Portishead take on the metal version of John Williamson

It was a strange day today, an eerie grey gloom encasing not just my workplace (unsurprisingly, one of my work colleagues went home due to an ingrown eyelash - yes, really, someone with a voodoo doll didn't try hard enough) but the entire city where I work. Despite that, the strangest thing that happened today involved my local McDonalds. I don't often go to the McDonalds where I work, the one where I live being full of depressed single parents with visitation rights sitting reading the paper while their progeny bounces the Happy Meal toy off their head in a plea for attention. The one where I work though is obviously owned by some kind of American motivational speaker, as it's always clean, the staff are uncharacteristically upbeat, and the food is even vaguely food (OK, that's stretching it). For some reason, the girl behind the counter today got immensely hypnotised by her service training (or my fly Scottish patter) and wouldn't let me go. "Thanks!" I said initially. "No worries! You have a great day!" "Thanks..." "A really great day!" "Er..." "Enjoy your food!" and so on until a vague sense of absolute discomfort came over me and I genuinely thought I would have to provide a written report on the quality of the pickles. One of the things I've really been talking about to my friends lately though is that fact that the Australian actor Bill Hunter - a lovely man, who we all thought had a great integrity to him - is doing adverts for the evil empire the AFL. On top of the fact that I read once that there's basically about two acts in the entire world (and one of them the tedious Bob Dylan) who have never done a private party for wealthy Arab sheiks when asked, and I think my search for a hero with integrity and dignity will forever go on. We know far too much about our heroes these days to truly idolise them - David Boon, for instance, is idolised by everyone in Tasmania except people who have met him. And that's before I get to the lovely Monica Daggar throwing her integrity away to date the boofhead from Aussie Home Loans...Jane Fleming, I'd expect nothing more from her...

In the midst of discussing this (and various betting options) with my friend today, I had another discussion about intelligence vs dumbness, my friends oft being concerned with my propensity to be able to remember cast details of Kate Bushs The Line, The Cross and The Curve but not do anything about my career or job prospects or sit and pen the great Australian novel. I can't explain this - but my entire life I've been confronted by the battle between culture and lowculture, and I don't feel my life has suffered because I can recite the last 28 Brownlow medallists and not a single line from Nabokov. However, I will give you an example of a time when culture and lowculture have clashed in my life. My school once had a battle of the bands, hosted by a slightly plump bogan girl who often had the hots for whats in the box with the dots. We all gathered in the school assembly hall, resisting the temptation to spend our lunchtime more productively in the library or avoid knife wielding muggers in the park. The first band were pretentiously arty, a little bit trip hop, but with a mesmerising mainland vocalist who was not only beautiful but had a whole Beth Gibbons Portishead nervy energy to her. They sang this really beautiful song about taking a journey (not the band Journey, that would have been ace) and it was amazing. I really fancied her, but of course, I was much too shy to say anything, and I had a cheese sandwich that was taking up my attention anyway. And of course, they got really tepid applause from the shuffling populace, shuffling like livestock in danger as the chords failed to move them. Then, without warning, on came the school dirt band, a long haired unintelligable headcase called Penman leading the way on vocals, throwing himself into some sub Pantera wailing and screaming. As I stood there blinking under the lights, I realised that everyone but me was thoroughly enjoying the performance, without irony, and rocking out. I hated them for it - could they not see that this was just unintellictual, thoughtless noise - in fact, as I listened closer, I realised that they had actually more or less taken John Williamsons "Rip Rip Woodchip" and turned into a metal song. After about three or four hairwhips that probably showered the front row with grease, the plump girl ran on and declared that Penman was the winner, oblivious to the fact that it probably should have gone to a vote, and incidentally, she was his woman anyway. Defeated, I skulked away from that assembly hall with all the righteous fury and unrequited indignation of a Triple J request DJ. Oh, how could they not appreciate the art instead of...that...that loud artless noise (I of course spat the word noise in horrified disgust)...now all I needed was friends to discuss it with...

I really was angry though that this beautiful music had to suffer in the cauldron of the thick, but just as I was about to write some angry letters to Backchat about the state of the nation, I found my friend Matthew. Matthew was a man who loved his air guitar, and could be relied upon to cheer us all up with a bit of rocking out when he needed to - oh, and sometimes he would cheer us up by rolling a nerd up in a carpet. Always big laughs in Burnie. Anyway, he was kicking a football, and no doubt saw my incredibly tortured sub Morrissey face as I strolled across the playground. "Sup dickhead!" he said affectionately. At least I think it was affectionate? I couldn't explain to Matthew that he was part of the problem - a man who loved his metal, and the simple life, where as I craved far more intellectual fare, far and away from Burnie. Matthew saw me shrug, and punched a Sherrin football from hand to hand as he walked in my direction. "Dicha see that wicked band! Ferkin awesome!" he said, putting his fingers in an air guitar position. I shrugged again (gee, I wonder why I didn't have a lot of friends - I might as well have wandered around with a duffle coat and eyeliner) and he looked me dead in the eye. "I bet you wanted to root that moody chick" he said, smiling. I looked back at him, and said something meaningful like "Er..." "Fucking hell, you are a dickhead! Why you'd want to go out with someone that fucking miserable, you'd have to be a miserable bastard! Go out with a metal chick! They fucking rock!" - he then turned away and kicked the football as hard as he could, enjoying it's flight as it trickled down the hill. "Cheer the fuck up! Metal rocks!" he said, running away giggling - I no doubt had some pithy remark prepared about how metal and rocks were actually different elements that would have gone down a treat on the Left Bank, but this was Burnie, and to say something like that, well, someone get the carpet...

I saw the Penman guy and his missus pashing behind a tree as I walked, the trophy and the Kmart gift voucher he had won propped up against a nearby bush. The more I walked, the more I realised that I was being a bit stupid, and stuck up and judgemental. After all, all of the people I looked down on for their lack of intellectual qualities were, in fact, really happy. They were getting pashes, they were kicking footballs, they were hanging out with their friends and debating issues about marbles, while here I was, unsure of myself, bewildered, lost...sounding like a Calvin Klein advert. As I pondered this moment in my life, I happened to look across the school car park, and there was the Beth Gibbons girl, shimmering in the sunlight, stunning, poised. In every way, my intellectual salvation, a sign of a smarter world...and she had in her hand a large brick, and she was obviously about to break into a car. At which point, a large man in tattoos came, tapped her on the arm, and pointed to a more expensive car for them to steal. I didn't know what to do or say or how to think - this wonderful girl that had moments before been so arty and talented and wonderful was now swearing her head off and calling her boyfriend a cunt because they had missed their opportunity to steal a Selica from a financially strapped school teacher. Her speaking voice sounded a bit like Nick Riewoldts anyway. I stood, watching, wondering about the duality of human expression, the mask she had put on a few moments before, when Matthew came back up the hill, bouncing his football. "Sup dickhead?" he said, shooting me a handpass. "Oh, moody chicks trying to steal a car," I said, softly and sadly. "Is that a metaphor?" he said, raising an eyebrow. I said no, it wasn't, she was really trying to steal a car. He looked across at the car park, at the tattooed man dragginer her away as they argued, stroked his already stubbled chin, and nodded. "Oh fuck, that's all we fucking need...next year, she'll be back, fucking whinging about cars and prison in her songs...count me fucking out!"

I never quite to make of that day, but one thing I do know...The Line, the Cross and The Curve is not a film you want to put on any time of your life...