Parisian shortbread, Turkey and cats.

Sylvie's stellar decorating skills are on display in the Sibel's reception area

Should you find yourself in city of Antalya on the Turkish Mediterranean coast (well you never know), and should you be weary from your travels, in need of a room with a western bathroom and a cracking aircon then listen up – the Sibel Pansiyon will light your fire.

Tucked in the back alleys of the historic Kaleiçi district of the city, the Sibel is a Parisian shortbread in the budget hotel cookie barrel. The unseasoned traveller may at first mistake the hotel for a kooky upmarket cattery whatwith the boggling number of moggies sprawling on all available surfaces, however a quick turn about the streets and one will find that the stray cat is in fact the national animal and no respectable establishment (restaurants included) would count itself Turkish without at least fifteen. Thus the Sibel is both undeniably French and Turkish, and it is with the marrying of the two that the story began …

Some years ago a charming Parisian songbird named Sylvie met a dashing Turk. They fell in love, married and moved to Antalya with their son, who grew up to be very thin and possessing the most wild of beards. It is Sylvie and her son who greet us when we arrive with the warmest bustling, chatty welcome (truthfully the son is more of an inert object than anything, but Sylvie has enough joy de vivre for the two of them). Exclamations ensue –
‘Oh but you came so far today!’
‘Oh but you do enjoy your trip so far!’
‘Oh oui oui of course we can do that for you, oui!’
And we are escorted by this Warhammer playing son from the quaintly shambolic reception area (reminiscent of Nanna’s lounge room) to an equally quaint room decked out with Turkish carpets and French countryhouse furnishings. The most unique thing about this room though is the prospect from the window – we are literally across the road from the ruins of an Ottoman-period church, which is surreal to me considering not a building existed in my neighbourhood until a measly two hundred years ago, if that.

And finally breakfast. Never have I had such an eager hostess, such nodding and smiling and delightful French babble, such lovely cheese and delicious peaches (plates of which kept appearing on the table once Sylvie discovered we liked them, until we either had to burst or walk-away-Renee). We sat in the ivy and cat strewn courtyard bathed in goodwill, listening to crickets and feeling the balmy morning air settle on our skin and I honestly wished breakfast would never end.

But end it did and our delightful Turkish-French cross culture experience is yesterday's news - we're road tripping to older F-off sized ruins at Ephesus - Kaleiçi UPSIZED. For any intrepid traveller who may wish to pick up where I left off, the 411:
http://www.sibelpansiyon.com/
Nightly rate is 60 Turkish Lira for a double, breakfast and internet included.

Tim Burton's Alice in Wonderland

Johnny Depp as the Mad Hatter


Mia Wasikowski as Alice


Helena Bonham Carter as Queen of Hearts

New preview for Tim Burton's Alice in Wonderland came out today . . . predictably equal parts dark and quirky (as any movie starring Helena Bonham-Carter is bound to be). Can't believe we have to wait till 2010! Tim Burton is such a tease.

VIDEO: Alice in Wonderland

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On the Subject of Pockets

I went to Pocket Bar on the weekend, a cute new hole in the wall on the corner of Crown and Burton in Darlinghurst. They’ve got a good wine list and it’s all reasonably priced – my round of 3 drinks cost just over $20 – and during the day they serve boutique roaster Little Marionette’s coffee, which is easily as good as Sydney’s better known specialty roasters Single Origin and Campos. The staff look cool but aren’t too cool to be friendly, the vibe is chilled and comfortable (deep, plush couches and concrete floors) and in the evenings they have an entire menu of crepes. Tre bien, oui oui.


www.pocketbar.com.au

Pocket Rockets A-go-go

Charlie Thorpe a.k.a Dash

Amy Meredith's Christian Le Russo

Singing, dancing pocket-rockets were the M.O on Saturday night, when Amy Meredith supported Dash and Will in a night of good old fashioned sweaty fun. Indie music haven the Hopetoun was the perfect venue – the no bullshit vibe (no Diet Coke served here, or fresh lime for that matter. Yes, I asked. Yes, I live in the eastern suburbs) was fitting for Dash and Will’s bolshy, acerbic set and Amy Meredith front man Christian Lo Russo’s tongue in cheek stadium pop theatrics.

I walked in just in time to see Lo Russo take to the stage and launch into a surprisingly energetic, ambitious set. For such a small guy he throws himself every which way with such conviction and glee, and I couldn’t help but grin - anyone that ridiculous is, by default, amazing. The fact that he really can sing (his soaring top register is remarkable) and that these Sydney boys are a good-looking bunch of lads makes them easy marketing fodder. And the fact that they list Heart Break High as an influence and that Lo Russo’s equally height-challenged parents are his number one fans (in the crowd whooping, waving and singing all the words) makes them cool cats with tragic undertones, which really is the best kind of cool. One bone to pick before moving on: what’s with the band name? Look out for their as yet unnamed debut album due out soon, and if you haven’t seen them live already, get thee to a gig.

Charlie Thorpe (Dash) and Josie De Sousa-Reay (Will) are Josie and the Pussycats for the noughties. Brash, pouting De Sousa-Reay is no bigger than Kylie Minogue but has all the attitude of the Spice Girls put together, while Thorpe has a more mysterious, broody presence and the sweeter voice of the two, and they foil each other beautifully. Much of their music is based on strong vocal harmonies and call and response melodies and Thorpe’s delicious alto notes and wispy, girlish top notes add depth and range to De Sousa-Reay’s extroverted performance, which would otherwise run risk of seeming trite.

Playing a mix of old and new material, the Melbourne girls got the packed room moving in that indie-crowd-awkward-dancers-someone’s-elbow-is-in-my-back kind of a way, thrilling the keen beans at the front if the number of aforementioned elbows in my back is anything to go by. Current single Out of Control was a winner of course and their new song Didn’t Know (to be released on their new album Up In Something in August of this year) and a charming Easybeats cover were highlights.

Still only in their teens, Dash and Will probably have some growing up to do before they carve out a definitive niche in indie pop – they’re still uncomfortably close to The Veronicas’ territory – but they’re damn good fun in the meantime. A rocking gig, and two young bands that, with a bit of spit and polish, could definitely shine down the track.

Remember the Time (when Michael Jackson was black)

For all the saccharine, sentimental tributes flying through cyberspace today you’d think Michael Jackson was in line for sainthood. If we’re honest, it was only yesterday half the world was calling him Wacko Jacko, and with good reason – hell, there’s even some who’ll be glad to see the back of him.

Prince of Bahrain Sheik Abdulla bin Hamad Al Khalifa, who bankrolled MJ for 2 years as well as paying his legal fees of US$2.2 million from a 2005 molestation court case (he later sued MJ) springs to mind, as do the apparent victims of MJ’s penchant for playing sex games with children. To be fair, the molestation charges were never proven but while the judicial court system holds the defence innocent until proven guilty, the court of public opinion is not necessarily so gracious (or bound by technicalities). Considering the number of charges brought against him and the suspicious circumstances surrounding them (most notably the US$22 million out of court settlement with his first serious accuser), one can’t help but call to mind that old aphorism “there’s no smoke without a fire” (even if it is just an eency weency fire).

There’s also the bizarre relationship between MJ and ex-wife and mother of his eldest two children, Debbie Rowe, which involved two rounds of IVF, a quickie marriage, an equally quick divorce after Rowe found herself unable to bear any more children, and the mutli-million dollar payout she received in exchange for granting MJ full custody of the kids. Sure, the Rowe/MJ freak-show, his propensity to cross-dress on occasion, his hissy-fit meltdowns and obscene shopping sprees (memorably caught on film for Martin Bashir’s 2003 doco Living With Michael Jackson) do not sum up MJ’s legacy. But let’s not forget all his flaws and appalling behaviour in favour of granting the man demigod status.

Lets remember the King of Pop as the man he was – damaged and flawed, tragically fragile, and blessed with the most extraordinary creative and musical giftings that the world’s seen since, ah, around about 1971. Oh and a shit hot dancer . . . favourite ever MJ video below, how good is the breakdown half way through.

Pony Up! gideeyup up down under

Montreal cuties Pony Up! were in town this week to promote their sophomore album Stay Gold, follow up to the hugely popular Make Love To The Judges With Your Eyes. According to bassist Lisa Smith, Aussies are Pony Up’s #1 fans – still in the ranks of the ‘almost famous’ in their native Canada and some parts of Europe, the Ponies really took off here when Triple J put the instantly recognisably ditty The Truth About Cats And Dogs (Is That They Die) on high rotation – and so it was surprising then that the band didn’t look happier to be here when they played at Oxford Art Factory on Thursday night.

Performing to a decent (though hardly sold out) crowd, Pony Up! turned out a solid but somewhat lacklustre set that felt more like a rehearsal than a show, only seeming to warm up just in time for the encore. The fact that the two lead singers, Laura Wills and Jess Moundroukas, were stuck behind their instruments (guitar and keys) the whole time probably didn’t help, but save for a bit of jumping up and down and skirt twirling on Laura’s part, the lack of personality, banter and enthusiasm onstage made the foursome come across borderline apathetic.

That said, the Ponies’ new songs are everything indie pop should be – hooky, hummable, and downright fun. A slightly rockier, darker edge showed that the band has grown up with this new album, and it was in the moodier songs that they shone, particularly Laura, whose voice has more depth than one might have thought from the first album. Perhaps the smartest thing about Pony Up’s music is that they follow the K.I.S.S rule of keeping it simple (stupid) and so their songs are easy – easy to listen to, easy to sing, easy to like – and in pop, that’s a good thing.

Supporting Pony Up! was Ben Fletcher’s Sydney based outfit The Devoted Few, whose sound is more thoughtful rock than the Ponies’ effervescent pop and fit the bill nicely (although incidentally the line up choice probably had more to do with the fact that the two bands share the same management, Laughing Outlaw). Fletcher is a pleasure to watch, so thoroughly absorbed in the heartfelt, melodic music that he makes, and the rest of the band does a great job of supporting him whilst letting him be the main attraction. Their layered sound was also well suited to the venue - Oxford Art has not a bad little sound system – and it was nice to be able to hear all the nuances of the performance. Special mention must be made of the guitarist bearing an uncanny resemblance to John Lennon for being particularly aesthetically pleasing in a John Lennon kind of way.

Hopefully for Pony Up! Thursday night’s gig was a temporary flat-line on the chart. The songs are there, as are the heckling groupies (“Can I be in your band?”), all they need next tour is a live show that lives up to the energy and spark of their albums.


Pony Up!

Thou Shalt Not Trespass

A moonlight stroll in Sydney's Royal Botanical Gardens last night took an unexpected turn with the appearance of a couple of law-enforcing, burley Rangers in a golf buggy. My protestation that we had no idea it was an offence to be there after dark was to no avail - not surprising I suppose, given that we jumped the fence to get in. Snaps to Nat and Kenneth the Rangers for doing their jobs with vigour and integrity (although less vigour would have sufficed) and for their considerate offer to escort us to our gate of preference after they'd screwed us with a fine.


Kenneth and Nat the Burley Rangers, Me the Trespasser