Here’s a picture of me and the gang – during rehearsals for Cats. Enjoy.
Category: Clint Bo Dean (page 1 of 5)
Clint Bo Dean, the world’s most private poet, possesses Australasia’s worst wig and proudly maintains that his influences include Enya, Stevie Nicks, Andrew Lloyd Webber, Chris de Burgh, Elton John, Arcadia, Cat Stevens, Noiseworks, Boom Crash Opera, Big Pig, Wa Wa Nee and Stryper. Perhaps unsurprisingly, Clint was born under the influence of narcotics in the Bahamas in 2004. Despite his penchant for interpretative dance, Clint has so far failed in his stated career aim of joining the Bolshoi Ballet. He spends most of his time penning ridiculously grandiose orchestral arrangements for two flugel horns and one triangle. Clint’s debut DNRC single, Private Poet, was judged a form of torture by the International Criminal Court and subsequently banned from use in Australasian jails. His breakthrough album, Never Go Ashtray, violated several international whaling protocols.
DNRC073 | EP | 2010 Read more
DNRC069 | LP | 2010 Read more
Josi! You are luscious! I watch you every week on Chartbusting Eighties just because you are so luscious. You make me want to slur my words and say eighdies. I feel fat in my Tears For Fears outfits, especially this gigantic panda jumper but I don’t care because I want to shout, pout and let other stuff out of my body at the same time. There is a beach I walk along each morning. In the top right hand corner of the inside of my mirrorshade Le Specs I’ve got a little pop-up window set to play continuous CB80s re-runs. I am too shy to participate in the CB80s audience. Did I mention the beach I walk along in my greatcoat and tight-fitting black boots. Josi, you are so rude to your audience members. That makes me excited. I refuse to communicate with you via email. The despicably ugly film clips from our deadbeat generation onyl serve to make you look attractive. Please tell the goons in the studio to desist with the smoke machine. It distracts my eye from its contemplation of you. Yes, I have only one eye. It is located in the middle of my forehead. I do not require an eyepatch, as I am blessed with several bandannas and a rather girlish quiff. Walking along the ebach in a greatcoat and boots can be hard, especially now that my Walkman is broken, and the elastic band holding my headphones together has also broken. Everybody wants to rule your world, Josi, except me. I want to rool with you. The two of us, together, in a film clip with no name. Exasperating the studio hacks with our cut-up trickery, our mirrorshades, our bike pant flower arrangements, our ineffable badness, weirdness. Let’s write songs from the big chair of your lap, you on keyboards, me on bass, some NMIT music student on guitar, production by Bros. Hair by Brian. Let us buy a house in Reservoir, and coat the walls with L.P. covers, forge a path to the Hills Hoist out of vinyl 12″ circles, leave complimentary head cleaners in the bathroom for our guests. I will draw George Michael stubble on my cheeks, bleach my teeth “Choose LIfe” white. I love raging and long walks on the beach. I love your teasing manner and your generous bust. I see you in the top left hand corner of my heart, standing still as the video recorder runs through its paces, taping over all my old sitcom flames, erasing the sevendies, the ninedies, the naughdies. Only eighdies remain. Chartbusting eighdies. Heartbusting eighdies. Pantbusting eighdies. Josi!