this morning I asked Chat GTP to write me an article in the style of Ian Stephen. I had to specify musician Ian Stephen because there is another Ian Stephen from Scotland who is a poet. On my first request ChatGPT threw up a bunch of poetry gobbledygook which I’d rather not repeat here. So after specifying that it was Ian Stephen the musician, this is what I got .
Here’s a short article inspired by the musician Ian Stephen (Australian, left‑of‑center, psychedelic‑existential rock), written in a gritty, evocative voice that echoes his sardonic, off‑beat lyrical world:
Concrete Reveries in Cementville: A Night with Ian Stephen
“In the raw glow of a half‑lit room on the fringes of Brisbane, Ian Stephen struck a chord—not in a polished studio, but in the friction between guitar and concrete. He’s the kind of artist who sneers at convention: the outsider poet of suburban existentialism, turning domestic heartbreak into psychedelic sloganeering.
From his debut around 1998, Cementville delivered bleak Australian vignettes with razor‑sharp irony—think D. H. Lawrence meets The Stooges under a smoky fluorescent haze. Songs like “Amish Man” and “U Two Suck on Wheels,” from later on, carved urban absurdity into acid‑tinged riffs, framing ordinary life as grotesque theatre.
Stephen’s music is improvisation as confession. In Capital Expressway (2004), created in mere days with Sharon De Milo and Sally De Jesus, the songs teeter on chaotic jazz and punk — “The Shaggs meet The Stooges,” reviewers shrugged, as if badness were intentional art. It’s the sound of rebellion without applause.
He relocates constantly—not out of whim, but as a fugitive from comfort. From San Francisco’s Mission District in the early 2000s back to Australia’s suburban shadows, then upstate New York in 2006, he released Singing Is A Hobby and a Waste of Time—a manifesto of ambivalence where fascist satire meets introspective disillusion.
Ian isn’t here for melodies; he’s here for meaning—even if it’s drenched in irony. His voice scratches at optimism while embracing absurdity, inviting listeners into a world where sincerity is shadowed by self-awareness. His music isn’t background—it’s confrontation.”
There you go kids, sometimes it’s a manifesto of ambivalence where fascist satire meets introspective. The Brisbane reference isn’t correct, try Melbourne instead.. Fascist satire? Hitler?
Don’t call me a Maverick, I’m not a maverick*
I have no idea. It’s Friday and my desktop computer keeps rebooting. Fucking Windows 10, I don’t know. I’m gonna finish this before it falls over again.
Happy Friday.
*Samuel A. Maverick owned a lot of cattle, and he let them roam around Texas without a brand, or identification mark, seared into their skins. Samuel was a maverick for going against the common practice of tracking his animals, and his last name became part of the English language as both an adjective and a noun in the 19th century. Someone who acts very independently is a maverick, and individual actions that stand out are maverick, as in “her maverick jumping style on the ice was both wild and delicate.