Thesis Diary #13: The Debrief

Yesterday I steeled myself against the wind to solemnly march into Tony Moore's office for my thesis mark. I could see bare parts of his desktop for the first time to which I remarked "Wow, I didn't even know your desk was made out of wood!"

He ignored mounting e-mails and handed me a miniature novel of examiner's comments regarding my thesis. Agonizing in what felt like a Oakeshottian duration of dithering, he finally announced that I had gained a distinction for my efforts.

A sigh of relief. I did far better than I expected.

Tony was supremely supportive of the mark; he knew it lay within me to achieve a high distinction and I agreed. He was impressed considering that I'd never taken honors classes (which apparently teach one to write in the academic style requisite for such long tasks) and that my previous degree was from outside the field of communications and journalism. He complimented me on my academic rigor despite these deficiencies and praised me as a "good writer"; I felt very humbled by it.

The comments and tips Tony bestowed will prove valuable for my book project with Leticia Supple on rock journalism. Some even provided additional sources such as a thorough BBC documentary on rock journalism that was screened in 2009 - which came as a surprise to both Tony and I!

As I left, he wished me luck, saying: "Remember to invite me to the book launch."

I shook his hand and smiled. "Mate, you're at the top of the list."

---
If you have an hour or two to kill and want to know more about rock journalism theory than you'd ever care to, my thesis is now available for download.

Thesis Diary #12: Tom Valcanis, MA (ComnMediaSt)

It's done. The thesis is finally handed in and done with. Unless it's a complete cock up, you may call me Master.

But in the last couple of days I've just been feeling incredibly directionless and empty. The words are affixed to paper and the work that I've poured into them seems to have amounted to little more than a pat on the back and a couple of letters I can stick on the end of my name on my business card. It seems my life since the start of 2010 was almost defined by the pursuit of this qualification - now its at the end, I've fallen into the void between a closed point and a new beginning and I'm fumbling around in the dark while I figure out my route out of there.

So I ask myself: what now? There's no concrete succession plan when you're asked to hand in your library card and gun* at the end of (another) degree. You're given the diploma and some platitudes and you're sent on your merry way.

Quite vaguely, I do have a goal. I'll be embarking on another journey towards integration and recovery for the last half of the year, reinforcing my "spine" and softening my "heart." During this time I'll be working to establish myself in the tightly bound and seemingly impenetrable media culture of Australia or even...the world?

I've said my (online) thank yous and perhaps now it's time to say my goodbyes. I was looking for work online the other day when it dawned on me - there's now nothing keeping me in Melbourne; I could theoretically work anywhere I wanted (domestically of course.) So I unchecked the "Melbourne only" option for the first time while browsing careers websites. Why restrict myself to one place? You can't follow your dreams sitting in the one spot, unless your dream is sitting on the couch all day playing Xbox.**

Now I close my thesis diary with this: Thank you, friends. I love you all. Wish me luck.


*they issued me with a gun?
**I don't even have an Xbox. I hear they're quite fun.

Thesis Diary #11: The Real Thing

Maybe I'm not in the 1% of people who think they're gonna be successful musicians and are totally right, but in the 99% of talentless, misguided dickheads.

- Jeremy Usborne (from Peep Show)

Now that my thesis is in the capable editing hands of the meticulous and most lovely Leticia, I've been trying to move on to the next step - convincing someone to give me the cash.

So I made an appointment with a careers adviser at the university and she nodded when I replied to her questions, gave me some helpful leaflets and books and sent me on my merry way. In the midst of some sporadic copywriting and media consulting work, I really have to move into phase II of my master plan - making a real career out of journalism and writing in general.

I have some ideas and after being knocked back a few times by editors, I finally found a home for a piece on the "media virus" - but I also had an epiphany strolling around a supermarket today. And they say this is what it's like, forever - as Devin Townsend once sang.

I will face a barrage of rejection and stonewalling as I shop around my works. But then there's an added kicker of my own self-doubting and self-loathing when it comes to almost anything I produce. Something that's plagued me since childhood is the fact I don't think my writing is worth anything of note. I've always figured writing was what I was good at, but I'm at pains to believe that it's marketable or even passable. The gulf between the "greats" and the lowly prose etched out by yours truly seems almost too distant to traverse. Even praise from on high will be taken with skepticism, so what can be done to overcome such a debilitating perfectionist streak in which almost nothing I write will be sent to a publisher or editor without any reservation - something that I can really believe in?

This is the curse of attending so called "elite" institutions - others may hold me up as an overachiever but in my eyes I'm anything but - I barely have a bank balance over triple digits these days and I still live with my folks. My car has smash damage I can't afford to repair and a warning light glows from my dashboard every time I cautiously start my engine; my fingers tremble on the keys as I turn over the ignition, hoping that it'll still start.

Middle class problems, sure; but the charge that I'm an overachiever doesn't really hold water with me.

Then there is the cognitive dissonance after a year and a half of a Master of Communication and Media studies. Erin, a dear friend of mine pointed out that my degree is largely theoretical and not a pure "journalism" degree. Though it was covered briefly, there was no opportunity to simulate a newsroom setting in print, online, radio or for television. Sure, I can rattle off what McChesney thinks of commercialism and globalization or what Ong thinks of the Orality-Literacy divide, but which kind of employer gives a shit about that at the end of the day? Perhaps, I took the wrong course after all? But what is done cannot be undone, so I press onward.

That said, it almost feels like despite all the advances I've made as I charge headlong into the frontier of the future, there are undefended salients forgotten by the reserve units only to have their lines breached time and time again. But what causes their retreat? The overwhelming "parental" voice that reminds me nothing I do is ever satisfactory? An incessant drilling into my head from an early age that making money is the root of all success? The lack of understanding from friends and family of what really is important to me as a man and as a writer? The lack of patience that has plagued me from the beginning - if something doesn't come naturally, I may as well give up? I mean, look at all these people that are "better" than me, can I ever truly equal them? I suppose since January of last year I have moved from a definite "no" to an open-ended "maybe." Getting to an unequivocal "yes" is the hard part.

It almost drives me to tears, bashing my head against a wall to remedy all these maladaptive beliefs in order to replace them with rational, real-world, true-to-fact views. This year and a half has been one of transition from the individual riddled with psychic scars and gripped by fear to an integrated man, unafraid of the future and ready to steel himself against the barrage of attack and accept the beauty and tenderness of love from friends, lovers and family.

Though trite and cliche, the irreducible fact is that as long as I'm trying, as long as I'm plunging one foot in front of the other and trying to learn from my mistakes then I've won half the battle. So I'll say to myself here and attempt to remember these words as I write and read them:

Keep moving, Tom. Don't look back.

Thesis Diary #10: The End of the Line

"Most people listen to rock n’ roll, others read about it and some actually have the lunacy to write about it.”

- Mike Saunders

So, it's finished. 18,275 words all devoted to the service of not really proving anything conclusive. My contention that labels influence rock journalism more than they did in the 1960s. My reply? Are you sure about that? It saves you reading the whole thing that way. I doubt many people would at the end of the day.

That's what's so painful about today - realizing a grand total of 10 people in the entire world will read what I had to write and I'll get a piece of paper that will represent the one-third contribution to what it actually stands for. I'll get (read: rent) a cool mortarboard (for an afternoon), but that's not the point.

Anyone in academia will know about the loneliness and isolation the pursuit of intellectual interrogation brings. For the past six months I've mostly stared  at words on a screen and a blinking cursor. As I was talking to the very funny guys of the Four Horsemen program on BlogTalkRadio today, I realized I'd have to go through a steady period of re-socialization, despite keeping up Hapkido classes and other routine meetings. I've not had time for meeting new people or keeping track of old friends since every activity that wasn't devoted to the completion of the thesis felt like a luxury. 

It's a feeling of emptiness - I almost don't want to let go and move on. It's consumed me for such a long time (well, it feels that way) it'll take some adjusting to the real world once it's actually handed in on June 20th. I'm thinking of having a graduation party - I very much hope connecting with friends both old and new will revitalize me from this six month hellride. But the feeling of relief? Indescribable. Thank fuck this is over.

Thesis Diary #9: In at the Death

"What are we gonna do now?"

- The Clash - Clampdown

The past two days were spent at the Walkley Foundation Freelance Conference, learning how to be a freelance journalist; well, more or less. (More, rather than less.) It gave me a bit of a helicopter view of freelance journalism - and of all freelance writing really - and a bit of a confidence to pursue it now that I've got some skills in pitching (I got Jonathan Green's card!) business principles and other writing tips. 

But, as egotistical as I am, there's just no way I could drop my Masters knowledge on the world and make a whole ton of cash without being very fucking poor for at least 1-2 years unless I did something else as a primary source of income. (I think every freelancer there did something else before they became a freelance. Horticulturalist/Pharmacist/Architect + English skills = FREELANCE!) Is that such a bad idea? Well, I've got about one month to go: what exactly can I do? Apart from this?

1. Media consulting

You would not believe how many people at the conference asked me about social media when I said I did media consulting. They stood there, pens scribbling furiously on pads lapping up what I had to say about "providing value to your network" and "engaging in conversation." I felt like a massive wanker, but if someone wants to pay me $50/hr to tell them how, who am I to refuse?

2. Copywriting

I feel that copywriting is like "journalism-lite" - especially if its blog copy that requires a bit of research. I've been doing some online copywriting for a while, and a few odd corporate jobs. While I don't loathe it completely, it can pay a fair bit if I get some sustained and solid work.

3. Researching and news wire work
 

There's always researching - people need people that can find things out for them. Some of the firms and topics are painfully boring but then again, it's money. I also found out about doing precis writing for news wires, abstracting reports for "redeployment" elsewhere. See, these conferences aren't just full of bad catering, fragile egos and free booze after all!

4. Public relations and advertising

I don't think I have enough money to pay for the operation to have my soul removed, but it's always an option to get into at some stage. An optional option that's optional.

So the future isn't that bleak. I am determined to move forward with my career in the media even if climbing to the "peak of the pinnacle" may take a while.

I've also surmised that I'm going to run about 1-2K over my word limit for the thesis. Mostly waffling on about heavy metal. I'm a big metal fan, you know. My settings go up to eleven! (Sorry, I just had to.)

 

Thesis Diary #8: Finkle is Einhorn

Today, as I was re-combining my thesis into something resembling an academic quality thanks to the tips of Dr. Tony Moore I had a "Eureka" moment. I called it my "Finkle is Einhorn" moment in honor of Ace Ventura's spectacular and gut-wrenching realization (which you can watch here - but of course, it's a massive spoiler. Seriously, watch the film.)

It was mostly due to this line that I wrote, that sums up the theories of Bourdieu as applied to rock criticism and the media ecology approach to describe the differences in the environment prior to the internet and during. Back in the day, label types would tee up interviews in Rolling Stone and Creem and NME - and sometimes they wouldn't have to because journalists would want to hang around bands because it made them cool and would champion new rock genres and styles such as punk, new wave, progressive rock and so on. I was so embedded in this circuit, it only just dawned on me, but I was unable to explain it via theory and real-world examples until now:

Brown contends that contemporary rock journalists are merely “sponsors” of pre-fabricated trends transmitted through public relations “spin doctors” in order to appear in tune with what is popular in the rock subculture as a “survival mechanism” to keep themselves in the employ of their magazine and position as a "rock authority" or on behalf of their publication, which is beholden to a variety of publishers, shareholders, etc.  The access to the “stars” themselves becomes a field of limited production – that is, new content to be generated and sold to the readership. People can go to gigs, etc. and upload footage of the concert to YouTube – but anyone with a web-enabled smartphone may also do the same. Not everyone may interview or “hang out” with a rock star in order to write an article about him or her and be afforded an opportunity to further consecrate the rock music field in its rich and storied timeline. This imbues a position of [privilege] on to a rock journalist who is given this “face time” with rock musicians, lending them a heightened position in a market of symbolic value.

What's more interesting that even in Australia, there's a huge bunfight over what's cool and more 'hip' and what's commercial trash, even though they're basically getting a different phonecall from the same publicist. Creem would criticise Rolling Stone for being too serious, and we have the same thing repeating today between different websites, even though the sources of their content is near identical. I've only about a month to go, but of the 12K words I've got now, I feel that 80% is solid. I've also decided to re-write my introduction from scratch since it almost makes no sense. (Well, marginally less sense)

I may even have to ditch the original title: The media ecology approach takes a back seat to the theories of cultural production, which seems more sociological rather than grounded in pure media and communications. Over the last few days, I've cleared mental cobwebs away from my thesis after meeting with Tony - I wish I'd discovered how to do this before, but even at this advanced stage (I should stop saying that. Quan from Regurgitator was right; it does sound like my thesis is some sort of disease) I could very well pull this off and have it handed in with time to spare despite the tendency to distract myself with paid work and other dalliances into something that I used to call "fun."

Thesis Diary #7: The Hazards of Overqualification

"It's the awareness, the full experience of how you are stuck that makes you recover and realize the whole thing is just a nightmare."

- Dr. Fritz S. Perls

So I'm into the home stretch. Approximately 5,000 words to write and only a few more pieces of research to collate and I'm into the editing phase. Many thanks must go out to Leticia for her suggestion to collaborate with a fellow "metalhead" researcher in Paula Rowe of the University of South Australia. She too is working on a more sociological perspective of metal culture, especially amongst youth. I am very much looking forward to our correspondences.

So this week has blurred with eyes wearied by frustration and angst - work has been sporadic and to top it all off - I lost my wallet! And my watch broke! All on the same day! Now I have to spend money I don't have (the last $25 in the entire world was in that wallet, may I say. Oh and ladies, I'm single.) to replace the cards I was probably never going to use anyway. Oh, the irony!

But throughout my thesis portion of the degree, I actively sought part time work (preferably, but not exclusively in my field) to gain an income. I have been rebuffed more often than not with the usual reason being "You're about to earn your Masters' degree - why would you stick around once it's done?" The Catch-22 is that I've not yet completed the qualification which bars me from most positions; yet the jobs that I require for immediate income take a pass on my application, citing the imminent attainment of said degree as the reason. As the father of Gestalt therapy says above - yes, this does feel like a nightmare.

I could labor on from the generosity of family and friends, but ever since youth, I prided myself on self-reliance. But does that mean not asking for help? As a man, it takes a lot of courage in today's society to admit defeat and ask for assistance, lest it "dilutes one's potency or manliness." Such are the hidden horrors of a displaced masculinity. (But more on that another time!)

So, to boost productivity and assess the relative worth of keeping up my social media accounts, I've taken yet another social media moratorium. Aside from my blogs etc. there's no Twitter and Facebook for at least another week. Beyond that, who knows?

People are shocked when I hint at the inherent impermanence of social media especially now it's embedded into our culture so silently and so totally. With so many yet to be discovered technologies that may "change the culture completely," why are we so preoccupied by convincing ourselves that social mediums such as these are the "big things?" At what point did Facebook become a mandatory extension of ourselves much like reading and writing? At what point did we let it? Why do people assume rules and social conventions exist for these mediums when we are the departure point of their enforcement? When these are completely new entities? When the method of interaction has changed? The more you think about it, the sillier it becomes - well, at least to me.

Thesis Diary #6: Hemi Annus Horribilis

"I mustn't run away."

- Shinji Ikari

Sitting in the Monash Uni Postgraduate Room, working away on my thesis, it feels like my head has turned to lead and my fingers to stone. I say to myself that "I could walk away now - there's no shame in it. I could take the Grad Dip and walk away." But I ponder that point for a minute. This is me, making excuses. Excusing myself for something I didn't find immediately easy and thus put into the "too hard basket." But then I reduce it back to its origin: I chose this. This half year has been one of ashes. Ashes falling from the sky on to the ground wherever I walk. Some bright spots sure, but it's taken me to the absolute limit. I fly into a thrashing rage at the slightest provocation. I drag myself out of bed and look at myself in the mirror and find sunken black rings around my eyes. I feel irritable just lying in bed and just the other day, I broke my shoe after roundhouse kicking a punching bag. I'm full of frustration at the moment.

Writing about habitus, rock 'n' roll and media ecology isn't physically taxing. But after day - even half a day - at the library, I feel like collapsing into a heap. If I take an hour off to myself, it feels like I'm cheating. If I look for and/or attend jobs to keep some sort of income up now that I have no government support, I feel like I've sacrificed my studies. Then when I see my bank account roll into negatives, I curse my studies and wondered why I even bothered starting. 

Is any of this true? At this juncture, my synapses are so overloaded it makes rational thought almost impossible. I try to read Ellis and the Stoics each day, but new obstacles fall into my hands and I struggle to keep upright. I guess it could be worse. I feel grateful that it actually isn't. But then I challenge my reactions - is this all just perception, and how can I change it?

All I can say is that I will finish; its important to me to finish and with that determination, I will push forward and hopefully make the latter half of 2011 far more enjoyable than the first.

Thesis Diary #5: White flags and red marks

Every man's life lies within the present, for the past is spent and done with, and the future is uncertain.

- Marcus Aurelius

I got a fright - well, as much as one can be spooked by black text on a white screen - when my supervisor handed back a recent draft of my thesis - more red marks on it than something I would've handed in to a maths teacher in my high school years. But during this week, I reflected on the Stoic philosophers; Seneca the Younger, Marcus Aurelius and Epictetus. Re-reading the Meditations for the thousandth time, I was calmed by my own innate ability to take the present moment and approach my thesis in the same way. I had to surrender what I had done incorrectly as per the criterion and re-write or re-organize what I had done, one step at a time. A human mind boggles in the face of three things:

• nothingness; we cannot think of nothing nor can we experience a return to it 
• The imperceptibly small and,
• the extremely massive.

So 18,000 words seemed like an insurmountable obstacle if I approached as thus. But following the teachings that I have accumulated since my renaissance on life, I can reduce, compartmentalize and think of attacking a platoon, one by one instead of taking an entire army head on, with sword aloft and faltering courage in my heart. 

But grappling something with reason? Victory may not be assured, but it is certainly within the realms of achievable possibility. What one man can do, another can do. We all have within us the power to create great works, add to the knowledge of our culture or even hurt, maim or kill. But we also have the power of choice. We cannot choose everything we want in life; but what we can choose we can definitely make the most of. We surrender to time almost constantly - especially timing. Now two months remain but I remain calm. Think of the minutes wasted on Facebook and television; forsake them for minutes a day and hours in which to do what you please will magically appear before you!

People still ask, "So how many words have you done?" or "What are you up to?" I may answer 12,229 words are written but they are in no way "done." I fear that I will not be "done" I will merely have "handed it in." Will I ever be "done?" If I had it my way, I doubt I would.

Thesis Diary #4: Verisimilitude and Perfection

About three months ago I resolved to go on a dating and sexual moratorium. I felt my heart and mind weren't in the right place to even consider dating again after a recent breakup; it hit me harder than I'd care to admit at the time and only now I feel that I'm in a position to even consider going "back on the market" again. However, during my dating moratorium, I ended up breaking it. I never went out of my way to seek a date or put myself out there for any type of meaningful, character-building rejection, but I did sleep with someone.

So I mulled over it a while. Was it so bad that I allowed this to happen? I enjoy having sex and sex is an enjoyable part of my masculinity - my very humanity. I enjoyed the act itself. So why feel guilt or shame over it? It didn't make me a "shit" or a "louse" (as Dr. Ellis would eloquently say.) After a time I remembered the words of friends and brothers: "You don't have to do it right, you just have to do it." This permeated the rest of my feelings and my thoughts - much like my thesis; I don't have to do it perfectly, I just have to do it. So I took an index card out of my deck and wrote that phrase down. I placed it on my wall next to my other collected affirmations. Funnily enough, an identical card was already to be found. It had completely slipped my mind.

So now, at the time of writing, I'm about a half way done - 9,117w down and almost as many to go. In the mean time, I've booked myself into the Walkley Foundation Freelance Conference. I attained my yellow belt in Sin Moo Hapkido. My article for ETC, was published (although I'm yet to receive a copy.) I'm writing reviews for the Pun for this year's Melbourne International Comedy Festival. I've gone from under-employed to almost taking on too many projects to humanly handle while writing a thesis essentially full time.

Despite the nagging voice in the back of my head urging me to make everything perfect lest the world cave in around me, I have to remind myself that perfection is a state of mind and relatively relative. It's not worth attaching my sense of worth to attaining the almost impossible; I am a man and I have limitations - none more so limiting than the maladaptive beliefs that I can easily change. I can "lean" into challenge and try my best. If I that's what I can do, that's what I'll be content with.

Thesis Diary #3: Is that a lot?

Okay, I must be borderline insane for thinking I could complete my thesis in a semester - I just figured 18,000w is a normal workload - how could I possibly fuck it up?

But this (long) weekend, I added about 3,000w to my total bringing it up to a sizable 6,142w as of writing. I proved to myself that it can be done. My first chapter is quickly becoming one long ass definition about rock music, rock subcultures and what constitutes rock journalism and criticism. I am no sociology student, and it shows. (NO, political science is not applied sociology!) I remember I did cultural studies once in my undergrad years and failed the unit because I stopped showing up. I failed that entire semester, if I recall... (Please don't tell Tony I failed that entire semester.)

Luckily for me, there's one really cool dude that is the leading authority on this sort of stuff. I'm an even luckier son of a bitch because he's written about a billion articles and books on the subject. I have about 70 footnoted references and his name appears in about half of them. Enter, Simon Frith.

My research has yielded some surprises insofar that I just never though rock and roll music was taken this seriously by academia - little did I know that there exists entire journals on the subject such as The Journal of Popular Culture and Popular Music and Society. At this stage, I'm just scratching the surface in terms of covering the transition of rock music from just teenage unserious "pop" into scholarly and meritorious "art" (like a book by my boy Frith over there!) that occurred in the 1960s and 1970s. Interestingly enough, if there's entire schools dedicated to popular culture and cinema studies (did you know that Cahiers du Cinema and Rolling Stone started publication in the same year? Of course, only complete wankers like me would give a shit about that.) but almost none dedicated to pop and rock music. I mean, it could be set up! Just think of the tenure! THE TENURE!

But my thesis isn't a huge nostalgia trip back in time to a place where I think Jimi Hendrix lighting his guitar on fire is better than anything my modern day wannabes can come up with (but can it?) - it's to demonstrate that rock journalism in Australia as independent, "rock authentic" journalism is "dead, buried and cremated" (to borrow a trite phrase) and it's mostly the journalists that are carrying the shovels.

I can't say that I have a subscription to NME, Kerrang! or jMag, but I insist that my writing is good enough to be inserted into those publications with a cheque headed my way as compensation. But then again, how would I know?

Of all the working music journalists I personally know (which is including but not limited to those I've only acquainted myself on social networking sites) I've not met one that gets paid enough to live comfortably and I've only met one or two who get paid at all. If your mantra is "I'll never sell out" then you'll never "buy in" either; as my research continues its becoming bleakly apparent this game is owned and won by those who are willing shill for swill.

My plan is to get into uni as much as I can over the next couple of weeks. I plan to hit the half way mark during that time. Wish me luck!

Thesis Diary #2: Social media will ruin your life

It's almost true. Social media has opened my world up to so many wonderful and fortunate things. I'd never be writing for as many great websites and publications if it wasn't for social media. I'd never have met my last two girlfriends (one was an ex-fiance, believe it or not) if it wasn't for social media. I've met a lot of people on social media in person and it's enhanced my life in so many ways.

But it'll absolutely fucking murder you in your sleep. There's nothing that kills productivity quicker than ego-stroking at the lightning pace of 140 characters in under a second. I know about this, because I really am that egotistical. I'm not even ashamed of being egotistical. How egotistical is that? Fuck all the haters - self-indulgence feels good, so I do it! Though for the remainder of my entire life, I'm limiting myself to using it for no more than an hour or so a day.

Last week as I sat down to write, I thought to myself "Fuck it, I'll lurk Twitter for a little bit." I had two fucking screens going - one focused on bullshit the other on nothing in particular. My screen space was being twice as efficient at being as inefficient as possible. So I told my computer to go fuck itself and sat down to read some source material. One book I found quite enlightening if not self-absorbed is The Rebel Sell: How the counter-culture became the consumer culture and it basically pillories hipsters for being completely retarded - soon irony will be for the masses and they'll tear up their Pixies posters in audible, annoying rebellion.

How does this relate to rock journalism? Well, I'll figure that out later. It's what my tutor has suggested for me to do. So I'm doing it.

Thesis Diary #1: Rock n' roll journalism in Australia

It seemed like rock and roll journalism in Australia used to be a hell of a lot of fun once upon a time. Considering our small population, everyone in the "scene" knew one another at least by word of mouth and probably saw and met them at one point. My supervisor, Dr. Tony Moore could write letters to radio DJs and have it read and mocked openly on air - now I couldn't even get my tweet professing an unhealthy obsession with Belinda Carlisle flashed up during a 80s revival night on Channel V. I sincerely doubt I could call up Richard Kingsmill on Triple J and ask "what the fuck is this shit, dude..." although I'd very much like to. I pay his salary, god damn it!

Luckily, I've found that there's a wealth of scholarly material on rock journalism in Australia and rock music in general. Archives are out there to be trawled through and I fear that I'll be spending more time acting rock historian than intrepid thesis writer and lose the plot entirely. "Have you heard of Ram magazine?" Tony asks sincerely, forgetting that he's about 20 years my senior. "You should read that. It was heaps into heavy metal." I'm sure he doesn't know who the Katatonia refers to on my t-shirt. Even so, he was once refered to as the "suede crusader" who flew the flag for rock music when the industry was embracing any band that owned a Fairlight CMI and had crates of hairspray on backorder - so he knows a metalhead when he sees one. Or a punk rocker, indie kid or whatever you choose.

So the past few days have been about asking questions in an academic way and not to draw any conclusions from them. It's encouraging to have a supervisor that's into the subject as much as me ("I wish I did something like this for my honor's thesis," Tony says almost every time we meet) and so far, things are looking up. Today I didn't even feel to get out of bed - now I want to rock out with my theories out.