"OMG he was so good in Snatch. Totally Gangster"
One would assume growing up in a tightly encircled JC subculture would more than prepare me for a move from the Big Smoke to the Smaller, Less populated Smoke. And of course, the fact that I grew up in what Real Estate agents and lazy journalists refer to as the ‘Leafy North Shore”, the sea change would really be more like a sleepover at a mate’s house just over Mona Vale Rd.
What I didn’t expect, was how much I would come to dread the return to said Big Smoke. The noise, the pollution, the traffic – everything country bumpkins have hated about Sydney, was suddenly everything I hated about Sydney. The pretension, the ‘extra hot skinny lattes – but do you have equal?’ coffee drinkers, the distance between everything, the tourists, the haphazard arrangement of suburbs and of course, the saturation of JC.
Sure, it’s a pretty Jüden time of year – Exodus season and all, but there was something about a particular gig last night that really irked me. And it was the sheer quantity of JC that I knew crammed into one tight Roundhouse spot.
Don’t get me wrong, it was great to see JC supporting one of their own, but there was something a little insipid/tragic about the hippie troupe, with the “I Went to Israel and all I got were these fisherman pants”, the high-heeled, perfectly coiffed Moriah skirts, the Kaffiyeh wearing alt-kids, and even the Bnei clan, hidden up the back trying not to dance in mixed company.
Maybe it was the toxic fumes on Anzac Pde, or the dude I saw point to a bearded Jewish man, shout and snap photos of who he though was Matisyahu, or perhaps the douchebag who tried to put the “hip” in hip-hop-trip-over-your-baggy-pants by attempting and failing to make a Star of David with his fingers, like some demented Jay-C fan. Or maybe it was just me – fed up with the show, flash and spectacle of a JC night out.
Leave a Comment so far
Leave a comment
jewin' the fat 