a listing, as good as my memory allows, of non-new zealand bands/artists i have seen

talking heads

ramones

elvis costello

johnathon richman

siouxie & the banshees

the go-betweens

the fall

the birthday party

hunters and collectors

violent femmes

van morrison

tom waits

bob dylan

neil young

mary coughlan

graham parker

mary margaret o'hara

lou reed

kristin hersh

john hiatt

Last night I woke around 3.20am, or maybe Debbie woke me - hard to remember. Anyway, she wanted me to check on Matthew, so I staggered up and he was was fine. I went out to pee. Now the kitchen door has got this horrendous squeak. I've been meaning to oil it or something for about, ummmmmm, the last three months.

You know how sometimes you get your best ideas in the middle of the night, when you're half asleep? Well, apparently I don't. Because, I suddenly decided, at 3.25am now, to fix the squeak on the kitchen door. As you do.

So I grabbed this spray can of CRC - a lubricant that smells like petrol - that for some unaccountable reason was in the laundry, took it out to the kitchen, shook it, and sprayed it over the hinges on the door. I was worried it would spray on the wood, which has been waxed, so I put my hand next to the hinge so that the excess CRC would spray onto my hand.

The smell sort of shook me awake a little more, and I vaguely wondered if this was a good idea. As I put the CRC away I could smell my hand, and it smelled like a petrol pump does. But because I was a painter and decorator for nearly five years, I'm used to these sorts of smells. It's even vaguely comforting, the way that smells are. It was now 3.30am.

I was smart enough though, to know that Debbie may not be pleased with the smell in the bedroom. So when I lay down next to her, and cuddled up, I first wiped my hand on the sheets to get rid of the smell.

When she first asked what the smell was, I pretended to be asleep. When she sat up in bed, sniffing, I got some worried.

"What the fuck is that smell Michael?"

"Ummmmmm, well, you know how the hinges on the kitchen door have been squeaking?"

I figured sleep wasn't really a possibility as Deb stripped the bed of sheets. I figured I couldn't really pretend to have fallen asleep again when the last covering was ripped off me.

Of course the ensuing cursing at me as we remade the bed with new sheets woke Matthew up, so Debbie had to go and feed him. Last night wasn't one of my better ideas. The door still squeaks.

The concert last night.

Patti Smith is about as cool as it is possible to be. She played way to short, and no stuff from her first three albums, but I feel privileged to have seen her.

Dylan is Dylan. I would listen to him all night. I have no idea how it must feel to sing Blowing in the Wind knowing you wrote the damn song. He is indisputably a genius.