Did you know that John Safran got his first job in advertising by cleaning the front windows of an ad agency every day for a week? (They didn’t ask him to – he just turned up out the front with a squeegee, kind of like those guys at traffic lights, but better dressed). Fortunately, there’s no need for people to debase themselves in this fashion anymore (sorry John) to get noticed. V-Raw is more than a civilised, MySpace-based version of South Melbourne window washing – it’s a path to creative employment.

Phase one: V-Raw teamed up with businesses like Rolling Stone, YEN, Frost Design and, yes, Right Angle Publishing, to offer employment and internships to young creatives (hi Laura – thanks for crushing our egos with your web 2.0 intermenet genius). Phase two applications are about to launch, with positions on offer at Cosmopolitan, Channel V and The Harbour Agency (think The Grates, Bit By Bats) among others.

In short, dump the squeegee and sign up for the VRaw eNewsletter. Apart from giving you updates on phase two, it will tell you how to create a ‘Trump-stumping’ resume, give you a chance to win cold-hard, and report on the phase one recruits (one of whom will apparently be taking over Frost Design any day now)

By Penny Modra

Wunderkind teen experimentalist, Francis Plagne, dons stripes of genius on his second album split-published by Mistletone and venerated ex-pat, Synaesthesia Records. A pleasurably schizoid, patient mix of abstract sound assemblage and skewed melodic hooks, Francis Plagne neatly stiches-up 70 years of winning pop and conceptual music discoveries in just 70 minutes. Dialling through the Out-sounds spectrum as if taking a leisurely Sunday walk, Plagne’s ability to skip across and combine field recordings, extended instrumental technique, electronics and harmonic song is staggering, but never pretentious – making for one of the year’s most intriguing and go-ahead local releases.

Chamber pop gems and sound exercises appear in equal measure, and everything exhibits a warmth typically foreign to hard-nosed experimental music. Tracks change smoothly and in wondrous detail, taking in wildly different sonic vistas at frequent pace. Where ‘A Chance Exposure to a Distant Rumbling’ sounds like the unlikely amalgam of Antonio Carlos Jobim’s samba and an Andre Breton poem, ‘A Boat Called Ghost’ has electronics, ripping duct-tape and basement carpentry noise. Undeniably avant overall, what’s most pleasing about this record is its accessibility without compromise. Plagne is a ripping Art Party dude with historical smarts to rival your local library.

By Mark Gomes

Someone once said, writing about art is like dancing about architecture. Or something like that... Of course we could regurgitate the press release, and regale you with million-dollar art-world terms such as 'magpie junkyard aesthetic', 'psych-exotica', and 'Monash University', but that’s not really our style.

How about something straight from the heart?

Simply put, the artwork of Dylan Martorell is f*****g incredible, and if you are not moved by it in the slightest way, you are a cold, dead person inside, with only a black stone for a heart, pumping molten lead through your veins.

Put your humanity to the test and take in some of Dylan's newest prints and sound sculptures at his long-awaited solo show at Utopian Slumps, Panter Cluster Rimbone.

The show opens this Friday from 6-9pm. You can also catch Dylan in his other incarnation as a costumed member of Melbourne musical/performance art outfit, The Hi God People, who will be performing at the gallery on September 9. More details at Hidden Archive or Utopian Slumps.

...because we tried dancing about architecture, and the dry cleaning bill was preposterous.

By Jeremy Wortsman

Isn’t genre a stupid word? Say it over and over and soon it begins to sound like the name of a particularly sleazy French uncle. We here at ThreeThousand are fed-up with this concept. That’s why we’re so pleased to meet Ian, the creator, owner and general music genius at the Listening Lounge.

Deciding to do away with tradition, Ian has created boxes full of quality records grouped by what they have to say, not by what genre they fit into. Notable box titles include ‘Thatcher’s Britain’, ‘This Box Hates Your Mother’, ‘Folking Folksters’, ‘Whitey Sings the Blues’, ‘UK-OK’ and, our personal favourite, ‘Pointy-Headed Noodle Rock’.

The resident shop cat, Louis, basically runs the joint, slowly using his paws to peruse boxed treasures such as Television, The Who, Radio Birdman, The Ramones, The Daytones, Scott Walker and other approvingly hip outfits. Old paperbacks by Kerouac, Camus and Salinger line the walls along with other literary gems of popular culture. It’s the sort of record store you imagine yourself in after watching High Fidelity… Without the failed relationships and Jack Black of course.

By Tait Ischia

Twelve-year-old Shaun spends 1983 falling in love with the British skinhead scene. At first, This Is England shows the rarely-seen sweet side of the subculture – fashion, music, rebellious camaraderie – but prepare to feel queasy as Shaun’s new life inches with horrible inevitability towards racism, violence, and tears.

Award-winning (and yet occasionally awful) director Shane Meadows uses clever soundtrack choices and part-improvised performances from non-professional actors, paying off with a real authenticity often missing from period pieces. It’s both funny and sickening, and as Shaun, young actor Thomas Turgoose nails a performance that’s half-bravado, half-wounded little boy.

But unless you’re having a Billy Pilgrim moment, you see the end of a movie right before you wander back into the world; fairly or not, the last five minutes colour everything that’s come before. And the final scene of This Is England is appalling: heavy-handed, self-important, and oh so obvious. So see and enjoy the film – but when the Smiths cover kicks in, close your eyes, block your ears, and invent your own ending.

By Martyn Pedler

What do you get when you cross a well-over-it’s-use-by-date Fletcher Jones skirt, circa 1993, with a sports jacket you’d pick up from a thrift store in Frankston? Your head is aching worse than a Slurpee induced brain freeze right now, correct? Please, relax.

A Name is a Label gather old garments then stitch, layer and knot them up. The result? A novel, surprisingly-flattering mixed-breed of attire.

While they have a penchant for deconstruction and recycled threads, they turn their backs on trends to face the personality of fashion (Iris Barrel Apfel would be proud).

Each piece is a completely individual work of art. That said, when handing over your dosh for one of the gourmet garments, feel relieved you won’t be surviving on frozen peas that week. A Name is a Label believe that dressing differently shouldn’t cost your liver.

By Isabel Dunstan

You know they’re out there. Regrettable text messages that you have sent. Asking for money, divorcing your Malaysian spouse, accusing your friends of being dirty bitches, using apostrophes incorrectly, all that stuff. Well your greatest fears will probably be realised next week at the launch of 200 Characters – A day in the life of the Short Message Service, a collection of 200 text messages from the inboxes of strangers around the world.

It’s cool, don’t freak out and start texting your lawyer, these messages are much better than the SMS detritus of your sad life. Chekhov would have given up his newspaper column for a narrative touch as nimble as this:

#77
From: Anna
To: Simone
2:07pm
guys? hey guys?
my mom says i’m cool

#50
From: Becky
To: Anthea
11.30am
Just got you the round
grass mat for three bucks.
This is exhilarating.

#159
From: Lester
To: Chris
8.59pm
Hostage situation at Sunhill

It’s edited by Pip Carroll of Ambiguous Horse (you might know her as the recent mastermind of ‘There’s a Hole in My Bucket’) and designed by the type-obsessed Elizabeth Carey Smith. You’ll laugh. You’ll cry. You’ll look at your thumbs with new respect.

By Penny Modra

Just as the crack and freebase we all know and love emerged from the Peruvian coca-paste smoking tradition of the ‘70s, so the caffeine that runs our lives was brought to us by the ingenuity of travelling drug dealers. By one smuggler, in fact, known reverently as Brother Baba Budan – a 17th Century Sufi who swifted seven beans from the port of Mocha in Yemen and introduced them to India (and, by extension, the rest of us, once word reached the call centres).

The reincarnation of Budan is, obviously, Mark Dundon (who started Ray in Brunswick and St Ali in South Melbourne). His acolytes already know this, but a week ago, Mark opened a new espresso bar in Little Bourke Street between Elizabeth and Queen. The beans come from St Ali, where several origins and blends are roasted. There’s a three-group Synesso machine, with variable control of temperature on the heads (so they’re using beans from more than one grinder because they can calibrate temperature to the varietal nuances). There’s also a Clover machine from Seattle, which they use to make brewed coffee (very Twin Peaks). Even the door handle is a coffee bean scoop. No more needs to be said, this place will draw the addicts quicker than the waft of residual bicarbonate from a goodly batch of cookback.

By Penny Modra

Where:
359 Little Bourke St, Melbourne

When:
Mon-Sat, 7am-5pm.

How much:
$3 for coffee

Contact:
9606 0449