Tuesday, 15 September 2015

Mr Dojo Rising ... Meet MMA's hardest Nutt

My latest piece in the South China Morning Post, on the full mental racket that is Full Metal Dojo, a potent cocktail of brutal cagefights, hot girls, hard rock, full beards and cold beer. Jon Nutt is the Dojo's high priest of hucksterism and hype. I meet him in 'the coolest city in the world' - Bangkok, says Nutt - to get the lowdown on throwdowns, takedowns, staredowns, and shakedowns, not to mention System of a Down.  Link to the SCMP story is here: http://www.scmp.com/lifestyle/arts-entertainment/article/1857244/mixed-martial-arts-and-rocknroll-hit-thailand


SWASH & TURNBUCKLES: JON NUTT, MODERN DAY
SAMURAI AND PIRATE OF PIZZAZ MEETS PT BARNUM AT THE NEW
 CIRCUS FOR MODERN GLADIATORS, FULL METAL DOJO
Jon Nutt has a reddish beard and a piratical air, although he professes no family connection to the 17th-century English pirate who cut a swathe through Newfoundland and Labrador before his capture in 1623.

The latter-day Nutt is content with cutting a swathe through the world of Mixed Martial Arts (MMA) with his Full Metal Dojo show, which he somewhat breathlessly extols as the ‘fastest growing show on the planet, in the fastest growing sport on the planet, in the coolest city on the planet’ – his adopted home of Bangkok.

The most recent incarnation of Full Metal Dojo, two weeks ago, was held in the Sukhumvit Soi 12 club Insanity, formerly known as Insomnia, packing in a capacity crowd in excess of 600 people.
The first, although probably not the second, of the two conditions is almost certainly a boon in the world of MMA, a fighting style which sees two men or women of more or less equal weight (although often from wildly different fighting backgrounds) enter an octagonal cage and, with few rules and no holds barred, ‘get it on’ over three to five five-minute rounds.

The fighting discipline reached its global apotheosis with the show Ultimate Fighting Championship (UFC), in which the leading exponents must bring to the ring a mix of striking and grappling skills to have any chance of success.

Full Metal Dojo follows a similar model, although Nutt has made it his mission to spice up the showbiz pizzazz; his shows are a full metal racket that combines the bareknuckle fighting with hucksterism, live bands, DJs and copious quantities of food and booze. The Insanity show, Full Metal Dojo VI – For Those About to Rock, was the sixth outing in just over a year for the Full Metal Dojo machine – justification, in Nutt’s world, for his seemingly rather ambitious and exaggerated claim.

WAI A SWORD?  JON NUTT PERFORMS AN ARCANE RITUAL
 IN THE DOJO INVOKING THE WARRIOR SPIRIT OF THE SAMURAI,
BEFORE PERFORMING A SEK LOSO SONG, HIP HOP STYLE
Six weeks earlier, Full Metal Dojo V took place on Bangkok’s outskirts, at a venue called Live House, tucked away in a warren of local bars with bands, art-and-craft shops and independent fashion boutiques known as JJ Green, near the popular Chatuchak Weekend Markets.

I walked into Live House, after 60 minutes wandering in fruitless if entertaining circles trying to find the place, to see a fight start and end, with a brutal uppercut and a knee to the head, inside four seconds.

Sunday, 19 April 2015

Branding Bungles of the Piggy Banks

This piece first appeared as one of my Palm Oil columns for Coconuts. The column became a casualty of my day job workload but I've been missing the chance to sound off in print and illustration on various topics that annoy or intrigue me lately, and I've been toying with the idea of resurrecting the column, perhaps just as an occasional feature on the blog. This was the final column for Coconuts, and one of my better 'Insta-art' pieces, illustrating the porcine aviation properties of banks and their promises.



LoadsaBank: Bish Bosh, look at all our dosh.
This little piggy goes to market! Insta-Art by Jason Gagliardi 



After the subprime-fueled global economic meltdown, when HSBC high-tailed it out of Thailand in 2012 and left behind only its corporate banking operation, I was amazed the press didn't make more of “The World's Local Bank” becoming rather less local. (It also flogged off its Japanese private banking business, a chunk of its Russian consumer banking business and about half of its US branches, along with great swaths of its Central American operations.)

There was a predictable flurry of perfunctory business stories, but what about the body blow this represented to the brand and its much-vaunted, oh-so-clever tagline? I was tempted to write something snide then, but figured that as I had taken local bank Krungsri's baht to pen about 20 letters to various classes of cardholders about the sale (Krungsri paid about US$115 million to acquire HSBC's Thailand retail banking business, including an array of credit card products) I was a bit close to the proceedings at the time.


Tuesday, 3 February 2015

Palette pimp: Riding in the hood with red

This is my essay on the colour red, which was a lot of fun to research and write. Thanks to the splendid 'eight' magazine and Ink Publishing for asking me to contribute it. These kind of 'think pieces' off the top of your head are always a bit daunting, but the most rewarding, often, when they are done. 


The colour red is crazy. Insane in the membrane. A few crayons short of a set, and not the sharpest pencil in the box. Call the men in white jackets, tell the asylum to get its padded cell ready. Poor old red – ready or not, here it comes, the loony tune of hues, the crime of passion, the time of your life, a twisted melon: lover, fighter, sinner, saint.

The pimp of the palette, the paint box pantomime clown and the visible spectrum's biggest show-off, red clamours for attention, the hue that cries. Red is the most visible and arresting colour for humans in daylight hours, capable of causing discernable shifts in mood and arousal and stirring appetites, passions and emotions. Sporting teams that sport red tend to win more, as do boxers and martial artists. Women wearing red are judged more beautiful and desirable than those in other colours. Men with redder faces get more mates.

Yet red clings precariously to the edge of the visible spectrum, the first or last shade on the rainbow, bleeding into its mysterious and invisible cousin, infrared. Just a few scant nanometres of wave length are the difference between celebrity and anonymity.

Simply red? It's complicated. Red is the colour of confusion and contradiction, on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Red is a conundrum, pigment as palimpsest. Red runs thought the fabric of our lives, splashed across literature, staining the vernacular. In a world where red can mean almost anything, does its sound and fury in fact signify nothing?

I was caught red-handed and left red-faced painting the town red when my red letter day saw me walk the red carpet, only to find a red herring. That was a red rag to a bull, the red mist descended and I saw red. That got me red-carded so I hopped on the redeye, drank a red bull and got into a fight with some rednecks.  

Red is life and death, love and hate, sickness and health, hurting and healing, headache and heartache, oppression and revolt, bureaucracy and anarchy. Red is the capitalist, the communist and the fascist, the sailor's dawn warning and afternoon delight. The Red Army marches in Red Square. The crimson gape of the Grand Canyon. Uluru, the big red rock in Australia's parched red centre. 

Writer Saul Bellow - now there's a fellow who knew a thing or two about red's starring role in the grand opera and farce of life. In The Adventures of Augie March, his protagonist sears this image into the consciousness with colour: "The door opened; a woman sat before me in a wheelchair, and in her lap, just born in a cab or paddy wagon or in the lobby of the hospital, covered with blood and screaming so you could see the sinews, square of chest and shoulder from the strain, this bald kid, red and covering her with the red ... She and the baby appeared like enemies forced to have each other, the figures of a war."

Red means danger and evil in the Middle East, macho men in Greece, female reproduction in Japan, Christmas in the West, but in China the East is Red. Red means sackcloth and ashes and mourning in South Africa, and sex for sale in Amsterdam. 

Friday, 28 November 2014

Chinese democracy is cool for cats

This was to be the illustration to go with a column on Hong Kong's protests. However, with many good mates there on the frontlines, I realised there was nothing much I, who hasn't even lived in Hong Kong for 13 years, could add to the collective wisdom on the topic. So in the spirit of a picture being worth a thousand words, here's my skewed view of the protests, through the prism of Deng Xiaoping's famous saying about cats

Sunday, 10 August 2014

Raving on a Sunday Afternoon: Inside King Coran's Cult of Many Kolours

© Kolour Sundays
This piece about Bangkok's new dark horse king of clubland and his 'kollective' of DJs which won the cool crowd's heart with sun-drenched daytime rave parties ran in the July-August 2014 issue of Fah Thai, the Bangkok Airways inflight magazine. Kolour Nights is now a 'thing' and the group's Family Wednesday gig at Glow continues to pack them in. The original article as published is at the bottom. Other images are my own shots and edits from the 2014 Kolour Sunday party 'Brighter Days'. 

Coran Maloney likes his photographs laden with lens flare, grainy, desaturated, with a smattering of faux lens scratches and suffused with a pale golden glow. In an advertising agency, an art director might call the style ‘high key’. The uninitiated will notice this look, nod appreciatively at its understated Instagram coolness, and then, as the cogs turn a few more times, think: ‘Hang on, where are the colours?’

Kolour Sundays, you see, is the name chosen for the infrequent, effervescent, stone cool and scorchingly hot daytime raves for grown-ups created by Maloney and his partner-in-crime Vina Charay, a fellow taste-maker who was previously Bangkok's high priestess of house parties and is the Thailand face of international invitation-only hipster conclave French Tuesdays.

An art director would call this epiphany a ‘smile in the mind’, that elusive little ‘aha’ moment where something quirkily clever hits the little sweet spot in your brain, sending neurotransmitters dancing across synapses, creating a new and permanent pathway in your brain.
It's branding manna from heaven, the stuff of the coveted ‘stickiness’ ad men whisper about in reverent tones. As a former marketing student who worked as brand manager for a multinational forestry company, Maloney knows this.

We even have our own filter,” he says proudly, sprawled on a sofa in his spacious apartment a stone's throw from Bangkok's posh SwissĂ´tel Nai Lert Park. He sports shorts and a tattered gym shirt, stretched over a tanned, towering gym rat’s frame. Hanging from the wall is a Kolour Sunday logo, a simple wordmark in the style beloved of the luxury brands, surrounded by a kind of postmark and the group’s slogan, credo and philosophy of life: “This is us … doing what we love.”

© Jason Gagliardi
Despite the Irish lilt to his name, Coran Maloney is the product of a Sri Lankan father and Uruguayan mother who moved to Melbourne when he was a young boy. He has the quiet confidence of the big, buff and handsome, looks utterly at ease in his skin and is a glowing picture of health, despite it being the Monday evening after his latest Sunday triumph, a Caligulan concatenation of after parties, after-after parties, and possibly even an after-after-after party, all fuelled by deep house and nu disco beats, top shelf booze and an assortment of other party favours.

It was a big weekend,” smiles Maloney. Big weekends are prized currency in the kingdom – and growing cult – of Kolour Sundays, and a hot topic of conversation amongst the Kolour Krew, a loose knit collective of 12 DJs who take turns headlining the parties.

There are no international superstar DJs at Kolour events, along with no red carpets, velvet ropes or fawned-over celebrities. “I'm going to ban photographers from our parties in the future,” he says. “We had nine or 10 with big paparazzi cameras at the last party and it looked terrible. It takes people out of the moment and they start posing and it’s just not what we’re about. I come from a background of going to parties where you don’t go to be seen, you go to enjoy the music and to dance. We don't want our party to become a hangout for high-society snobs.”

© Jason Gagliardi
There has been a keen sense of anticipation in the build-up to each Kolour Sunday, with a growing loyal cadre of fans, a savvy social media sense and no shortage of word-of-mouth buzz, thanks to clever touches like not revealing the venue until the day before the party – a nod to the original English rave parties, with pirate radio stations revealing coded instructions to find the party and cat-and-mouse games with police.

None of this is by accident. Maloney is simply on the money, being himself, doing what he loves. He tossed in the branding job and his suit and tie corporate existence a little over a year ago to devote himself full time to living Kolour.

It was a ballsy, sink-or-swim decision that has paid off in spades. The money and accolades are rolling in, he is beating off DJs, promoters and reporters with a stick, and for the moment at least, he seems to have captured lighting – or at least magic hour – in a bottle.

© Jason Gagliardi
A day earlier, I wander into the latest incarnation of Kolour Sundays – Brighter Days, which happens to be at Horizon, a split-level rooftop venue with indoor and outdoor spaces, eye candy design and eye-popping views at every turn, even a gently undulating lawn in a pale shade of peach that looks like it’s had Maloney's famous filter applied to it. It's also the last Kolour Sundays party of the season – the fourth in five months, and the 12th since the concept's launch in 2011 – Kolour Sundays will now be mothballed for the duration of the rainy season, kicking off again in November. In 2012, the Kolour Sundays attracted 7,000 paying customers and booked over 80 local artists and performers, making it by some margin the biggest event of its kind in Bangkok.

The DJ drops a well-judged tune and the energy amps up considerably. Slabs of synth surf sunbeams as smiles spread, legs start pumping and bodies sway. There is an undeniable and infectious feel-good vibe spreading across the crowd, enveloping all in its warm summery embrace. A breeze ruffles the ribbons of purple, blue and maroon festooned across the lower level. Birds, butterflies and bizarre smiling insects undulate on high wires, turning things trippy. The smartphones come out and the selfies are snapped, sending the social media hamster wheel spinning, transmuting woofers into tweeters.

© Jason Gagliardi
I collar Coran and usher him up to the peach-fuzz lawn for a photograph. He leaps a chain-link fence, lies down in a kind of louche Playboy pose for a few seconds, then leaps to his feet, strikes an arms-folded superhero stance, and strides off. He has unselfishly left himself off the DJ bill today, despite being one of Bangkok's best behind the wheels of steel, or the mouse of house. On the bill are ATMA, aka Mark Lipert, an Australian DJ who also runs his own digital agency and is Kolour Krew's recently appointed musical director, a waif-like Russian model known as Alesha Voronin, Absolud, Dylan Griffin, Darragh Casey and Saint Vincent.

KOLOUR SUNDAYS was born over two years ago, when Maloney and Charay returned from holidays to Ibiza and Paris respectively to a crushing depressions and creeping disenchantment with Bangkok's rudderless and moribund club scene. The heyday of Sukhumvit Soi 11, when BED Supperclub and Q Bar were the hot tickets and pushing musical boundaries had passed, but nothing had really filled the vacuum.

I was fed up with the music on offer, it was cheesy commercial stuff,” Maloney says. “No one was making the most of the four to five months of beautiful weather Bangkok has. No one wanted to be in the sun. So we defined what we wanted to create one afternoon, found the perfect venue in Viva Aviv The River at River City and Kolour Sundays was born.

© Jason Gagliardi
Maloney notes that Kolour was founded on three pillars. Food and beverage sitting together at the top, he emphasises that it’s through great service, top cocktails and a wide selection of food that they can aim to lure in the Sunday brunch crowd. Music is obviously one of the three on his list, “It has to be cutting edge.” And, while he explains that the genre can vary, the underground attitude and vibe are essential. “Atmosphere is the third pillar. I never just turned on techno and said ‘I love it’... you need to create the right atmosphere, the right platform, and there’s more chance of someone falling in love with a new genre of music when dancing in the sun with a thousand people than in a dark club late at night.

One local writer, Yvonne Liang, describes the first Kolour Sunday thus: “Imagine drinking and dancing on a boardwalk in broad daylight and then watching the sun dip into the horizon while a DJ spins the sickest of beats. One of the most unforgettable moments was being amongst hundreds of like-minded individuals who were screaming and cheering in an almost animalistic way as the sun descended. That long afternoon on the Chao Phraya was unforgettable, and an atmosphere closer to St Tropez than Bangkok.”

Bangkok clubbing's elder statesman Sanya Souvanna Phouma, the former creative director of Bed Supperclub who now runs hotspot Maggie Choo’s, says: “Right from the beginning there was something in their marketing that was right. The personalised invites, the daytime/sunset concept, it was solid. They nailed it. The gap was there, they spotted it, and people were ready to embrace it. And the fact that it's not a regular gig makes it more ‘not to be missed’. Coran managed to brand himself as well as the event and created a connection with his guests on a very personal level. It’s already a mature brand that everyone associates with great times.”

© Jason Gagliardi
KOLLECTIV, the mother company behind the Kolour Sundays brand, now employs three full-time staff including Maloney, four part-time staff, a team for events of more than 50, and the aforementioned Kolour Krew of 12 DJs.

Maloney is not prone to idle boasting or big-uppery, but he is quietly and determinedly ambitious and very serious about the brand he has built. At the end of the first year and having finally turned a profit, he invested the money into getting one of Asia's hottest branding agencies in to tweak the brand into the fine-tuned and very slick product it is today.

We have built our business model so it can be replicated. The next evolution in our following series will be to take the concept beyond Bangkok, but within Thailand for now. After that, we want to take it overseas, and to build Kolour Sundays into the best brand for discerning clubbers in Asia.”

In the meantime, he has launched a new Wednesday night event called Family at Glow nightclub in Sukhumvit Soi 23 which is packing them in, and he also plans to begin a Kolour Nights series.
Family has begun with a bang, over 100 people in a small dark club on a Wednesday night is no mean feat. It's a great way to bring a credible musical offering to the mid-week scene which Bangkok was lacking. This was also really just me creating the event I wanted to go to myself, and it's a great way to keep the Kolours Krew honed and keen while the bigger parties go into hibernation.”


Ever the social media maven, he is even getting buzz for his spoof Family posters, photoshopped faces of DJs and key scene members plonked into antique photographs of sailors, aviators and lederhausen-clad adventurers. It's weirdly clever, and it works.

© Jason Gagliardi
Maloney doesn't have a firm date fixed yet for the first Kolour Nights bash, but he is 'working on the concepts and venues' and said there would be some new twists and a very different vibe from the daytime events. “Different but just as cool,” he grins. Coolness is the key quotient, and Maloney knows it is not guaranteed to last or to be taken for granted.

I remember in Melbourne, this older guy in his late 50s owned one of the cool clubs, he used to drive up in his Lamborghini and take his posse to the VIP area. I remember thinking, ‘now that is cool’.”


Maloney looks worried for a moment, like he has just transgressed, crossed the line into money-hungry territory. He relaxes back into his genial giant persona.

One of my greatest joys is bringing people together. Through Kolour Sundays I've been able to do this on a scale I never thought possible. We are just getting started and I promise you one thing, I am never going to stop clubbing.” 








Tuesday, 8 July 2014

Scent of a Half-Man


My Palm Oil column for Coconuts ... in which I say thanks but no thanks to Eau De Upstart by Mario Maurer, especially when flying the cheapskate skies with Air Asia http://bangkok.coconuts.co/2014/07/02/palm-oil-thai-scents-


SUPER MARIO WANTS IT ALL                  ... Insta-Art © Jason Gagliardi


I regularly get to endure the utterly joyless experience that is flying on Air Asia, from the “be here early or we'll leave without you” check-in and stale, overpriced sandwiches for sale to the schizophrenic policy on whether beer can be obtained in-flight.

These indignities were amplified on a recent trip when I glanced up at the garish advertising splashed all the way down the overhead lockers to see repeated entreaties stretched out to vanishing point suggesting I would be an imbecile not to immediately douse myself in the new signature scent of Mario Maurer, the recently ubiquitous, Thai-German, actor-model-whatever du jour.

Now I am not against advertising, although I can advise against its practice having spent some time in its iniquitous clutches. Nor am I against men's perfumes or the branding thereof by assorted fashionistas and celebrities, or the idea of celebrity endorsements (although I believe they should be used sparingly and not gratuitously and above all authentically – otherwise you are left with Tiger Woods shilling Buicks).

Hell, I'm not even against Mario Maurer, as long as he keeps his sickeningly pretty face and his abs of steel in movies for lovesick teenagers and in the pages of teen and gay magazines and not hovering above me in Warholesque repetition, pouting, importuning his captive audience of hapless travelers cooped up in their tin can with wings for hours. And then there's the risible “hero shot” “of Maurer astride his thundering motorcycle, looking about as tough as wet tissue, a “Wild Hog” in waiting.
Mario Maurer for Him.

I mean, give me a break. The dude is a boy. How can you expect to credibly endorse aftershave when you look like you don't even shave yet?

A Towering Pile of Utter Nonsense: Condominium Branding

In which I take aim at the symphony of silliness that surrounds the naming and branding of Asia's throw-em-up, flog-em-off condominiums. The original column for Coconuts is here: http://singapore.coconuts.co/2014/06/17/palm-oil-whats-condo-name

LE C'ORB VERSUS THE FRENDY                      Insta-Art © Jason Gagliardi


My secret theory on the naming of brands, especially the vexed pseudo-science and one-handed greasy pole climb that is the conundrum known as condominium naming, is simply this: The best name is one that has been chosen.

I say this having spent more time dreaming up condominium names and taglines and the rest of the branding babble than any sane man ought reasonably to admit. Six years navigating the high-gloss reflections and shifting sands of adland was enough to give me an enduring cynicism about the seemingly simple task of buttressing bricks and mortar with brand architecture.

It goes like this: Having won the pitch, the triumphant agency sends in the big guns to kick things off with the client (thereafter they may send in the clowns, but I digress).

The client is the project's developer but also, you are about to find out, an instant expert in all matters architectural, design, brand, marketing, sales, style, fashion and cranial nano-surgery. Despite, or perhaps because of all this expertise and intelligence, the client will reject all the first round of names. And then the second. And the third. And the fourth.

Unless you are Clint Eastwood or a call girl penning her memoirs, not having a name is a bad thing. In property, it's suicide. Without a moniker, lacking a crisp appellation that buttresses the brand values while fitting the target market like a Hugo Boss suit, the smartest structure remains ephemeral and amorphous, a chimera skittering on the skyline.