Music from the future

My iPod did the magical life soundtrack thing, just like it did that time with the cherry incident.

I’d just left the hairdressers and was walking down Ponsonby Road with every hair on my head straightened dead straight, thanks to the trainee girl running wild with the GHDs. I stuck my iPod on shuffle, and first up was “Modernist Cut” by the L.E.D.s, which goes, “Nice cut – a modern cut.”
Oh, thanks, guys.

This segues nicely into some pro-L.E.D.s propaganda, cos they are my new favourite band. The L.E.D.s are from Christchurch and Wellington and, according to their MySpace page, play music of a pop/electro/indie variety.

I think they sound like music from a future where humans have reached an uneasy truce with their robot overlords and create subdued but subversive music in a reaction to the crazy new world they live in.

But that’s just my take on them. Apparently the kids in Christchurch do non-ironic robot dancing at their lives shows, which is rad.

The L.E.D.s are playing tonight at the Karajoz Great Blend in Wellington, and on Saturday at the Karajoz Great Blend in Auckland (which is going to be so good), and also squeezing in a support gig for Disasteradio at the Dog’s Bollix tomorrow.

So if you like music from the future, put on your silver disco trousers and go and see them.

This is what happens when I’m on the late-late shift

I realised I hadn’t done a haircut post in a while – one of those, “Hey, check out my choice haircut that a) will never look as good as this again, and b) cost me a million euros so I want to get my money’s worth” posts.

But this time was special – I had my camera with me.


My hair is full of foils, and I am waiting for the colour to develop. Kokomo has an excellent selection of magazines. I always make sure to read the latest issue of Flaunt, which would otherwise cost $25 at Magazzino.

I’m surprised at how well this one photo turned out. I put the camera up on the back of the couch, stuck the auto-timer on, and hoped for the best.

Afterwards I went to the cafe formerly known as Atomic and had a double-shot latte.

Hair done

At the hairdressers I’d had two other cups of strong coffee. All up, I’d had about six shots of coffee in about three hours, and it got me high so I walked along Ponsonby Road delighting in the loveliness of it all.

Other photos from my Ponsonby excursion, including some cool stencil stuff, can be found here.

Things I Have Recently Acquired

The Small Print Zine
At the Small Print zine fair, there was a zine making table for people to create a page or two for a collective zine. Moira collected up all the pages and make them into a zine and posted a copy to me. I contributed two bits. “Miss, please take a letter”, about my close personal relationship with typewriters and “Ahoy”, about how ferries are the mode of public transport least likely to have a zine dedicated to them.

Hardcore blisters. The kind that only soldiers and runway models get. I wore my cool new shoes for the first time. My feet need to harden up.

A Wedding Invitation
A fellow I know is getting married and has been kind enough to send me an invitation. It’s an unconventional set up. Rather than actually being an invitation to the wedding, it’s for a cocktail party the following day. Kind of like a traditional wedding reception, but cooler. This is exciting because it is the first wedding event of a non-relative I’ve been invited to. Actually, counting relatives it’s the second wedding I’ve been invited to. No one gets married anymore.

Bust Magazine
It’s not so much that I bought the magazine, but I noticed something interesting in Magazzino. A few months ago I noticed that Ponsonby Magazzino had put Bust in the gay magazines section. I complained here about how silly this was as Bust is not a gay magazine, and suggested it be filed with other interesting women’s magazines like Jane. Today I noticed that Bust was in the women’s magazines section, right next to Jane. Right on.

A haircut
“You know what I reckon,” my hairdresser probed. “I reckon we should leave some long bits here. Let it go a bit mad.” “Oh yes,” I ejaculated. “Give me mad hair!” She ended up straightening it with the irons, so it didn’t look at all that mad when I got home, but then I washed it and it’s gone deliciously mad. I took a photo to capture my straight, blonder, non-bad hair.



When I was little, my mother made me have short hair. Her theory was that it easier to look after, which makes hair seem less like part of the body, and more like a part of a car. Forget fashion, forget what I wanted, maintenance came first.

So anyway, I was this little girl with short hair called Robin. One day my we went and visited my mother’s insane aunt on a farm. Me and my brother were both dressed in shorts and t-shirts. I think I was probably 5 and he was three. Anyway, my great-aunt said “Oh look, two little boys”. Yes, she thought I was a boy.

I went over to mum and told her that her aunt thought I was a boy. I would like to think, that if I had a daughter who was mistaken for a son, I would correct the person as soon as possible. But my mother didn’t. In fact, it seemed to me that she didn’t really care what gender my great-aunt thought I was. So I was left to go over to insane auntie and say “I’m not a boy!”

Anyway, my mother dressed me and oh my god, there were some hideous garments. I remember a matching shirt and blouse that would be more suited to some old lady working hidden away in a library than a 7 year old girl. I was helplessly unhip.

Not only that, but I wasn’t allowed to wear sneakers because unlike ugly leather shoes, they didn’t let my feet breathe. Like that matters to an 8 year old.

So I was this little girl being make to dress like a 65 year old woman. Then my class was going to visit a farm. My mother made me a tracksuit and told me I had to wear it to the farm. I didn’t want to, but I eventually did and it was revelation. It was comfortable, and it didn’t suck too much.

After that day, I decided I didn’t want to wear a skirt ever again. This did not please my mother. For some reason, it was wrong, oh so very very wrong for me to not want to wear a skirt. Like it would turn me into a lesbian or something?

I remember by mother being like “Oh why won’t you wear skirts, Robin?”. I don’t know if there were rumours about me, or whether it make her look like bad mother, but I got hassled by my own mother for not wearing skirts.

I remember giving in and going to school wearing some hideous outfit consisting of a pink floral skirt, a pink t-shirt and a pink cardigan. Fortunately that didn’t last for long and the tracksuits won out. Whilst not exactly very cool, they were better than the flowered skirts.

Now that I look back on it, I was getting really mixed signals from my mother. First of all she doesn’t care that her aunt thinks I’m a boy, then she’s yelling at me to dress like a girl.

I always felt that I’d been given a boy’s name. There was a guy in kindergarten called Robin, so from a very early age I felt like I had a boy’s name. All the Robins I knew of were men, Robin Hood, Batman and Robin, Robin Gibb. I knew no female Robins.

However, sometimes I would tell someone my name and they spelled it with an y and it seemed somehow liberating. Like Robyn didn’t just say “a person called Robyn”, but “a female called Robyn”. Then at the age of 8 I started to call myself Robyn. It was great moment.

I knew I was a girl, no matter what my mother said, or didn’t say. Fortunately I’ve gotten over it all. No damage done, just having to grow up with a retarded sense of fashion, really bad hair and the mistaken belief that complete strangers care about me.