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Have Aurora invite all her friends. My husband will be there to make sure everyone has fun. In Spanish, I could make a man tremble, force a woman to bite her tongue. But not in English. And I left in silence because silence was what I thought she needed. I was furious and insisted she had to use her piggy bank money to get everyone there.

The driver who flirted with me was working that Saturday, and I asked if he could give Aurora a deal on the bus fare for twelve kids. He said they could ride for free if I went out on a date with him. Aurora overheard me refuse and called me a bitch as she dumped her piggy bank into the fare box. When we arrived, Rick shook my hand, patted Aurora on the head, and after asking if any older boys were coming, pointed the children to a pool house for them to change.

Calhoun watched the party from behind the sliding glass doors. Where can I find some young, strong Mexican men? I have a daughter that needs raising. Rick led him over by the pool, instructing him to drop the boxes amid a ring of deck chairs. I thought I saw Mrs. Calhoun say something, but the sliding doors were closed and there was no one inside for her to talk to. Fat drops of sweat plopped on the pizza boxes while the delivery boy set up paper plate and napkin place settings.

Rick shadowed him, touching his forearms while he leaned over a table to grab a stack of napkins, whispering in his ear before he went back to the van for the rest of the food. When he returned, the delivery boy pointed at his watch. Finish setting the food out, will you?

Calhoun shouted. The kids stopped laughing and playing. She took two small steps outside. Rick ran to the pool house for his wallet while the delivery boy sulked by the table. I called the kids over to eat and brought two slices to Mrs. Outside her window, the blossoms fell, a steady rain into the pool. Calhoun was lying in a curled ball on her bed with her shoes on. Calhoun smiled. Alma Guerrero was a three-year-old girl who lived with her mother in a rough part of Echo Park, on East Edgeware Road.

It was in the heart of a patchwork of hills blistered with junkyards and tin shacks made from leftover metal sheared off from the remains of disassembled World War II aircraft. Alma used to dance with her mother outside El Guanaco, a mercado near Angelino Heights that sold rock-hard Twinkies, Colt 45s, and homemade tacos and burritos in the back. They walk into the mercado, and after a selection at the jukebox, Madonna dances into the arms of her former boyfriend, a young Mexican guy who has pined for her throughout the video and represents the Mexican roots, the Mexican life she cannot turn her back on.

It started when I invited Ana Gomez from church to a tienda descuenta that had MTV inside to attract business, to try on new two-dollar dresses. When the video came on, I saw El Guanaco and pointed it out to Ana. It was visible on-screen for a few seconds, but she was as delighted as I was to see a place we walked by every day on television. There was something magical about it, a place in our neighborhood worthy of being on TV, and not because someone had been shot or killed.

Two mothers became three, then four. One sweltering Friday afternoon in April, seven mothers—the biggest gathering yet —met on the street corner outside El Guanaco with their daughters. I dragged Aurora there that day; being the oldest, she towered over the other girls dressed in their own Madonna-style outfits. A portable cassette deck was balanced atop a mailbox, playing songs taped off the radio. Beer bottle shards were kicked into the street by unsteady pairs of high heels, and the girls made a runway out of the curb, jumping, singing, and dancing around a streetlight as if it was a maypole.

Their mothers stood around them in a circle on the sidewalk and on the street, clapping their hands to the beat and encouraging each girl to outdance the others Soul Train style.

Alma waved her arms and jumped in place on platform heels until her mother picked her up and swung her around the streetlight in short, ballerina-style arcs. Over the hills, the smog above East Los Angeles reduced across the sky like skin on a boiling pot of milk.

It was sunset, and the mothers decided it was time to go home. I wanted a picture—who would come to a tourist spot without one? A chorus line of Mexican Madonna daughters knelt in front of their mothers wearing fierce, take-no-shit smiles, except Aurora, who resented being there and resented kneeling in front of me.

The idea to come to the corner was mine, to get her out of her room on her spring break and stop her sulking about something that had happened at school, something about a young boy calling her a dirty Mexican and refusing to dance with her at a party.

Come with me, I said. Dance on a street corner, Aurora scoffed. Even in her flat sneakers, Aurora would have blocked me out. I can stand with the women. The mothers grew impatient and demanded the abuelito snap the photo.

A short distance away we heard the sounds of sirens and gunfire. In the choppy, rolling valleys of Echo Park, noise boomerangs in many directions.

An ambulance siren sounding like it was on the next block could really be half a mile away, or a gunfight could be sending stray bullets right through your front screen door while your ears told you it was somewhere up in the hills.

You could die around here making these mistakes. While the abuelito fumbled with the shutter button, two pairs of headlights approached over the horizon, as if the setting sun had broken into large marbles. Five loud gunshots in quick succession, not firecrackers or popping corn but deep hammer thrusts, cut the fleshy air. Broken glass splashed across the street like ocean spray.

The mothers threw themselves everywhere, curled up into tight armadillo balls. I tried to throw myself on Aurora, but she squirmed out from under me. Madonna played on the undisturbed tape deck as we rose off the ground.

The sound of her voice outdoors, in the wake of the gasp-for-air silence that follows gunfire, and the music box with a synthesized dance beat melody—it was like hearing a beautiful, off-key hymn sung by a child in an empty church. As we rose off the ground, one mother joked her husband must be starving for dinner to resort to a drive-by shooting to get her to come home.

We laughed while plucking flakes of glass off our bodies. No drive-by shooting was going to ruin our day out. Alma was lying on the ground. When her mother turned her on her side, blood poured out a small hole in the front of her neck, collecting on the Madonna T-shirt draped across her limp body. She knelt beside her daughter and tried to revive her by breathing into her mouth.

Bubbles fizzled out of the wound. Crowds gathered on the porches and stoops of the surrounding houses, watching and pointing fingers, their words blending into a long, animated parade of shouts, exclamations, and laughter. Little girls made pilgrimages to the corner where Baby Madonna was shot. They left candles, rosaries, pictures of the Virgin Mary, little bangle bracelets, and as the story spread and girls who lived in big houses from neighborhoods near the ocean came to pay their respects, big pink teddy bears and Madonna albums and posters—things a baby Madonna fan would want in heaven.

Baby Madonna was a Love & Unity (CD) whose fame grew after her death, and as a testament to her memory, a mural was commissioned on the side of a building facing the Hollywood Freeway. A girl in a midriff-baring tank top rose out of a barrio in flames, carried aloft on a golden musical staff that snaked across the wall until it reached the gates of a pastel pink heaven with smiling clouds and characters from My Little Pony and Care Bears scampering about on a clean and spacious playground with angel wings attached to their backs.

The argument between Aurora and me was recalled by many of the other mothers at the scene, and the question was asked: Would the bullet have struck Aurora instead of Alma? Did Aurora kneel before the picture was taken, or was she trying to stand?

The accusation, if true, could have resulted in child endangerment charges. Aurora and I were called in as witnesses to Parker Center, but our versions of what transpired were so different, our statements were deemed unusable and the case was thrown out. Still the damage was done. Because the camera was jerked at the time of the exposure, the image was jumpy, and no two investigators could agree on what they saw. Aurora was either being pulled down by me to kneel or pulling away from me to stand up.

The young Mexican boy who delivered the pizza would do my job for less money. Calhoun asked her husband to pass along to me a list of his friends and associates who were looking for housecleaners, and in no time I had work lined up every day of the week.

I have done my best to live my life in between those two places, intimacy and invisibility. Men staying over, friends moving in, children moving out; none of this is my concern. If my job is done right, what you find when you get home is a comforting antiseptic, fresh BandAid smell, spotless floors, and no evidence another human being, a cleaning lady, was ever there. Cleaning lady? A hell of a term. To be a good cleaning lady, you must learn to act like a man.

On my last cleaning day, I arrived to find a note from Mrs. Calhoun on the dining room table. Opening the blinds for sunlight, I squinted to read the faint handwriting. Confused, I wanted to ask Mrs. Calhoun to explain, but the house was quiet, save for what sounded like rain pelting the sliding glass doors, drop drop drop.

Through the blinds, I saw the jacaranda tree raining crisp, dazzling violet blossoms from its branches atop a floating body in a lavender bathrobe, its legs together, its arms outstretched as if reaching for something. I plunged into the cold water, wading through the thick swamp of jacaranda until I reached Mrs. The flowers pounded our bodies, drop drop drop, with a sudden violence that blanketed us.

My head bobbed for air as I struggled to stay afloat; I was drowning. All around me was the loud roar of water, a sound that still wakes me up in the middle of the night, screaming. I could not carry us both back to the rim of the pool. When I surrendered her body, it floated out to the center of the pool and slid under the thick carpet of fallen flowers. Beneath a raining jacaranda tree, the blossoms shuddered and fell.

Then I, too, am a miracle, but I want to be seen, and be heard. The telling is the most dangerous part of my story. I can tell we are going to be friends. Evil is everywhere. If you feet dangle over the bottom edge of the mattress, the Devil reaches up from Hell, touches your big toe, and controls what direction you walk in when you wake, steering you into bad luck, pain, misery, and death.

God sees where the Devil leads you, she said, and nodded at the room where my two sisters and I slept. Archie laughed and told her as long as we lived in his house she had better things to do than to worry over his soul. Archie was a sniveling cur, but Ruben strutted like a man who crosses the street against the light, a defiant sneer in his canter, daring a car to strike him.

You feared more for the chrome on those wide bumpers than for his legs. Ruben fought them off as if that colored man was one of his own. My father believed in fairness for everyone. My eldest sister, Aracely, had roses dipped in a pool of fire on hers, Patricia a pink ribbon swirled in a bow around a cloud. My grandmother would come to the side of my bed wearing her favorite turquoise handmade puebla dress embroidered with pink lotus flowers and try to rub away the chilled goose bumps on my arms.

I thought you were a boy but you came out a girl. That means you have the soul of a man somewhere inside you. Nobody can hurt him except himself. Do you know what happens when a wolf gets caught in a fence? Her wrinkles would crease into smiles, and I would hear her tell my favorite story once more. If he goes back, he loses his front paws and his courage to try to return. There is no easy way forward, no easy way back, and no easy way to sit still.

He stands up and walks around the fence. Then my night with Archie came. My sisters had fought with tears and cries out to God to stop. Did they not stand up tall enough for God to hear them? Perhaps a woman asking God for help needed a stronger voice. But how could I stand up lying on my back? His castrato shrieking was fit for the choir at St.

This was the confirmation I needed that God hears the screams of a man better than those of a woman. From that day, God kept my uncle out of our beds, but he also stripped us of a place to live. Archie threw us out of the house. Since then, I have come to understand that God is the fear that motivates you to protect yourself from evil. God cannot be everywhere at once, and it is up to each of us to use our own faith in Him to protect ourselves.

My husband, Gabriel Esperanza, taught me this. His father was one of the few Californios to hold on to his land when the gringos came. They drew a line in the desert and said, Your property belongs to us now. When his father died, Gabriel kept up the vigil, leaving enough of a parcel for his own estate, then selling much of the land to the city at a handsome profit. That land became Angelino Heights, the first suburb in the City of the Angels.

Can you imagine that? Gabriel was rugged and dashing, and I considered myself fortunate that a sixteen-year-old would be married off by the convent to their fifty-six-year-old benefactor. God and a fistful of spiny, pink cactus needles sewed into a throw pillow kept him out of my bed until I turned eighteen, but Gabriel was a decent man, or as decent as a man who bought a girl from a convent could be, and while I never bore him a son there was one daughter, Felicia, whom I sent away when she was four because Gabriel had no interest in raising a daughter, and I had no interest in being a single parenthe was content to live a life apart from me, listening to his Lucha Reyes records on a separate floor while I lived a life on my own floor of his turn-of-the-century Victorian mansion in Angelino Heights.

Luke The church is too rich anyway. Then my sisters, Aracely and Patricia, begged to move into my house. I asked. Where was my real mother? That was my charity to them. Thanks to me they found their way. Within a year, my mother was living a happy life with my daughter, Felicia, in a tin shack in Chavez Ravine; my sisters had left America and moved south, to a small Mexican village in Guadalajara, where they belonged; and the convent had been converted to a high school, St.

Thank God I still have the strength to walk to the curb every morning with a garden hose and a hose end insecticide sprayer filled with holy water. Do you now see how much of my industriousness has been devoted to Him?

I am a pious woman and have lived a righteous life, never once strayed in my path of conviction. This is why God sent the Virgin Mary to me. Ah, you see now why telling you this story is dangerous! They are ridiculed and ostracized by disbelievers, hounded and persecuted by believers yearning to be healed, either in body or in spirit. I made the mistake one time of helping her. Do once, and be prepared to do again and again, I say. Why should I help an old woman take a shortcut? Who has ever helped me across the street?

The day I need help to cross the street is the day I learn how to find what I need on this side of the street. Even back then, most of the girls went to church like putas in miniskirts and thongs, with their faces made up like payasos. Who could be more important to talk to in a church than God? Tus novios? Tus amigas?

Tus chulos? Her clothes seemed to float atop her body. When I turned to look, she was walking alongside me, a beatific smile on her face, one that for a moment made me forget my wariness of strangers, the only people I mistrust more than my relatives. There was no one else on the street. My shoulders tensed, and I began to think of what I could say to scare her away should she prove to be crazy or, worse, a panhandler.

Did you hear about my son? Turned in by one of his best friends, ay. What am I going to do? What you have in abundance I want none of. Or that I was afraid? The woman kept up stride by stride without visibly moving her legs. She drifted alongside me as if carried on a breeze. I sat down on the bench in the shelter to catch my breath. Her eyes were two pinhead flames of rose quartz, and I was unable to move, transfixed out of either anger or fear. Everything you say is false. Get away from me and beg from someone else.

The street noise, its traffic and people, disappeared. A strange feeling of warmth poured over my skin.

Imagine the weight of your many years that you carry on your shoulders disappearing in one single, immense, breathtaking moment. Your humiliation dissolved, your hurts healed, your grievances redressed, your bitterness crystallized into acceptance; everything that has been done wrong to you has now been done right, as if an enormous switch deep inside your soul has been flipped, reversing the flow of years of anger and hatred and animosity and grief, turning it into love and compassion.

You never want to say another word in anger again. You have no memory of your mother beating you with a hairbrush, no guilt over watching your sisters being molested by your uncle behind a fetid apple tree and doing nothing, saying nothing. She rose from the bench, and the weight of my hurt came crashing back onto my shoulders. The street roared back to life with cars, noise, and people. I strained my eyes to look at her bright face. She floated behind the bus shelter and disappeared.

On the bench was a trail of rose petals that led to the garbage can, where a rosebush—not a bouquet but an entire bush—was blooming. I smelled roses everywhere on my way back to my house—in the garbage, by Echo Park Lake, and in the dust kicked up by small children running home. I fell into a deep sleep at four in the afternoon, not waking for fourteen hours. In my dreams I wandered through a field of burning weeds wearing a coat made of rain. The coat enveloped me with the sensation of both drowning and breathing, its chill warding off the incredible heat around me.

I was searching for my daughter, now a grown woman, who was sitting on an island of blooming jacaranda trees surrounded by a brimstone lake. Then I awoke. The atmospheric and transcendent music score of Academy Award-winning composer A. Rahman and Danny Boyle. For that, he turned to A. Rahman score that drives the movie, the triumphant, enthralling Hours pays fitting tribute to Aron by being thrillingly alive. An official Selection at the London Film Festival, Toronto Film Festival, and Telluride Film Festival, the movie tells the remarkable adventure of mountain climber Aron Ralston James Francowho saves himself after a boulder falls on his arm and traps him in an isolated Utah canyon.

For five days he examines his life, recalling friends, lovers Clemence Poesyfamily, and two hikers Amber Tamblyn and Kate Marathe last people he met before his accident. Ralston ultimately survives the elements, discovering he has the courage and wherewithal to extricate himself by any means necessary, overcoming obstacles until he is finally rescued.

The Canyon — A. Rahman 3. Liberation Begins — A. Rahman 4. Touch of the Sun — A. Rahman 5. Lovely Day — Bill Withers 6. Chopin: Nocturne No. Liberation In A Dream — A. Rahman 9. Acid Darbari — A. Rahman Liberation — A. Festival — Sigur Ros Labels: music on the silver screennew sounds. Shadows Fall's Jason Bittner offers live onlinve drum lessons. Now anyone can take a lesson with the Grammy-nominated, Berklee educated percussion phenom!

Studying musicians will learn multiple styles, including double-bass, multi-pedal patterns, odd-times, etc.!

Head to this link at RockSource To watch Bittner in action, head to his official YouTube page at www. You can purchase Madness in Manila at Amazon or iTunes today! Purchase your tickets hereand use this information below. Santos Party House is an intimate venue, so this particular show should not be missed by any metal fan! A limited amount of pre-sale tickets will be available to fans beginning today at 3pm ET.

The pre-sale tickets include a special commemorative show laminate, and the first 30 people in line on the day of show that purchased tickets through the special pre-sale will be invited to a pre-show to hang out with the band!

Purchase your tickets here! Labels: "note"-able Netopportunities. The Shondes release new EP. Mourning Doves Over The Noise In fact, lots of people with lots of different names have been falling in love with this band recently thanks to consistent touring, a sincere relationship with fans, and an abiding commitment to its politics.

In addition to making political art and melding influences as disparate as classical and traditional Jewish music and punk rock, The Shondes work for justice on many public levels, including in queer communities and as Jews fighting for a free Palestine. My Dear One Fire Again Lines and Hooks Nothing Glows Get Out The Coming Night Miami Gather Up Your Prayers You Ought To Be Ashamed All The Good Things Make It Beautiful Labels: new sounds.

Anthrax to release picture disc with Joey Belladonna. The multi-Platinum rock band Anthrax will release its first recording in 20 years with Joey Belladonna on vocals. About the importance of independent record stores, Anthrax's Charlie Benante said, "Indie stores are our only hope!

People should cherish these wonderful treasures. Go, get lost in an indie record store, you may discovery a band or record that could blow your mind. It's an experience none of us will ever forget, and we're happy that our fans can share a little of that, and that Anthrax can be part of the Metal Club with this single.

They will then return to the U. With worldwide sales in excess of million, Anthrax is about to celebrate its 30th year as a band. Over its career, Anthrax has received multiple Gold and Platinum albums, multiple Grammy nominations, and a host of other accolades from the press, industry and fans. Slayer to release limited 7-inch single. Wrapping up one of the most memorable years of the band's career, SLAYER will make available a previously unreleased track, "Atrocity Vendor," as part of a special limited-edition 7-inch single.

Written by Kerry King, the track was recorded during the "World Painted Blood" sessions, and will be released on "Black Friday," November 26, exclusively through Metal Club, the North American indie store consortium that works to connect the metal community with their local "brick and mortar" record stores. Slayer's Twenty-Ten has indeed, been quite a year for the band and its fans, beginning with Tom Araya's successful neck surgery that now has him pain-free, the group's fourth Grammy nomination, the band's co-headline "American Carnage" tour with Megadeth, the historical summer series of "Big Four" Sonisphere European concerts, and the recently completed "Jagermeister Fall Music Tour" that Slayer co-headlined with Megadeth and featured Anthrax, the first time in two decades that those three band shared an American stage.

If you have been to my halloween shows in the past you know you will want to plan on being sick the next day so plan ahead with your work. I also am back doing Saturday night Karaoke at Damons as well but wont be there this 30th saturday. Wear a Costume and let's party!!! Miranda Cosgrove cancels concerts. Refunds will be available at point of purchase.

Labels: music news. Bear in Heaven announce final US tour. Bear In Heaven are back on the road for their final US tour for If you haven't seen them yet, this is a show that needs to be experienced. Broadrick a. In a time where remixes are as common as singles themselves, this is a band who have crafted their already dynamic sound and taken it to an exciting new level.

But, unlike the first collision with that egotistic Wizard jerk, this time, Sinead had no one to hold on to and actually fell on her back to the floor for real. Look at where you're…" she said, but then the continuation died down in her throat when she looked up and saw the person whom she'd just collided into. Sinead was not type of girl who swooned easily, but this person in front of her…. Sinead didn't react, didn't even blink, just stared at the offered hand, and the gentleman interpreted her silence as hesitation.

It's the least I could do for an apology. Sinead let her palm land onto his, and, at this, the gentleman smiled. He pulled her up to her feet and the Starling could only dust off the dirt from her uniform.

I should be going now," she said, and started to walk around him to proceed her previous prancing. But then his deep voice stopped her. Sinead wasn't an idiot. She knew she shouldn't be giving personal information to a complete and utter stranger. It was probably because it had been such a long time that she had to introduce herself to a new friend—someone who didn't look at your past and judged you because of it.

She'd almost forgotten what that felt like. Marvin seemed to think about this for a moment, his dark, intense eyes glazing as he worked his mind for an idea. Then, as if a light bulb was suddenly switched on—. All other instincts of Sinead screamed at her not to go with him, her sense of paranoia and mistrust of people impertinently ringing inside her ear.

But this time, she was hypnotized. She desperately wanted someone to talk with, to vent her frustrations to, to just tell and release what she felt and had been keeping inside of her for a long time now, and now that she had the chance, that desire gnawed at her stomach even fiercer than usual. It had been such a long time since she actually had a normal, natural conversation with someone else, no insults, no sarcastic remarks, just casual chatting.

With her brothers gone to Tel Aviv and her studying here in Ireland, she been alone all that time. Everyone said that Love & Unity (CD) were jealous of Sinead's intellect, but they didn't know how hard it is to put up with all the idiots in the world. But Marvin Speede, hmm? It was someone who didn't sound like an idiot for once. His eyes were dark and she could already tell the vast amount of intellect from behind them, the crease lines on his forehead that only deep thinkers in this world could obtain.

Who would have thought? The Cahill Library sounds good. Back at the conference room, Grace was still orienting the six remaining students about the grading system that the school had prepared especially for the Elite Seven. The pictures flashed before Jonah's eyes glumly, and he felt like he was going to cry tears of boredom any time soon.

But, other than complete and utter silence, except for Grace's orienting voicethere was something else that had been injected into the room like a virus. Yes, there was tension. Every single student present over here weren't even looking at each other, tersely looking at the images that the projector emitted before them.

They didn't even greet him, for crying out loud, as if he wasn't the international rock phenomenon that every girl in the whole world would die for his autograph. Grace was the only one of them who acknowledged him with a, 'Well, if it isn't Jonah Wizard.

I see you are running the "fashionably late" tactic, aren't you? The peeps around here were just so impossible. Jonah knew he'd missed something important here—something happened with that Ekat girl he'd just bumped into when he first entered the conference room. Something must have happened. Something serious enough that didn't make the peeps here go nuts when they saw him, himof all people, Jonah Wizard, enter the room. He made a mental note not to run late to school again.

All this wondering was making his head hurt. Jonah made another mental note not to get anywhere near to those nails. Natalie gave him a blank stare. I couldn't quite comprehend. You seem to have your language up in a twist. Jonah could've sweat-dropped like a cartoon character at that. The girl's accent was a refined British and she used complicated words. Not really Jonah's area of expertise. For him, formal speaking was like speaking a whole new language altogether.

Dudette means girl. The one who just walked out? What was her name again? Jonah sat back at his chair as he absorbed that knowledge. Sinead Starling. The girl's name.

Her name sounded…pretty good. And, being a Janus, a live, singing instrument of music himself, he knew what music sounded good once he heard it. Sinead and her companion were quietly laughing over a physics joke that Marvin had made. They sat at a table for two in the library, their books lying open on the table, but they weren't really reading anything.

They had been talking and getting to know each other for a while now, and Sinead somehow felt a little better relaxing for even just a bit. That was something to be impressed of, because Marvin was only twenty-three years old.

Marvin leaned over the table talk to her even more closely, as if he was sharing with her a personal secret that only the two of them could ever know.

Does that mean…does that mean you can hack through a complicated security system? Of course she noticed that he'd mistaken Ekaterina to be Katerinabut Sinead didn't pay that much attention to that minor mistake, anyway. Also, Marvin had already consumed too much of her mind space to think about that insignificant little thing. Marvin logically read the between the lines and smirked.

I see. Not all Ekats can hack, but you can. Sinead was impressed. Yes, I can hack a few systems here and there. Bring it on. It was her paranoia working on her. After all, a stranger had just randomly asked if she was a hacker, and then requesting for her to do something for him.

There might be a catch, this might be a trap. But only if you want to of course, I'm not forcing you. How's that sound? Sinead gave this some thought, and was quick to come to a decision.

Hacking the Cahill Library? Seems innocently harmless enough. Let's hack the Cahill Library. Sounds good. It was several minutes later when Sinead decided that it was probably best if she returned to the conference room again. She hadn't really meant to walk out in the first place, but she hadn't been able to control herself at that time—that dolt Hamilton was as irritating as a rash and it was difficult to bear with him, just as an itch on the skin is.

But unlike then, right now she was refreshed. It was a good thing she had decided to walk out and clear her head a bit. Her frustration had dropped a significant notch, and it felt good to be weightless again, without that sense of aggravation at everything else that pulled her down like gravity. Being with Marvin, even for just a few minutes, had helped to make her feel even just a little bit better. They had done a bit of hacking to the Cahill Library database, and Marvin was impressed enough of her skills and how coolly she did it, without even breaking a single bead of sweat or a crease of a stressed wrinkle.

It was a harmless enough job, nothing to worry about, and Sinead had to admit that it felt good showing to other people what she was made of—nerves of platinum wires making up the mainframe of her intellect, with only a few keystrokes from her lightning fingers worthy of an international concert pianist.

She felt good, her anger against that stupid Holt momentarily forgotten, at the very least. She guessed she should say her thanks to Marvin when they meet again. When Sinead re-entered the conference room with a twist of the knob and the push of the door, she was immediately greeted by a steer of heads and a gasp from Amy.

Former friend. Where have you been? Amy just slowly sank back into her chair, fists clenched, eyes on the floor, and nodded timidly. But as timidly as she looked like to everyone else, Sinead noticed that Amy's jaw was clenched. Grace had said a much longer string of words after that, to which Sinead only pretended to listen to, staring blankly into the olden woman's eyes and nodding automatically whenever Grace ended each statement with an 'Understood?

The Starling seemed to get out of a trance as she shot Amy a look, and then back at Grace. I'm sorry. But there was insincerity in it, because Sinead wasn't actually listening. Her mind was somewhere else.

She noticed something strange. Out of place. It seemed as if she was the only one in the room who did. She blinked her eyes and twisted her head, looking around the room to see if something was wrong. But nothing seemed to be wrong—not in the moment, no, so Sinead just decided to let it go, sitting back in her chair to relax her muscles that she hadn't even realized were tense. Miss Starling, did you hear what I was saying?

Are we understood? Grace just continued to go on in a scolding tone. That is the golden rule. Definitely not her imagination. It made everything around her mute as her eyes widened with realization. It was very faint, very, very faint, in fact, that it seemed as if she was the only who could smell it, but still—. Grace was thoroughly vexed at this unexpected response, completely oblivious of the Ekaterina's distress, as she put on a stern face.

It was a trigger. Memories swirled from within him, where the calming scent of grass and citrus clashed against the rage of fire, roaring, drowning out a young three-year-old's hysterical wailing.

Dan yanked himself out into reality by standing up from his chair to declare his pronouncement. Don't you notice it too? She could tell that something was seriously bothering him, because the usual light in his eyes drained to empty it out, then filling it with a haunting memory. He didn't need to answer that. Because, it was just then when Amy, including everyone else, had started to notice that the air had become a little…hazier than normal.

Noise started to rise, panic was slowly brewing like tea in a pot—but instead of jasmine, it smelled like…. The air smelled like something very familiar, making Amy and Dan exchange knowing, fear-stricken glances. An alarmed janitor suddenly burst through the door. From behind him, grey smoke was all around, the orange light of fire illuminating his ragged face and making it all seem more ominous, if it already wasn't.

Get out! Get out of here now! It was then when Grace heard the screams from below, and she leaned out to see through the window to see people from downstairs already scrambling for their lives out of the manor, running across the grass, all the while whipping out their phones to call the firemen and shouting for people still inside the mansion to get out already.

She could only blink her surprise. How on earth did a fire…. Grace turned her eyes to see her grandchildren entwine their hands together as they nodded at each other. The sight of them together made Grace return her resolve. Yes, figuring out how the fire started was an important, corporate matter, but Amy and Dan were right, of course, it is more important that they had to get out of here.

She closed her eyes for a second and opened them again. Everybody, do not panic. We're in this together. We need to—". But I'm getting out of here.

Every woman for herself. And what's so bad about us being a high school musical? I'm actually looking forward to playwriting a school play one day…". Sinead swallowed down an onslaught of angry words. There were more important things to be dealt with here, her life for example. So instead, she said, "I work alone. I'm going to get out of here myself.

She now peered inside her backpack. Why can't I find my…". Ian had in his other hand a grappling hook, mockingly spinning it in the air to aggravate a shocked Sinead. And we wouldn't want to disappoint her, would we, since Her Majesty has come all the way from London. Come, Natalie. Then Ian and Natalie swung themselves over the fifth-floor window and disappeared right down, with the rope holding the sibling pair alive.

She looked down over the window to see Ian holding Natalie, a hand tightly on the rope, gently sliding himself down to get the both of them on the ground slowly but surely. The sight of the two of them annoyed her. Sinead clenched her fists. She dared to do this. They only deserved just as much. Pulling out a multipurpose knife from her pocket, she lifted it high up in the air, then brought it Sky Time - Various - Sunset Live : Official Selection Album, the wind rushing through the blade of her knife fast —.

Sinead hadn't a chance to realize what on Earth that idiotic Tomas was blathering about, because by the time she turned her head to face him, he crashed against her and dragged her with him all across the room, his weight and impact multiplying into the pain that exploded in her when her back crashed onto the floor with a severe blow.

The knife flew away from her reach, and when she looked beyond Hamilton's shoulder, she heard an ominous creak from the ceiling, and it crashed against the floor, just right where she had been mere nanoseconds ago, dooming the room with the spread of the crackling red-orange fire.

Sinead gulped as realization dawned onto her. If she hadn't been pushed out of the way, she would've been burning like a hyena thrown in an inferno, probably even reduced to ashes right now. But no. Here she was, still breathing, in her eyes reflected the fire that could have very well had just killed her.

She took one look at the Tomas sprawled all over her, and immediately felt…. She couldn't even look at Hamilton in the eye. Why did this Dolt have to save her and make her feel guilty about everything?

Stupid, stupid, stupid! Now let's get out of here before we get barbecued by this one hell of a mansion. Aren't I clever? Hamilton rolled his eyes, grabbed Sinead by the waist, and slung her over his shoulder like a sack of rice, all the while ignoring her screams and thrashing around and demands to be put down.

But of course she was no match against Hamilton, and this fact brought utter horror upon Sinead which shall haunt her for all of eternity. Hamilton blew a strand of hair from his eyes with the air puffed in his cheeks as he ran down the hall with her screaming insults following him like a barrage of gun shots. Meanwhile, Amy, Dan, Jonah and Grace were running down the hallways.

Amy looked back and was relieved that Hamilton had grabbed Sinead and were now catching up with them, as were her orders. But the small relief was overcome by something else more horrible. A sick feeling was brewing in Amy's stomach, and as she led the four of them down through the mansion, she felt the heat of the fire, the black smoke, seeping through her bones and choking her from the inside.

Her ears were filled with nothing but the sound of the crackling flames, the groaning ceilings that didn't help to cease the tightening of her chest, with the fear that she and her companions are going to get trampled down and smothered into ashes anytime soon now.

She had put a hand over her mouth, but that didn't stop the coughs from threatening to rack her body and squeeze her lungs to render her useless, with all the smoke going around and all the running that her legs had been doing. But worse…. She looked back at Dan, who was wheezing into his inhaler, his face absolutely red, eyes misty with moist that might as well have been tears. He had asthma and should be resting right now, but no matter how much Amy wanted to, she couldn't tell him to stop and take a breath.

They needed to keep going. Thankfully, though, he was being guided by Jonah, who was shouting 'We're almost there, buddy! Just hold on! No, the last thing anyone needed over here was anyone breaking down.

Jonah's words, no, voicewas like magic; at least it kept Amy staring ahead and motivated to live on, and it seemed the same for Dan. She was even able to manage a small smile at that thought, despite what was going on. The smile disappeared altogether, though, when she passed by a window and saw a glimpse of her lifelong rival, that slimy Kabra, and his just-as-equally slimy sister.

Ian and Natalie, with a final pair of twin triumphant smirks, had reached the ground, and they sped across the grassy plain and away from the manor, like they had no other care about the world but themselves. Those filthy little rats! Amy shook her head immediately and forced herself to focus on the situation that she was stuck into. Jonah was right. What did she care about those Kabras? She had to get out of here.

The elevators, of course, were out of option, so they had to speed down the stairs, whether they liked it or not. The arduous task of forcing themselves to run when it was difficult to even breathe was most definitely pulling the energy left in their already battered and exhausted bodies, but what other choice did they have?

At last they reached the ground floor, but the red carpet, alight with orange flames, was littered with large pieces of burning wood that had fallen from the ceiling; and the furniture, they were destroyed and would be nothing more than ashes later; and the chandelier, it was transformed from a beautiful piece of Waterford art to shattered shards on the floor, glittering across the tiles like little orange embers that could burn the skin upon a touch.

The smoke was getting thicker, as well, and it was near zero visibility for the four of them as Amy led them on. Amy was slowly losing her consciousness and could feel her heart slow down, and even as she fought against her mind, her body was ordering itself to shut down. Her senses were starting to get muddled, her hearing turning into a mute ringing, her eyes distorting, blurring everything away, but she did feel herself raise up her hand and reach for the light of the door, the only source of illuminance in the darkness that was slowly, slowly consuming her sight.

What did she say? Inside the installation there is what looks like a tiny motel room, complete with bed, armchair, shower, kitchen and table.

When you step inside, you can hear a series of noises, conversations and instructions. Or, you can choose to obey the instructions and sit on the bed, pull up the duvet and thus become a performer yourself. Over the course of 37 minutes, an entire day and night pass, the lights changing their colour and the walls their opacity.

Within the same converted warehouse, Beckett has created a tiny cinema of 16 seats. Up the front, a black roller door rises to reveal a white venetian blind. This blind then rises to reveal another white blind, which—after a pause—reveals yet another just like it.

This continues, at varying paces, for approximately 30 minutes and 50 blinds, though it is hard to keep track of either. During this time I find myself marvelling at the different shades of white, cream, pearl and alabaster, the different widths of the slats, and the fact that none of the blinds ever tangle, snag or lift in a lopsided fan. In the case of Blinds, I keep expecting to see a mirror, which would reflect our own desire to see back at us, but Beckett refuses us even this, choosing instead to force us to reflect on reflection itself, in every sense of the word.

Both the work and the discussion are wide-ranging, drawing on the vocabularies of theatre, visual art and architecture. In another work, In [ www. Each of these works, as well as the more theatrical END [www. Mitrovic is an elegant hostess, sweeping about in a long black dress offering wine, food and entertainment. This might be the end, but instead the performer drags out the furniture piece by piece, herding some spectators into the room while others remain outside looking in. She sits on a couch and speaks into a microphone, telling us of life in Belgrade in —of what it is to sit in the dark, or the day for that matter, waiting for a bomb to drop.

Not so much a narrative as a mood, it left me profoundly nostalgic for a place I never knew. Such theoretical musings on the mechanics of performance are cut short when confronted by the economics of performance. It is hard to imagine the past few decades of theatre, performance and dance without the Dutch influence and it would be an immense shame to see it disappear now.

They have not only helped to pioneer contemporary performance, they have helped to make and remake its very categories. In his diaries, Madigan wrote of the importance of music Love & Unity (CD) writing on a continent with so little of both.

Records, songbooks and letters from home did not just sustain familiar memories, but testified to lives that persisted despite being obscured by distance. Since the real of Antarctica does not affect us in the same way today, it is not surprising that the heroic age of Antarctic exploration persists as our privileged image of the place.

It then asks, through a rapprochement between the natural environment and the harp, how the Antarctic environment might be understood on a personal level and affect musical practice. Armed with a small lever harp and a full sized electroacoustic harp, Alice Giles arrived in Antarctica with a program, like a series of letters known by heart, of works composed about a continent largely unknown to Australian composers.

Fantasia 16 for lever harp was performed and filmed outdoors, while Fantasia 17 was performed indoors, utilising sound processing on the electroacoustic harp to suggest the natural scale of the continent. Perhaps it is not even in the music, but in the performer that the musical effects of Antarctica are to be found. The perfection of nature I saw yesterday, not mechanical, ever changing, but uncompromisingly clear, leads me to seek perfection of expression and sound in every note with serenity.

A musical presence in Antarctica is not only important for musicians, but for others who travel to the continent. Drawing historical reference into a contemporary program with an emotional but abstract musical thread seems to give this a universal expression. The wind passing by the strings produces a constantly changing tone while the ice slushes on the shore and an elephant seal goes for a dip.

It is a magical, minimal meeting between the elements and music, as if you had introduced two animals to each other for the first time to see if they would get along and they started singing to each other. As one of its recommendations, the Senate Committee proposed a self-assessment scheme under which breaches of the classification code would be met with sanctions.

More importantly it recommended the appointment of community advisory panels with the authority to advise and guide the National Classification Board in its deliberations. In recommending this, the chairperson of the Senate Committee, the Tasmanian Liberal Party senator Guy Barnett, indicated that decisions of the Board should reflect community standards and attitudes of the day. In his introduction to Australia Talks, Paul Barclay asked the following questions: How would this affect Australian artists and galleries?

Could it restrict artistic freedom? Is it appropriate for art to reflect community standards and attitudes? Not surprisingly, given the focus of the Senate Inquiry, the conversation focused on sexualised imagery of children and the photographic work of Bill Henson. Inthe Henson debate reawakened and questioned the long-standing claim that artistic freedom excuses behaviours that may be unacceptable in other realms.

This claim, often referred to as the aesthetic alibi, asserts a special case for art that might otherwise be unlawful if part of everyday life. Nonetheless, the ensuing controversy around the Henson photographs of children reflected prevailing community attitudes and responses to risk and all too often unsubstantiated claims took precedence over critical debate around aesthetics and ethics.

The current proposal for community advisory panels raises the question that, where the ethics of practice are negotiated to reflect community standards and attitudes, artistic freedom and the aesthetic alibi come under fire. The Senate Committee Inquiry argues that artistic merit is not a defence, particularly when it comes to child pornography. While the exploitation of children holds centrestage, the recommendations go beyond this specific question to focus on the distribution and public viewing of art that is deemed to be outside or at the edge of accepted community standards.

In essence the Inquiry is concerned with broader issues of censorship. However, the discussion around classification needs to be put in a broader context of the ethical regulation of art both in the public realm and now, more specifically, in the academy. Increasing regulation of the creative arts impacts on not only what we are able to view and experience, but more specifically on what artists can actually do.

Thus a pressing question for artists working across the disciplines is: how does ethical regulation affect the creative process? In short, non-compliance or failure to sign up to or act in the spirit of the protocols may result in the denial or withdrawal of funding. Less well known is the impact of ethical regulation of art in the academy. In the university context, art was reframed as research and artists became researchers. With a focus on researcher integrity, justice and beneficence, the decision-making processes of university ethics committees tend towards risk aversion rather than management of risk.

The risk-averse environment inside and outside of the academy has had two major consequences:either risky art projects may not be funded or else in the case of art in the university denied approval. More worryingly, as Robert Nelson observed on air, artists self-censor and steer away from projects that are likely to create bother.

Thus the impact of ethical regulation, including codes of practice and ethical protocols, have shifted attention away from the circulation of the work among audiences and have refocused it on the production of the artwork itself. When art or art as research is in conflict with established protocols, artistic freedom and the aesthetic alibi are no longer a valid defence.

Many contemporary art practices sit precariously on the boundary of art and life, and it is these areas of artistic practice that are particularly vulnerable to assertions of unethical conduct within the educational and professional sector.

In for example, the Australian artist Ivan Durrant draped a cow carcass across the entry of the National Gallery of Victoria and was filmed shooting a cow in front of the Monash Gallery of Art. In at the Trapholt Art Museum in Denmark, Marco Evaristti challenged viewers to activate food blenders containing goldfish, resulting in animal cruelty charges against the Museum Director.

SymbioticA has collaborated with the Australian artist Stelarc to grow an ear from cells Zurr and Catts, When exhibited, the National Gallery of Victoria, in response to ethical concerns, displayed a notice assuring visitors that no human tissue was used.

The work of renowned French artist Sophie Calle directly engages with the blurred boundaries of the public and private self. In another work, shown at the Venice Biennaleshe displayed an email from an ex-boyfriend, making it the central motif of the work accompanied by over 50 interpretations of the email text, some of which purported to analyse its author.

When Marina Abramovic visited Melbourne as part of the Melbourne International Arts Festival she presented a work which required the audience to be physically restrained within a holding cell of the Old Melbourne Goal. In a separate work Abramovic invited an audience to take up knives and other weapons against her—incurring actual physical harm.

The Australian artist Mike Parr has long maintained a practice of self-mutilation, burning his skin and sewing his lips together. Contemporary artists and those in the academy who are both influenced by and aspire to emulate many of these avant-garde practices are faced with a contradiction. While individual freedom and unrestrained creativity are at the heart of art training, the legal and institutional frameworks within the profession and educational institutions are likely to be just as concerned with risk management and compliance.

The Statement on Ethical Conduct specifies that all research involving humans must be conducted in accord with the following principles: the research must have merit and integrity, be designed and conducted according the principle of beneficence maximise benefits, minimise risks to participants and be in accord with principles of justice and demonstrate respect for human beings and animals.

Research involving human subjects and animals is submitted to a university ethics committee before a researcher is given the authority to proceed with a project. The notion of the aesthetic alibi is not considered a valid rationale for an art practice that tests these protocols. A recent survey undertaken at the University of Melbourne suggests a level of anxiety on the part of artists-as-researchers. From the responses, particularly from amongst practice-led researchers, it emerged that researchers believe that the ethics protocols, processes and procedures in universities operate as a silent regulator of conduct and a subtle determinant of content in creative arts research.

It is not surprising then that there is concern that what happens in the academy may flow through into and impact on the nature of practice once these are professional practicing artists.

This in combination with the development of artistic protocols and classification offers a fundamental challenge to artistic freedom and the artistic alibi.

Research protocols could then be seen to be in tension with the fundamental tenet of avant-garde art, a tenet still held dear by many contemporary artists: art acts as a provocation; it operates as the conscience of a society, it produces discomfort and brings its audience into crisis Bolt et al, Here, two notions of beneficence collide. A comparable conflict can be observed more broadly as the government moves to limit the protections available to artists in a range of legislation, such as the anti-terrorism laws, representing a further fundamental challenge to the aesthetic alibi.

The realm of the aesthetic is now meeting that of the ethical, not only in the academy but increasingly in the art world with no considered examination of the implications of this accord. Consequently, the avant-gardism of artistic activity and its challenge to dominant social mores could be considered to be in opposition to ethical regulation. The danger however, as Steinberg cautions, is that this discomfort might also allow iconoclasm to find fertile soil.

These art practices involve activities that may not be condoned in everyday contexts. In the past the concept of the aesthetic alibi, the suggestion that the imaginaries of art are inappropriate targets of generic legislative sanction, has been seen to be inviolate.

The combination of these various interventions could in some environments and risk-averse institutions lead to the stifling of creative development. What is called for is an environment that encourages a situated ethics of practice, one that responds to the particularities of each individual artistic activity and interpersonal negotiation, rather than regulating artistic activity through the external imposition of codes and protocols.

Ensemble Offspring regulars teamed with guests Zane Banks on electric guitar, Dave Symes on bass, Ngaire de Korte on oboe, Rob Llewellyn on bassoon and Alex Bieri on trumpet to explore the divide and crossovers between classical and popular music. In a packed Bay 20 at CarriageWorks the audience took a trip to the future of classical music.

Our psychoactive tendencies were polled in an audience survey that asked us to name our hallucinogen of choice: Peyote, mushrooms, LSD or nutmeg. The repeated fragments are attention grabbing and a little jolting. It breathes. It heaves. It assured we stay present, but was unnecessary for the majority of the time as the musicians were doing such a good job of transmitting the music that their bodies became superfluous to the art in action. Occasionally the filming caught a facial expression of concentration or communication that would otherwise have been invisible and this invited us deeper into their practice.

It also reminded us to change our focus—in seeing someone new, we heard something new. Comedian Bill Bailey describes his experiences on acid as spending hours noticing ever more detail in the few things positioned beside him. As I left with an uncanny desire to bake spiced cookies, I thanked these musicians for creating a space for this music to be heard, inhaled, versed, warped, wet, born, aired…Who needs drugs anyway?

Australian Cinema is a week course taught to undergraduates as part of the major or as an elective, with usually around students. Films are selected in relation to the story the course is telling in any particular year, but are drawn from all periods of Australian cinema history and include shorts, features, docos, animations and experimental films. Most of the students are doing a Bachelor of Communication, mostly majoring in Media. There will be a particular focus on independent and oppositional film practice through the study of recurring themes and issues such as Crime and Punishment, Indigenous stories, Migration, Working Lives, Alternative Lives and Women Make Waves.

But the course started with clips from The Story of the Kelly Gang and the three-part Film Australia History of Australian Film from toall of which gave students some understanding of the early years of the industry. They only knew about the big mainstream films and not even much about them. This range included some 70 individual subjects unitsacross both undergraduate and postgraduate level.

ASO, operated by the National Film and Sound Archive, is a promotional and educational resource providing worldwide online access to information about the Australian film and television industry.

The collection currently has almost 1, titles covering a wide range of formats and genres, from professional productions feature films, television programs, shorts and advertisements to factual programmes documentaries, newsreels, corporate films and other historical footage and non-commercial content home movies.

In some cases, as with advertisements and newsreels, items can be viewed in their entirety directly from the website. For other titles there are links to information about how to access a copy of the complete film.

Around a third are from the education sector. Australian Teachers of Media ATOMwho have been making their well-respected study guides for over 20 years, have now launched what they believe to be a world first, an interactive film study guide app to be distributed initially through the iTunes App Store; this interactive study guide incorporates clips, animation and web functions.

Of course, there is much valuable material that is not yet available as a digital resource. I was editor of Filmnews Love & Unity (CD) the late s to the mid 90s; over the same period, Cinema Papers was also going strong.

Both publications have a wealth of interviews, production stories, reviews and debates on much of the local filmmaking and filmmakers of the period, as well as articles on the issues, often contentious and hotly fought over, that were important, to do with government policy and practice and the policies and performance of the various institutions within the film community.

And there are other publications, both earlier and later, whose valuable contents are rarely accessed now; as online resources they could provide much invaluable support to the students looking at Australian film in various courses. The unruly name persisted until the co-founders re-located to Berlin in and the festival and series became collectively run, both under the same title. Currently events occur monthly and sometimes fortnightly as they did originally at Serial Space and a range of other places around the inner-city.

Number 6 in the series took place inone of the live-in warehouse spaces in Hibernian House, Surry Hills, featuring a baby grand piano. While occasionally the curation allows a slightly broader sweep of music styles, this evening offered a line-up of pure, unadulterated improv. First up was Erebis sitar and double bass vs Reuben Lewis trumpet from Canberra. Lewis is conventionally clad while Erebis dresses up in yukata and plastic Elvis wig, but their music is not quite so flamboyant, offering a version of minimalist free jazz.

On the whole they focus on rhythmic and harmonic exploration and only in their fourth piece does it feel like they are starting to approach newer territories by introducing unpredictable timbres. Gorfinkel has a serious sense of play placing objects on his vibraphone and exploiting their rattles and frictions.

By casually coaxing materials into action he makes a complex multilayered soundscape with occasional haunting tones from the vibe keys. Gulbenkoglu is a perfect companion on snare drum and objects, using more minimal methods, yet adding just the right rattle of pine cone on snare, metallic ring of egg whisk on rim and tiny chopper effect of a small fan held close to microphone.

Their battle of Styrofoam sounds was a particular highlight in a set that felt truly exploratory. Ivan Lysiak offered a brief piece of guitar feedback. One player finds a zone and the others look for ways to meet him there. After a while another wanders off again and the quest continues.

This tangible sense of the musicians travelling into the unknown together illustrates the NOW now ethos at its best. Sound Series, curated by Romy Caen, held monthly at Hardware Gallery in Enmore, started in March and has quickly become a highlight of the alternative music scene.

Sound Series 15 kicked off with Textile Audio, aka Eve Klein, an electronic composer and mezzo soprano. In the intimacy of the small gallery, her operatic performance is, as she describes it, a little in your face, but her sense of quiet assurance eases the awkward context a little. Next up was Secrets, from New Zealand making some great bouncy pop beats, with almost catchy melodies delivered in a kind of slacker vocal style hidden deep in the reverby mix.

With Matthew Syres on guitar and way too many effects pedals, Dirk Kruithof on lead guitar, Joe Cummins on trumpet and Kaos pad and Alex Slater on drums they play loose yet utterly cohesive improv inflected with jazz, rock, drone and psychedelia. Back from a recent US tour, they presented a slick show that had the crowd on their feet. Instead of specifically seeking experimental performers Sound Series tends to dip into this pool of people. While this eclectism is not necessarily to the liking of some purists, Sound Series is doing a great job creating an exciting atmosphere around experimentation across a range of musical styles.

So maybe producing an idiotic series like Cop Hard, where penises are allowed to float freely, kids are shot in the head and girlfriends make out with mothers, goes a little way to redressing the balance.

While less vitriolic than his co-conspirator, auf der Heide nevertheless agrees. The series tells the story—and I use the world loosely—of mustachioed American detective Larry Hard who finds himself on the trail of a cop-killing clown after a number of his partners are murdered. Cop Hard was a reaction to that and probably an exaggerated one.

Cop Hard seemed like a great opportunity to have a good laugh at ourselves. An Australian show shot in Melbourne with American accents is a great way to give the finger to the Americanisation of our culture. While the pair is quick to dismiss any suggestion that the series might have some deeper meaning, or any thematic connection to their previous work, these dismissals nevertheless strike one as slightly disingenuous.

If nothing else, Alexander Pearce and Larry Hard share a fairly obvious fascination with flesh and all things carnal. If James Bond is a man that men want to be and women want to be with, Larry Hard is a man that men want to be with, too.


Empty Head - Various - Introducing Vol. 2 (CD), Zulu (Big People Mix) - Circle Children - Zulu (File), De Zigeuner - Miel Cools - Soldaat / De Troubadours / De Zigeuner / De Nar (Vinyl), Rippin Kittin [Glove Radio Mix], Este Fado, Multiverse - Dead Melodies - Parallel Existence (File, Album), Winds Of War - Various - Bolero Tape 001 (Cassette), Cathgel Dance - Koo Kwok Kuen - Popular Chinese Piano Pieces Vol. 3 - Dances From China (Vinyl, LP,, 悲しみ - Various - ニューロックの素晴らしき世界 (CD), Nightshift, King Midas - Army Of Lovers - 14 Klassiker (CD), Dubbelrode - Enema & Gejonte - Maddes Kropp (Cassette, Album)