend. be a disciple!! join the faithful!!
CRESCENT HEAD MALIBU CLASSIC 2010 OLD MAL MELT DOWN
OLD MAL TO BE OVER 40S FRACADE - sisters and brothers i just dont see the diff, new, old...fairly old - none of its that old in the scheme of things, and the thing about the information revolution, the internet, the blogosphere, is that time and space are compressed, the spiral is squashed. its all on top of itself. like not long ago you couldnt look up a 60s garage band in an instant and change your hair style, or look up lance carson and get jazzed on that. its all the same stuff. just joy, self expression...the present era provides an opportunity to dissolve all those distinctions created by commercial interests starting around the time these boards were first ridden, which stiffled self expression and multiple truths. whether or not the present dilemma picks up on that opportunity is the question...for mine
DON'T SLIP ON THAT BANANA PEEL - THE INSECTS THAT ARE NOT ALIENS SURFING CLUB
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
NOOSA FESTIVAL OF SURFING 2010 RESULTS
Results for insect surfers - appropriately knocked off in the early heats. Lachlan Leckie in the opens - disqualified for lack of rocker in his board. The Messiah in the old mal - shot down for pefect execution of Bobby Brown head cock. INSECTSURF
Thursday, March 11, 2010
STICK IT IN YOUR SACK!
From sunny Noosa Heads, Queensland, the VPS handplane is a pocket-sized surfing tool perfect for the sandgroper state (Western Australia!) in a crystalline to blown-out conditions. Regardless of your ability, from hotdogger to kook, you can enjoy the thrill of the deepest part of the curl at the City Beach Crusher, the Floreat Wedge, or the dreaded Scabs Shorebreak. Take care junior...this is serious fun! Alltime, anytime! Bang it in your glove box, stick it in your sack, the handsurfer is back!
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
boards for sale - no tyre kickers, rubbernecks and other zombies
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these boards are for sale secondhand southcoast in good nic. bloke whos selling them overdosed on mottled coloured fruit tingles in a fit of suburban psychosis - 'when i surf, i surf for allens' rarely now, since the incident. price is negotiable really good for shit to crystal conditions west coast
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