One who reads this blog might have come to the conclusion that I am a dreadfully obsessive person who pines over aged musicians (and the aged in general), inanimate objects & concepts and Harmony Korine. Yes, you are rather observant I admit, but alas, you are mostly incorrect. Truth be told, there have been only five true obsessions in my life, obsessions which have brought out the beast inside me, wreaking havoc on my friends, school teachers and the poor family whom I share a house with.
Most of these pscyhobsessions are too dangerous to name on the Internet for fear of being blacklisted by the Gods Of Good Taste. However, they may just have included a cheesy romantic comedy actress who has a famous joke involving her murder by a knife. Another might have been in my pubescent days of being a pre-emo and revolve around a band who share a name with an ex American president. The third was possibly another celebration of bad taste wherein I worshipped a 'colourful' band playing cheesy love songs under the guise of indie rock music. The fourth was british junkie band The Libertines and the fifth was, you guessed it, Dan Aykroyd. I mean, Patrick Wolf.
I became obsessed with Patrick Wolf at the start of 2007, spent the next year doing everything an obsessive person does with those they are obsessed with; stalking him outside his house, photoshopping myself into pictures with him, casting love potions, constructing paper dolls of him in his various musical stages and then arranging them around a custom built shrine in my bedroom and seeing him perform live four times. Now whilst only one of these activities is in fact the truth, possibly suggesting that I was not as obsessive as one might think, I still was head over heels, wolf-whistling, wolframite, wolfgang armadeus mozart, obsessed.
I can pinpoint the moment when I first heard of Patrick Wolf. It was in 2005, in the midst of my Libertines obsession and I was on my way to see a film with a peculiar old friend of mine. We were going over the Harbour Bridge in Sydney on a train, it was pouring with reindeers and the sun was going down stairs. He forced his disc man into my lap, for in my days us youth didn't have all ya new fan-dangled contraptions such as "I-Pods" and "MP3 players", we had to slum it, manually carrying around whichever CDs we wished to listen to. Hard times. Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, the Germans had just invaded France and Belgium, the allies were starting to be concerned y'know. But anyway, he forced me to listen to the song Tristan from Mr. Wolf's second album Wind In The Wires and I reluctantly listened to it, pretended to be interested and promised I would give it a proper whirl when I was in the comfort of my abode.
The CD sat idle and unlistened to in my bedroom for a good three months before I gave it back to him, pretending that it didn't really do much for me and I continued to listen to Pete and Carl and their homoerotic garage punk tunes. A year and a half flew by and one night in the Summer of 06 I pulled out an old copy of a music magazine I used to read, one might say this magazine was the opposite of a friend if you get my drift. Within the pages of this below par magazine was a tall, skinny boy with a mop of fire engine red hair. I looked closely at the faded image and while my memory of him had faded since the war, I knew in my heart it was him, shellshock must've got him I exclaimed in my mind. But so yeah, um, it was Patrick Wolf. Being reminded of him suddenly revived an interest in me and the next morning I went to great lengths to get all his music that I could. The rest they say is modern history.
The next year and a half was spent caught in the stranglehold of Patrick Wolf's music. I became friends with one of my dearest kin Caitlin Sheardog (hola!) because she spotted me at the first Wolf concert prancing onto the stage to nick his set list and I saw her wearing white gloves and snapping photos of him like a crocodile. I risked ultimate failure in my final high school exams by going to his uber camp, uber upbeat concert the night before my last exam. Then the day after that exam was complete I flew to Melbourne to see him perform again. I met him several times, baked for him several times, made him several things, gave him several letters, cried several times in the vicinity of him and talked about him several times every hour of every day.
Like the great romances of our times such as Brad and Jennifer, Rose and Jack, not Edward-i'm-so-bland-and-boring-Cullen and Bella-i'm-so-whingy-and-one-faced-whatever her last name is, something was bound to bring us apart. Whilst there was no Angelina and no iceberg to tear us apart, there was the fact that I grew out of being an embarrassing fan girl and came to my nonsenses.
The reason my old love of Patrick Wolf has resurfaced is directly related to the fact that I saw him play three nights ago, the first time since that last encounter in Melbourne two years ago. I had cast myself off as a Patrick Wolf grinch; I was still an avid fan but I was somewhat over his camp, naked kitsch. But as soon as he shimmied his way onto the stage my love was a hundred percent revived to the max. Whoop-ah! And that my friends, is how the Allies came to win the war.
And, more than ever, it is necessary for me to post some pictures of Monsieur Wolf for your benefit.
Apparently Patrick Wolf likes Spike Milligan, Spike from Buffy and Spike Jonze films.
According to Nickipedia, Patrick Wolf began the Emo subculture (2009, p.2).
He ate a lot of carrots in his youth and was particularly a fan of marmalade jam.
Bearwolf, the 21st century adaptation of Beowulf.
This picture is from when I saw him three nights ago.
This picture is the night I was him two years ago, the night before my art exam.
This is from the second time I saw him, also two years ago.
This is from the first time I ever saw him.
And the set list I stole from the first time I saw him!
Merry Christmas! I got Karen Walker sunglasses from myself, a ticket to Daniel Johnston and a ticket to the Pixies, two Werner Herzog DVDs, two Bret Easton Ellis novels, a digital camera, the new Atlas Sound album, the new Devendra Banhart album, my grandfather's old SLR camera from the 1940s, the Lonely Planet guide to France, a mini harmonica necklace, Inglorious Basterds on DVD, a DVD of old Australian video clips and other things. 
