"Assuming 29,000 payers are stumping up an average $450 each, the duo raked in at least $12 million in gate receipts....."
"Splendour would have cost about $15-16 million — pretty steep when something like Big Day Out costs about $25 million for seven shows..."
"...Kanye would have set back organisers $1.5 million (plus accommodation, flights and incidentals taking it up to about $2 million), Coldplay about $1 million, Jane's Addiction $700-$800,000 and a mid-tierer like Cloud Control $20-25,000. Even a smaller local act like The Holidays would cost about $10,000. Total takeaway profits from Splendour? Around $4-5 million, according to the source."
"...many of the festival's local acts drawn from....[orgnasiser] Piticco's own label, Dew Process.....Out of the label's 31 signed artists, 11 played this year. Just two — Freelance Whales and Dropkick Murphys — have never played the festival...."
"There are also some glaring synergies with national youth broadcaster Triple J, who provides marketing cachet via constant spruiking by its presenters on the condition the festival grant it exclusive broadcast rights. It also seems to play most of the acts on high rotation."
Paul O'Callaghan
Taking from the rich and giving to the poor isn't too popular these days. The Gillard Government's plan to compensate low-income households for the impact of the carbon tax draws cries of anguish from the self-appointed representatives of aspirational Australia. Many people think the tax and welfare system is a giant piggy bank. If they don't get back everything they pay in taxes they complain that the system is unfair. The Robin Hood approach where those who are comfortably well off help support those who are struggling is falling out of favour. And it's not just opposition to the carbon tax. Tabloid papers seem intent on stirring up a full-scale tax revolt. Fueling this new class war is the belief that the biggest difference between people on high and low incomes is how talented the...
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This 'dish' looks more suitable for a lemonade experience though doubt it would be the finest
1 - Not a big year for albums
2 - I haven't bought any albums this year except Jonathon Boulet (2009) & Temper Trap (via T-Roy) and an old Dead Letter Chorus cd
3 - 1&2 are possibly chicken and egg
4 - I can't count
A few years ago I attended - for professional purposes only - a literary speed-dating evening at the State Library of Victoria. Twelve men, 12 women, a long and grand table, lots of anxious picking at fingers and dog-earing pages and various awkward conversations about Henry Miller. I agonised over which novel to take to put across "the right impression".
After ruling out Martin Amis' The Information (too aloof and show-offy intellectual), I settled for Kurt Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse-Five - because nothing says "kiss me, I'm available" like the story of a time-travelling optometrist written by a man suffering severe post-traumatic stress disorder.
I left that without any romantic leads but with that sense of conceited self-satisfaction that only passionate readers can access so deftly. I went home, had a glass of wine and read my book. I was not starved for company.
As readers, we are blissfully united. We stand at home, surrounded by books, and regard them as one might an old photo album. In them we see hearts mended and broken, friendships gained, bitter disappointments at shattered expectations, excitement, calm, and one particular rogue Virginia Andrews novel we can't remember buying and seem unable to get rid of.
United we may be to some degree but we are also inherently judgmental. When I was approached to deliver this address, my first thought was: "Who else has done it before me and how do I measure up?" The list was giddying and intimidating - Neil Armfield, Geraldine Brooks, Peter Goldsworthy, and others equally lofty and lauded. As far as I could ascertain, my main qualifications were that I wrote a blog for three years and once kissed Rove McManus.
Why would I hesitate to stand here and share my views on reading and literature? Because I fear the judgment of the literati? It is a fear that plagues all of us - the horrifying moment we run into an ex-lover carrying a copy of a tabloid newspaper or magazine: the intellectual equivalent of stained pyjama pants and askew hair.
We fear judgment because we, too, judge. We rightfully celebrate the tomes written by the overtly breathtaking talents - the Maloufs, the Toltzs, the Tsiolkases. But we sidestep the ones we're less comfortable to acknowledge as worthy of taking up our precious reading hours.
But good writing exists in myriad forms. Anyone who immersed themselves in the best Australian mini-series yet to grace our screens - Blue Murder - will attest to that. Good writing exists in public notices or on heartbreaking lost dog posters. It exists where you find it. It is not beholden to its surroundings.
It even exists under the reasonably terrifying heading of "new media". In 140 characters or less, a generation of slightly narcissistic microbloggers tell anyone who listens what they think of the world. But those who dismiss such activities as mindless chattering miss the point. How is it not simply an extension of Hemingway's famed six-word story? I checked - his "For sale: baby shoes, never worn" is only 33 characters.
It's too easy to dismiss texting and the internet and iPhones as the death of literature and fine writing as we know it. But microblogging can be an unmitigated delight. One random "tweet" I discovered recently, from a complete stranger, was blissfully evocative: "I changed my profile from 'drunkard' to 'bon vivant'. Essentially the same thing but bon vivants get invited to dinner."
The wonderful writer and wordsmith and complicated human being Stephen Fry is on Twitter daily. Yes, he occasionally writes about vacuous day-to-day activities, and yes, he has been guilty - to my horror - of using the hideous acronym LOL. But Fry on Twitter delights in the words at his disposal. He believes, as I do, that this pleasure is in no way lowbrow or elitist.
As he writes on his blog, so beautifully: "Words are your birthright. Unlike music, painting, dance and raffia work, you don't have to be taught any part of language or buy any equipment to use it. Don't be afraid of it, don't believe it belongs to anyone else, don't let anyone bully you into believing that there are rules and secrets of grammar and verbal deployment that you are not privy to. Don't be humiliated by dinosaurs into thinking yourself inferior because you can't spell broccoli or moccasins. Just let the words fly from your lips and your pen."
We're too quick to judge. We're too quick to dismiss fine writing simply for how it is dressed, or the calibre of the wine it has brought to dinner, or the way it says "haitch" instead of "h". I hope we are ready for new experiences with words, wherever they are born, however they come to us, and whenever they choose to make themselves known to our isolated reader's world.
