THURSDAY 16 | Barring any ominous knocks on the door by local authorities, tonight marks the opening of the capital’s newest nightclub. Code Red is the latest enterprise from Glaswegian clubbing impresario Eddie Newman. Brace for sets from DJs Bree, Stroke and Alan Ritchie.
WHO: The clubbing set
WHAT: Code Red opening night
WHERE: Code Red, next to Koh Pich Bridge, opposite NagaWorld
WHEN: 10pm January 16
WHY: Why not?
I usually love a man in uniform. I’m a democratic regalia ogler: chefs, firefighters, zookeepers, bikie gangs and Captain Kirk. Throw in those smoking hot priests from the 2014 Vatican Calendar. I hanker for scrubs, white coats, chaps and strips, busbies, bellbottoms and blokes dressed up as singing chipmunks. There’s a wing of hot doormen in ridiculous hats at Naga. And don’t get me started on pilots. Changi Airport is my crack.
So you’d think in law-abiding CharmingVille, where there are so many more cop-like enforcers than there are actual laws, I’d be happy as a pig in shit. But I like my blokes burly. And at least able to run for a bus, if we had them. And sober. Those Asahi police boxes were a poor, though hilarious, PR choice.
Plus I’m not a lover of big guns, unless they’re perched atop the arms of Channing Tatum and he’s handcuffing me in a holding cell while I struggle bravely. Weaponry and ordnance are a little bit sexy intellectually, but mainly not in real life. Even liquored up, paintball hurts. And I’ve seen those tuk tuk ads for the shooting range. I just ain’t got the cojones to stand next to a bunch of rheum-eyed Balkan sexpats on a yabba lark waving loaded AK47s. Plus you have to wear those ridiculous earmuffs pre-moistened with someone else’s hangover sweat.
Laser tag at Kid’s City is fun after a few quick bevs down the Golden Mile. But with the traffic how it is since Freedom Park became a blockbusting soap-box suburb and the fact that these days you might actually get shot by an overzealous 12-year-old Glock-wielding ‘crowd controller’, I reckon it’s just safer – and sexier – to lock yourself in, load up on the snake snacks and ride along to One Police Plaza for some virtual GBH with – dun dun DUNNNN – the body cocking, head-tilting, suit-sweating, crime-busting bear-man that is Detective Robert Goren of Law & Order’s NYPD.
Bobby. Oh, Bobby. My afternoon detective. My grizzled, wounded shambler. I crave your pigeon-toed ponderings, your ever-so-slight buckyness, your off-the-rack shab. No beKevlared GRK stirs me the way you do when you’re protecting and serving. Fearful witnesses respond to your assured older manliness and sensitive winkling. Persons of interest are becalmed by your meandering bumble as you circle your prey, closer and closer…
And then BANG! That nose-to-perp booyah moment: the brooding incandescence that flares and explodes, complete with a little bit of Stanislavski spit, once every three or four episodes. “How do you like them apples, motherfucker?!!” I shout inside my head, snake snacks awry, as the smug ne’er-do-well unravels before Bobby’s super-shaggy physical magnetism and mad dot-joining skillz. I know it’s gonna end this way. It always does. But it’s hotter than my top-hot Banderas/Pitt dungeon scene three-quarters of the way through Interview With A Vampire, and that’s super hot. But I digress…
Turn on the TV any weekday morning and you can see the local ‘news’:- his ‘n’ hers hosts, flanked by feminine wash and muscle wine product placement, giggling over a parade of terrified sex workers being hauled off to some hellhole by grinning plain-clothed coplets and bespangled brass. Meanwhile, in CharmingVille’s war on crime, the worst criminal offenders are rarely pursued by the detectives of the major case squad (some would say they’re one and the same). In uniform or undercover, where’s Bobby Goren when you need him?
Having never been to Brooklyn, I have no clue what the food is like. However, I know a good burger or pizza when I come across one. And with Brooklyn Pizza and Bistro being the talk of town since opening its doors a few weeks ago, I had to give it a go.
Setting up shop in the rapidly rising Russian Market area, the bistro is nestled on Street 123 almost directly opposite the Frangipani Hotel (a useful landmark). And catering to a craving for authentic American comfort food seems to be something the area is lacking because the joint was full when we arrived, something I’m told is often the case.
Inside the decor is simple with cream walls and tiles with Moroccan-inspired detail adding to the light and airy feel. Plenty of tables and chairs fill the spacious room, and a serving area and glass counter displaying a mouth-watering range of home-baked cheesecakes and desserts sits in one corner. Plain walls divert attention to the funky circular lampshades.
Brooklyn Pizza and Bistro serves up a healthy range of American-inspired dishes. The pizzas are made to share, coming in 12” and 16”, and range from The Godfather ($9.90/ $14.90), a mighty feast of Italian sausage, sliced meatballs, mozzarella, parmesan olives, peppers and chili flakes, to the Westside Calzone ($8.50), mozzarella, parmesan, ricotta, pepperoni and bacon. Other dishes include pasta, salad, ribs, chicken wings, sandwiches and burgers, such as the Aussie Royale ($7.50), topped with bacon, egg, cheese, pineapple and beetroot.
Although the crisp-based pizzas slathered with toppings looked to die for, it was the BBQ pulled pork sandwich ($5.50) that took my fancy. Trading in the temptation of a bulky burger for a healthier option, my American friend plumped for the smoked salmon wrap ($5.50). In an almost miraculous amount of time, a plate with two large wraps stuffed with tender smoked salmon, crisp leaves of lettuce, and chopped tomatoes and cucumbers arrived. Accompanying it was a light and creamy dill sauce that complemented the generously filled wraps perfectly. Both sandwiches came with a side option of salad, French fries, coleslaw or bacon potato salad. My fellow diner opted for the potato salad and noted that the potatoes were a tad too hard. Apart from that the combination of potato, bacon, black olives and herbs in a creamy sauce worked well with her wraps.
The pulled pork sandwich was definitely a good choice and the melt-in-the-mouth pork topped with home-made coleslaw and owner Jay’s sweet baby jay’s barbecue sauce came served on a soft, sesame brioche bun. The right amount of sauce also meant I could take my time eating without worrying about the bun getting stupidly soggy. The French fries were a nice surprise and came in the form of thinly sliced wedges cooked perfectly to the crunch, complete with a dash of herbs.
Happily full, we were tempted by the giant-sized cheesecakes ($2.95) calling from the cabinet. But sense took over and we vowed instead to return with plenty of space for cake.
Brooklyn Pizza and Bistro, #20 St. 123 (open Tuesday to Sunday, 11am – 10.30pm); 089 925926.
American filmmaker John Pirozzi made local music history Saturday night when more than 600 people packed into Chaktomuk Theatre to watch the world premiere of Don’t Think I’ve Forgotten: Cambodia’s Lost Rock ‘n’ Roll. Pirozzi’s documentary traces the evolution of the country’s foreign-inspired music from the 1960s and 1970s. In attendance were pop starlet Chhom Nimol, lead singer of Dengue Fever, and Sinn Chanchhaya, son of Sinn Sisamout, as well as original members from The Bayon Band, Apsara, Baksei Chamkrong and Drakkar, all superstar groups before the war. After the screening, they gathered on a stage behind the theatre and rocked it.
Dengue Fever effectively gave two fingers to the commercial music industry last year when the band announced it was forming its own music label, Tuk Tuk Records. Corporate outfits nearly always wanted full-length albums, which required lots of material and tons of time. The move to independence would allow the LA-based sextet to make and sell music faster and in ‘smaller chunks’.
That was the promise.
The first offering came 12 months later. Girl From The North, a modest three-song EP, arrived on December 3 in conjunction with a one-off Christmas freebie, Little Drummer Boy. The EP represents the band’s first original offerings since its 2011 album, Cannibal Courtship.
The four new cuts seem likely to mark a turning point in the band’s evolution. Since Escape From the Dragon House, their second album in 2005, the group has mostly plied the waters between eclectic world/indie and Golden-era Khmer rock. But these new cuts, Little Drummer Boy included, transcend the band’s diverse musical influences to arrive at a sound that is discretely grander than any of its contributing parts.
No longer is Dengue Fever an American indie band playing Khmer rock. Or an LA band with an exotic Cambodian singer. With Girl From The North, Dengue Fever delivers a sound that, while certainly familiar, is far richer than anything you’ve heard from them in the past.
Witness Little Drummer Boy, the band’s soulful remake of Katherine Kennicott Davis’ 1941 Christmas classic: the song opens with a drum fill and plunges straight into a slow-struttin’ rhythm built on bluesy guitar licks and punctuated by low-end horn blasts. The music provides a tapestry of funk across which singer Chhom Nimol weaves a ribbon of sensuous Khmer vocals. While there are hints at such mastery in the Dengue Fever catalogue, nothing previously has ever come together so righteously.
The three cuts off Girl From The North take a similar tack. The EP’s first track, Taxi Dancer, is reminiscent of music from the band’s second and third albums, but this time around there is less the sense that Chhom Nimol is just singing a Khmer song on top of American rock ‘n’ roll beats. The two styles now mesh seamlessly to create something altogether new and unique.
Taxi Dancer begins with familiar sounds: brooding woodwinds, melodic guitar arpeggios and Ethan Holtzman on the Farfisa organ. When Chhom Nimol comes in, it’s with vocals at a pitch lower than usual and sung more in the Western style. An Echoplex on the guitars adds to the overall trippy feel and by the time the refrain comes around, Chhom Nimol’s vocals have jumped back up an octave and the whole thing sounds like it belongs in a David Lynch film.
On Deepest Lake on the Planet, the band dives into an underwater world of noir-ish dream-pop with haunting, repetitive vocals, spooky rhythms and more tripped-out Holtzman-esque guitars. A showcase for Chhom Nimol’s vocal range, the verses allow the Cambodian singer to move effortlessly along the low end then soar high through the refrains.
The EP’s final cut, the eponymous Girl From The North, has its roots in a Battambang jam session with the musicians from Phare Ponleu Selpak. Dengue Fever played an early version of Girl at their FCC gig in May. The song represents the perfect culmination of influences: the electric guitar licks are Khmer in their essence; the rhythm a bluesy, heavy-in-the-low-end beat as weatherworn as the Mekong River. Dreamy guitar licks and a horn solo fill the break and anchor the song firmly in the rock ‘n’ roll tradition.
In all, Girl From The North is probably the kind of offering that most major labels wouldn’t even consider: too short, too exotic. Yet it’s arguably Dengue Fever’s finest work. Commercial labels might balk at the brevity, but that Girl From The North counts only three songs hardly matters. After all, it’s not quantity they were shooting for.
Girl From The North is available now on CD and as a digital download from denguefevermusic.com.
WHO: Dengue Fever
WHAT: Girl From The North EP
WHERE: denguefevermusic.com
WHEN: Now
WHY: Dengue Fever at their very best
On the way home from the pub this afternoon I saw a 20-something couple spit-deep in a whisper fight on 178. They were impossibly shiny, possibly Scandinavian, obviously mad as Odin. I was giddy with joy. Me and the hubster altercate like two cats in a bin bag. In rare moments of self reflection I Google ‘checkerboard romance’, ‘mixed marriages’, ‘doomed to failure’. Seeing the elven Agnetha and Bjorn hissing hammer and tongs was most reassuring. If they’re having problems, there’s hope for the rest of us.
The smallest things get our goats. In the case of our connubial HQ in the heart of CharmingVille, it’s the family of rat children living inside our couch. They’re noisy little fuckers and the means of their imminent demise is a bone of contention we gnaw with gusto. I’m ashamed to say I’m a first-world coward. By that I mean I want him to do it, which is hardly fair. We don’t have kids so we can’t delegate the task. For the moment it’s rats 7, us 0.
Our cross-cultural shitfights don’t stop with pest control. There’s the ever popular ‘Please stop giving our money to strangers at their weddings.’ Every few weeks when I’m out on the piss and come back with some bawdy Instagrams, it’s ‘What’s wrong with two girls kissing?’ But ‘Honey, it’s a barang thing’ just doesn’t seem to cut it.
And don’t get me started on, do I HAVE to say it ONE more time, the fucking barbecued snakes in the crisper. I’m a flexitarian. It’s not that the things are tubes of dead meat. It’s that they’re fucking snakes. Next I’ll be reaching for the Vegemite and there’ll be owl tots in the freezer, or a wing of spiders holed up in the egg compartment. Oh… Wait…
Given my love of the spat, I’m sure my hubby hankers for a bit of single shoosh away from the bickering shrew he hitched his life wagon to. Despite his stoic demeanour, he occasionally cracks. When he’s really had it with the old ball and chain he’ll stalk out and stay there till sparrow’s fart, then stagger home wreathed in booze-reek and snuggle up with cha cha cha on the box. Which makes me want to barney even harder. How is it young Cambodians with their whole lives ahead of them enjoy repetitive hand dancing to tone-deaf lounge crooners and drippy, ersatz ’50s American music?! Honey? HONEY?
Though I said ‘I do’ with the fervour that only another unwed cougar-on-the-cusp will understand, even I occasionally daydream about nirvana on the other side of the nuptial fence. Like, how Channing Tatum could finally come over in his gimp outfit without having to answer any awkward questions and we would sit up in bed, watch New Girl and drink cups of tea.
I’m possibly making our multi-cultural mismatch sound worse than it really is. Or not. But we rub along in our own way, clinging to the odd peaceful date minute together. Just a tip, a tuk tuk ride to Takmao Wildlife Sanctuary is not one of them. Rather, I can highly recommend a breezy breakfast moto cuddle with your other half to #26 Street 108. Because the best part of fighting is the make-up noodles. Nothing says I’m sorry like a bowl of steaming hot pig organs.
I haven’t travelled to Burma (Myanmar) myself, though stories from more intrepid friends about the land of ‘a million pagodas’, alongside a growing fondness for Burmese food, seem destined to lead me there in the not-too-distant future.
And now a new book by Hans Kemp (photos) and Tom Vater (words), Burmese Light: Impressions from the Golden Land, may be the final nudge that inspires me to retrieve my backpack from beneath my bed, remove the cockroaches from my hiking boots and head off on the road to Mandalay (apologies to Mr Kipling).
First up, let’s get this out there: Burmese Light is the best photo-travelogue that I have read or browsed through in 2013 or nearly any year for that matter. Yes! It is simply that good.
OK, granted, I should admit that my consumption of this field is not exhaustive, but having whiled away hours in airport bookshops – where this book form comes into its own – from Seoul to San Francisco this past year, I am not without some experience on these matters. So with this statement out there, what evidence can I provide to back my claim?
Let’s start with Kemp’s images. Burmese Light is fair brimming with evocative and enticing pictures of the ‘Golden Land’, where the aspect of light, referenced in the book’s title, is artfully portrayed across 100 plus photographs. Kemp’s shots take the reader on a comprehensive circuit of the country, from the lower reaches of the Irrawaddy to the uplands of the remote northwest.
Beyond this, however, one of the secrets to good travel photography – to me, anyway – is the capacity to capture iconic scenes (sthink the temple plains of Bagan or the famed Golden Rock pagoda) in a new and different way, breaking away from the expected and providing something different in angle and perspective. Kemp exceeds this test again and again as he brings his lens to bear on another scene or element of daily Burmese life in a fresh and intoxicating way.
For me there are numerous highlights in Kemp’s photographs: one image captures a couple of far from Zen-looking monks, let’s say ‘grumpy’, on the steps of a pagoda (living proof of a ‘bad monk day’ perhaps?); flyaway pigeons in downtown Yangon, and silhouettes of the U Bein Bridge (Amarapura), reportedly the longest teak bridge in the world.
My favourite photograph appears, on first impression, to be a straightforward shot of a worshipper pouring water over a stone Buddha at one of Yangon’s numerous pagodas. But look beyond the person and deity and you will see that the entire scene is being played out in shadows on a large elephant statue behind. Whether intentional or not, this alleviates the image in craft and impact. Beautiful!
But Kemp’s photographs are only half of the story here. As important are the words of his partner, Tom Vater. No slouch with a pen – Vater has authored several works of fiction and non-fiction – his words give breath and meaning to the shapes, patterns and rhythms that Kemp captures in megapixels.
What I particularly enjoy about Vater’s writing is how he personalises his accounts and reproduces his experiences in a vivid way. One example is his description of the sweat condensing on the ceilings of the Taungbyone Shrine, north of Mandalay, as the worshippers pray in the non-air-conditioned space below. You can almost feel the humidity as he relays the encounter. Elsewhere, we are regaled with tales of train journeys to the north and boat trips along the Irrawaddy, all with the same descriptive prowess.
Invariably, for such a vast country, some parts of the ‘Golden Land’ do not feature in the book. Kemp and Vater are also careful to avoid any in-depth discussion of power and politics in the region. If you’re searching for an insight into the latter, look elsewhere.
To fully embrace this book, I suggest that you travel to the Irrawaddy Restaurant (Street 334), that you crack open a cool Myanmar (the national beer) and order a biriyani, and that you then place your copy of Burmese Light before you and start to scroll its pages. It may not be the same as being there, but it could be the next best thing.
For now, I leave with you with some contemplative lines from Mr Vater:
‘For now a wonderful, quiet and dignified charm, an almost serene innocence, borne of decades of isolation, permeates the country… How long this innocence will last before it gives way to new and challenging realities is anyone’s guess.’
It really is time to get that backpack out, methinks.
Burmese Light, by Hans Kemp and Tom Vater, is available on Amazon.com for $23.33.
SUNDAY 12 | Before they fell to the conquering forces of Roman Emperor Julius Caesar, vast swathes of central Europe were once ruled by Celtic speakers. They were a raucous bunch: classical writers describe them as fighting ‘like wild beasts’ (and occasionally naked) and they were accomplished head-hunters. Fast-forward through more than 2,000 years of turbulent history and Celtic-speaking peoples are today found only in the British Isles and western France. Now, the word ‘Celtic’ is used to describe not only this branch of the Indo-European languages, but also an extraordinary musical legacy. Enter Kheltica, who offer an ‘entente chordial of musical traditions from France and the British Isles’. Their eclectic mix of songs and dances from Brittany blended with traditional Irish and Scottish folk music is rivalled only by that of the band’s make-up: a singer and mandolin player from Scotland; a British piper; French drummer; Russian guitarist; South African bass player; Malaysian violinist and French flautist.
WHO: Kheltica
WHAT: ‘An entente chordial of musical traditions from France and the British Isles’
WHERE: The Village, #1 Street 360
WHEN: 8pm January 11
WHY: A musical maelstrom and swift-footed circle dancing
SATURDAY 11 | Formed in 1964 and regrouping exactly 20 years later, Jamaican ska band The Skatalites, of Guns Of Navarone fame, laid the foundations for modern reggae. Mixing their danceable rhythms with popular jazz tonight are Sebastien Adnot (bass), Greg Lavender (drums), Euan Gray (saxophone) and Alexandre Scarpati (trombone). Known collectively as Jahzad, they promise an evening of ‘infectious beats and tasty horn lines’.
WHO: Jahzad
WHAT: Jamaican ska meets jazz
WHERE: FCC @ The Mansion, corner of Street 178 & Sothearos Blvd.
WHEN: 9pm January 11
WHY: Infectious beats and tasty horn lines
Something was definitely wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Desmond lay with his eyes closed and tried to focus on what it was. The oceanic wash of sound clinked and clanked with building noise, running children, street vendors, barking dogs, but nothing unusual in the first scan.
And there it was, just under the shush of the air conditioner: the distinct sound of humping. Rising and falling and rising and falling. And it was coming from the living room.
The morning sun had risen onto his face, warming him into the gradual waking up that would take a good hour or so to be finally formed, and he cursed it. The curtain next to the bed was not entirely drawn, allowing the brightness of the day to rush in and disrupt the precious last hours of sleep.
So Desmond lay awake listening to the indiscreet noises, which sounded more like National Geographic than porn, and wondered why that was so, why the heavy breathing was not encouraging his old fella to respond, why he was more pissed off than turned on. It was probably because the sun had yanked him into an awareness of his need to pee. Also, as he began to piece the previous evening together, he realised it was plain bad manners.
He had been very charming at Humdinger and the Swede had seemed quite flirtatious herself. A little young for his taste, perhaps, but still. And then when they found each other again in the Squalor he had been only too glad to offer his sofa to a young lady in distress. And of course it wasn’t until they were all in a tuk tuk together that he realised there was a boyfriend included. A little revenge was extracted by buying beers from the mini mart on the way home, and insisting on staying up late to drink them all and watch a Black Books DVD while the Swedes were uncomfortably falling asleep. Screw ’em, it’s a free room.
But that’s just bad manners, isn’t it, to bonk on the couch when the guesthouse is overbooked and someone is nice enough to provide some alternative accommodation? Under a threatening cloud of impotent defiance, Desmond roused himself from the bed, threw on some clothes and emerged from his room into the bordello, crossed to the bathroom and pissed loudly with the door open as the moans and grunts continued to escalate. Then he grabbed the keys and left, locking the door behind him. That’ll teach them.
On his way down the stairs, Desmond wondered whether to head towards the stinky canal for coffee, where it was better and cheaper but sometimes overwhelmingly smelly, or in the other direction and try his luck.
He wound up in a mini mart on a busy road, sitting at the window with a Red Bull, flicking through his phone and remembering more of the plot. There had been an American girl. Kathy? Karen? There had been kissing. And… shit, that was who he thought he found at Squalor. Kathleen? Klara? He scanned through the Ks in his contacts and found nothing. In the inbox, from an unrecognised number: ‘Heading 4 Squalor, see u there? xx Nancy.’ The phone buzzed angrily, making him jump. Hank. This could be trouble. It usually was.
“Desi, man!”
“What up, Hank?”
“Look man, can I meet you? I gotta ask something.”
“Sure, I…”
“The Running Dog, twenty minutes.”
Then the screen was abruptly returned to ‘Heading 4 Squalor, see u there? xx Nancy.’
He considered the Swedes, but only for a moment, before flagging down a moto and heading for the riverside.
Continues next week
