 
# 20 Gigs & The Lost Girl

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#  Published by Jez Haldane at Smashwords

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#  Copyright 2015 Jez Haldane

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# Smashwords Edition, License Notes

#  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person,please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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# 20 Gigs &

# The Lost Girl

# Jez Haldane

#  Acknowledgements

While this is ostensibly a work of fiction, the bands and artists are real. The Twenty Gigs were real, and have been reviewed and related as true to the performance and feel of the shows that my memory allows. Any personal interaction with any of the artists as suggested here was real. If you're a musician that played one of these shows and you beg to differ with my recollections, you may well have been drunk or possibly high. I joke. ..but either way, the punter is always right. At least I'd like to think that the judgment of this punter is.

Many thanks to my friends who have put up with my ramblings throughout this project, and to those musicians that have offered their encouragement along the way.

Extra special thanks to Ingrid S for her keen eye and assistance with my editing process, without whose help and perseverance this project never would have been realised. A true rock star if there ever was.

Finally, to the real life inspiration behind the title character, I wish you every happiness now and forever.

For anybody that has ever dared to pick up a musical instrument.

Contents

Gig 1 Nick Cave, October 2009

Gig 2 Megadeth/Slayer, October 2009

Gig 3 Magic Dirt November, 2009

Gig 4 The Dirty Three, January 2010

Gig 5 AC/DC, February 2010

Gig 6 Massive Attack, March 2010

Gig 7 Kuepper & Bailey, May 2010

Gig 8 Peter Hook, September 2010

Gig 9 Gareth Liddiard, November 2010

Gig 10 The Fall, December 2010

Gig 11 Grinderman, January 2011

Gig 12 Adalita, March 2011

Gig 13 Texas Tea, July 2011

Gig 14 The Dropkick Murphy's/Sick Of It All, October 2011

Gig 15 Mogwai, November 2011

Gig 16 Throat, April 2012

Gig 17 Fear Factory, September 2012

Gig 18 Metallica, February 2013

Gig 19 Cliff Richard, February 2013

Gig 20 Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds, February 2013

Epilogue, October 2014

About Jez Haldane

#  Gig 1

# Nick Cave, October 2009

It was our last night in London and happily it coincided with the Nick Cave show at the Palace. I managed to persuade her that this should be the last thing we did before we returned to Brisbane the following day. The idea of a Joy Division pilgrimage to Manchester via Macclesfield to visit Ian Curtis's grave didn't appeal to her, and I guess understandably so. She'd put up with enough of my skewed musical priorities. While this time it was a happy coincidence that there was a show on that I'd wanted to see, in the past I'd been known to quietly steer dates of trips to coincide with a band I'd wanted to see if I knew they were going to be playing around the time. As she'd agreed to Nick, I didn't push the idea of visiting sites of Post-Punk significance. Since we'd been together she'd displayed a high level of tolerance for a great many of my personal attributes. She'd even made it through the _Rocky_ series as far as halfway through _Rocky IV_ , before switching off the TV in disgust. It was hard to ask much more than that.

Like many others, she'd just lost her job as the impacts of the Global financial crisis deepened across all industries. There wasn't a great deal work-wise happening in Brisbane with confidence still down, so I suggested we should take a holiday somewhere. Probably not the smartest thing in the face of financial uncertainty, but I thought it would be good for her. My time working in the UK had been one of the best periods of my life and I wanted to introduce her to some of the friends I'd made and take her to my favourite places. I was hoping maybe she'd see in them what I did. Back then, times were prosperous and there was a lot of fun to be had by a young man. Sadly that was in stark contrast to the London of 2009. It was good to see my friends again, but the economic situation here was substantially worse than that of our own. There was desperation in the air, we both picked up on it, and it wasn't pleasant. In hindsight, I'm not sure why I would have thought it would have been any different, but I was disappointed that she hadn't been able to experience the city as I did.

I was still looking forward to seeing Nick Cave play on what has become his home turf. We'd arrived just in time to see them take the stage with _West Country Girl_. This didn't form a usual place in their set list so I was happy to see it crop up. The _Dig! Lazarus Dig!_ tour had officially wound up, so while a few tunes from the record were bound to make it into the set, I thought it was probably going to be one of those shows where some lesser known material might make an appearance, particularly given that the full band weren't in tow tonight. This is where it ends though, with Cave treading more familiar territory from that point on. Nicks pleading vocals from _The Weeping Song_ echo around the venue in all its cavernous glory. Exactly as they should.

I looked beside me and she seemed disconnected by it all. She'd never seen Cave play before and I'd wondered how she'd find it. Halfway through _The Mercy Seat_ she turned to me and announced she thought it was crap and wanted to leave. It's one of most intense songs in the catalogue and Nick never fails to deliver it with the passion required. I stare in disbelief at her for a short while. Nick is lurching about yelling things about an eye for an eye and tooth for a tooth and absolutely not being afraid to die. How can she not like this? But she doesn't and tells me so again quite categorically when I question if I misunderstood her over the noise. I have a policy that I don't walk out on a set until it's finished. Even if it's horrendously bad, but I'm concerned and I don't want to upset her by protesting. I can see I'm going to do just that if we stay any longer, so I lead her outside through the crowd as Nick fades into the background and the sounds of West End streets take over.

A couple of years before I'd invited her to come along with a some friends and I to the Zoo to see The Church play. The Zoo was the place I felt most comfortable, and that's how I wanted her to perceive me. Even though I'd known her for a fair while by that time, and had seen her semi frequently over that time she hadn't been part of my circle of friends. I was looking at her differently now and felt I needed to make the best impression I possibly could. I'd always been hopelessly awkward around women ever since I first became interested in them. So I retreated into music, something that I've never properly emerged from.

Things didn't improve a great deal when I started university. I made the error of focusing my attention on securing the affections of two women in the course of a five year degree. I fell a long way short on both occasions. They were both nice girls, so I don't regret it for a second in that respect, but neither were right for me – I just couldn't see it at the time, though I'm sure those around me were able to. The young ladies in question certainly did. And if Girl no.1 didn't elect to pursue a different career direction after third year, I probably still would have kept beating my head against a wall, trying to force something that wasn't meant to be. Enter Girl no.2. She'd taken time off in the middle of the course and returned to study in my year group. I was smitten for two years, without really making much of a genuine attempt to further my cause. It was only at graduation I decided enough was enough and made a 'move'. The problem was she didn't, or rather moved in a different direction, and I ended up head-butting her. My timing was exquisite. I didn't feel a thing. Much like the perfect off drive in cricket when the ball leaves the bat crisply without any jarring back to your body. She felt it all however. I never did see the extent of bruising as she never spoke to me again. I guess she just didn't see the funny side. At least Girl no.1 does still speak to me, years later in spite of all the reasons I'm sure I gave her not to. I'm sure she's also more than grateful I only chose to beat my head against a wall during her tenure.

In hindsight, perhaps I should have employed tactics similar to that of a colleague of mine. In one evening at various CBD venues I watched on as he approached no less than eighteen different women, was rebuked on eighteen consecutive occasions, and quite harshly on a number of them at that. None of this bothered him however, and he gave me a sly thumbs up as he walked out the door with his nineteenth and this time successful, attempt in tow. I remember back in early primary school being fascinated with US warships and aircraft carriers around the time _Top Gun_ was in the cinemas. They were equipped with an anti-missile defensive weapon that possessed an obscenely high firing rate. The theory was it didn't matter if ninety-nine percent of the ammunition missed the target. If the one percent remaining managed to bring down a missile that was otherwise destined to pierce the ships' hull, then that was a highly successful outcome. My uni pal had saturation policy down to an art form. Say what you will about his morality, I had to respect him for his persistence and unshakable self-belief despite routinely going down in flames. Realistically though, I never could have done it. It wasn't what I wanted nor was it part of my character. I had the sniper patience of Zaytsev. Sadly not born by my own force of will though, but out of my reluctance to pull the trigger for fear of failure.

Things seemed to be going well enough at the Zoo that evening though. She was different from the others. All the years of awkwardness seemed to melt away. I don't know why I didn't see it sooner. It was like I didn't have to try, it all just seemed to work without the gaps. Best of all, I'd not even had much to drink, which was the only thing that usually facilitated anything resembling this kind of ease in me.

I'd left her in what I assumed to be the capable hands of my two wingmen while I ventured to the bathroom. I'd known Vito for about seven years, and Hugo almost twice as long. They were friends independently of my association, having worked together years before. Typical Brisbane with its tiny degree of separation. Vito was first generation Australian of pure Sicilian descent. Hugo's parents just liked the name, his genetics just as scattered as mine.

When I emerged from the bathroom and caught sight of the trio at the back of the venue, my ease began to evaporate in the humid atmosphere the Zoo generates in summer.

Vito had assumed a hunched over position with his elbow, fixed to his inner thigh, acting as a fulcrum, his hand a fist with which he was enthusiastically and rapidly slapping against his knee, an eager Hugo providing what looked to be additional helpful commentary. It appeared to be a demonstration of some kind, other wary punters giving Vito a wide berth on the way to the bar. She shot me a bemused look as I approached.

'So.. can I get us some more drinks then?' she'd excused herself with as she made her way up the few steps.

'What in blue fuck were you wankers just doing? What was that shit with your arm?' I hissed between clenched teeth when she was safely out of earshot.

'Hey, Hey, settle down, we're just helpin' you out here', Vito volunteered with a defensive palms out gesture that Hugo mirrored.

'So please enlighten me as to how impersonating an epileptic elephant constitutes 'helping me out''?

'We were just telling her how big your dick is' Hugo interjected. So that's what the elephants 'trunk' was then.

'Why would you say that to her? Why would you fucking say that? She doesn't want to be hearing that from you two dickheads. And you've known her less than an hour. Besides, neither of you have even seen my penis. Now it looks like I hang around lunatics, and what does that say about me?' I didn't think to ask what the conversation could possibly have been prior to that to be able to segue into one about the assumed size of my penis. Probably a good thing.

'Just selling you to her man. Women like to hear that kind of stuff.' How both of these guys managed to get married is beyond me. I remember being at a group outing with Hugo's future wife, a friend of mine, where in a discussion about her family he made a remark about how close-knit they were. Except instead of "close-knit" he chose the word "incestuous" to describe their relationship. Nice one Hugo, straight from Roget's thesaurus that. I remember digging him out of the hole. Because that's what wingmen do. They don't speculate on the attributes of their friend's penis with accompanying hand gestures.

'If either of you have ballsed this up for me..' I start to threaten, but I see her returning from the bar struggling with four drinks, so I cut the conversation short. I felt more contrite when I remembered an incident at the Lychee Lounge a number of years previous, where we'd all collectively failed Vito in the task of making a good impression on a girl he'd only just started seeing, and her friends. It had been after an end of year work barbeque before the Christmas shutdown following a particularly hard year. We'd all over indulged in the consumption of various substances including Vito. As a direct result of this we'd all arrived hopelessly late. As we fell out of the cab onto the footpath, Vito, regaining some sort of self-awareness sternly warned us collectively "DON'T YOU FUCK THIS UP!!".

And of course, fuck it up good and proper we did.

The evening incrementally degenerated, each of us doing our part. The coup de gras was delivered by another work colleague when he accidently knocked an almost full bottle of VB off the table, and into the girl's handbag, preferring to watch each glug with stoner fascination as it soaked the interior of her bag than to make any attempt to retrieve it. I understand that depending on what you count there are approximately 262,000 words in the English language, one of them being "sorry", but it was too hard to find for this individual. That was effectively both the end of the evening and Vito's burgeoning relationship.

The Church had just started playing _Under the Milky Way_ , so I suggested we go closer to the front so we could see in closer detail. I silently indicated to Vito and Hugo they should stay where they were. They'd helped me enough that evening and I was relieving them of wingman duties.

'Have you ever thought that your friends might be idiots?' She asked me.

'It's crossed my mind on the odd occasion.' I looked back to the bar and I could see Vito once again regaling Hugo with another tale of woe, with more complicated hand gestures. I think I recognised it as one I'd heard before. If my assumption is correct, I'm glad she's too far away to hear the content. 'Actually they're just idiots about only eighty percent of the time. For the other twenty they're two of the smartest individuals I've ever met.'

The Church played out the remainder of a good set, I dispersed some of my musical insights to her, and we all went our separate ways. I received a text message from her the next day asking if I'd like to come over to her house for pizza that evening, an invitation I keenly accepted. Maybe I hadn't messed this one up after all. She was already eating pizza in the living room watching _Shrek_ on TV. It's meant for kids, but I'd happily watched it on my own whenever it's been on. The gingerbread man is priceless. 'Sorry I couldn't wait' she said through a mouthful. 'Where is everyone tonight?' I asked, referring to her flatmates.

'Out in the Valley I think.'

We watched TV for a while until she disappeared into her bedroom leaving me with the last piece.

When she wandered back into the room she was wearing decidedly less than she had been when she left. 'So, you're going to stay here tonight then?'

'Yeah, I think I can manage that.' Playin' it cool. _Hallelujah_ was playing behind on the _Shrek_ soundtrack. Not the Buckley version or the Cohen original. I think it might be a John Cale cover, but at this point in time I'm not extending any more thought to it. Hallelujah indeed. Shrek's alone in his shack, sitting at his dining room table in tears, but I know it all works out for him in the end. It might be a swamp, but it's a Hollywood swamp after all. I follow her into her bedroom. The ship had come in.

'How many hints did I need to give you?' She'd asked the next day. I was clearly blind to all of them. Looking through the snipers scope, missing all on the periphery. Except Zaytsev would have pulled the trigger on the target long before I considered it. She'd obviously run out of patience, and I guess I was glad for the initiative to be taken out of my hands. 'Your friends oversold you a bit.. ..but I think I can work with it.'

'Yeah, I'm going to have a discussion with them soon about that.'

'Give them a break. Things might not have gone so well for you if it wasn't for them. How could I ignore a sales pitch like that? Vito can sell me a used car anytime.'

Shit. They'd read it correctly, playing the part of Jerry Lewis in their own way so straight man Dean Martin could get the girl. Still, I can't bring myself to admit it to them.

Not quite a couple of weeks after we returned from the UK she was gone.

I can't say I saw it coming, even if she had been a bit distant at times while we were away. We were in the home wares section of David Jones looking for new dinner plates. It was something of a motley selection we had at home, consisting of a combined set of odd pieces long held over from both our student days. It didn't bother me so much, but it was something of an irritant for her. Probably matched by my attitude to shopping for such items. If it were left to me we'd have a basic white set by now and be onto second drinks at the pub. Just let the food do the talking, let the tableware take on a background role. But here we were, examining every pattern in stock. 'I don't think I can do this anymore' she'd said while staring into a circular platter with a painted spiral that wound tighter as it got closer to the centre. Thank God, I thought, this is really starting to give me the shits. The filter from my brain to my mouth which had frequently failed me horribly in the past kicked in and wisely translated that to 'yeah, I think I'm tired of shopping today as well, why don't we go and get a languid Saturday afternoon drink?'

'I'm not talking about shopping.' I saw her expression and the penny dropped. A bolt of lightning out of a clear Queensland summer sky. I never did get a clear explanation of what I did wrong. Or what I didn't do that I should have.

What was clear to me was there wasn't a way back. I thought I'd be with her for a long time and the ritual humiliation I'd endured all my life with the opposite sex was over. But now I'd lost her, just as effortlessly as I'd finally found her. _The Lost Girl_.

I drank alone at the bar.

# Gig 2

# Megadeth/Slayer, October 2009

There's a rumour floating around in metal circles of a show that would see the 'big four' of metal united on the one bill. For the uninitiated, that means Metallica, Megadeth, Slayer, & Anthrax – the thrash bands that have arguably moulded metal into what we know it as today.

Personally I can't see it happening – that'd be a lot of big egos in a very confined space. You'd have Metallica's Lars Ulrich & James Hetfield fighting between themselves. You'd have Megadeth's Dave Mustaine fighting with both of them, even though it's over 25 years since he was in Metallica. You'd have Dave Mustaine fighting with the rest of the hired hands that now comprise Megadeth. You'd have Dave Mustaine arguing with Slayer's Tom Araya that Kerry King was rightfully in Megadeth and that Tom and Jeff Hannemann poached him.

And then you'd have Scott Ian steadily getting drunk at the corner table by himself wondering what he did so different from the other three that has prevented Anthrax's big payday from coming in. And quietly wishing that Mustaine would seriously just shut the fuck up. I wonder the same thing for him. At the core, it's not as though there's really any fundamental difference between them. Although there's variances in playing style, Mustaine, Hammett, King & Ian have risen from the same era and could all readily interchange with one another. As they have on occasion, playing guest spots in each other's bands on various tours over the years. Sure, there's better marketing and promotion involved, but in the end, how much of where we end up comes down to sheer luck?

I give such a tour two weeks before implosion. And that's being generous.

With that said, at Riverstage tonight we have 50% of that show as Slayer and Megadeth co-headline an Australian tour. I'm glad _The Lost Girl_ decided not to attend this one. It's saved me from trying to find somebody else to give her ticket to. None of my friends are remotely into this type of music. Hugo knows fuck all about metal, but in the spirit of adventure, he once attended a Machine Head show with me at the now defunct Arena. That one experience was enough for him. Not that it was much of a decision for her. To say _The Lost Girl_ had an aversion to this type of music was an understatement. While she could listen to most things I enjoyed for at least some of the time, she actively detested metal. She'd look at me sympathetically as though I had a mild mental disorder any time I suggested she might like to come along to anything like the show tonight. And she didn't understand why it wasn't appropriate to wear my vintage Megadeth _Countdown to Extinction_ t-shirt while painting. Just because I'd outgrown it at fourteen and it fit her perfectly didn't mean it should be used as a rag. There wasn't going to be a fight over the distribution of the record collection. The Megadeth and Slayer records were going to be all mine.

There wasn't going to be a fight at all about joint assets because there wasn't really anything of note to argue over. We'd each had our own set of most household items so there was generally two of each in the house. I'd owned the flat, or at least I owned the mortgage on the flat before she was in my life. She was moving in with a friend of hers so I wasn't going to argue about who was the rightful owner of possessions. If she wanted a toaster or kettle it was hers. I'd noticed she'd already sequestered a number of small items. After she'd been gone for a while and I'd time to establish an inventory, I'd no doubt soon join the ranks of solitary Saturday morning male shoppers well past student-house days pushing a trolley with the full complement of cheap kitchen items. A sure sign of a relationship breakdown.

It had only been a week so I hadn't quite adjusted to being by myself again. At the supermarket I found myself putting low-fat milk, low-fat butter, low-fat fucking everything into the trolley. It didn't occur to me until the checkout that it was no longer my express mandate to purchase such items. I was once again free to enjoy regular milk without complaint. I suppose I could have always gotten my own, but it just seemed easier to follow the path of least resistance. She wasn't fat, not even close, but I guess it was a part of female vigilance that I couldn't grasp. Another thing I didn't understand about women.

After a forgettable generic metal support band, Megadeth walk on stage. I'm surprised they're on before Slayer. Maybe it's an alternating headline act arrangement – I shouldn't imagine that Mustaine would wear that for every date of the tour. That said, given the number of Slayer T-shirts I see around me, it appears most people are here to see them so it's probably fair enough. Over their respective careers, both bands have sold about the same amount of records to the same people. Megadeth jump right into some old favourites with _Set the World Afire_ , quickly followed up by _Wake up Dead_. The tunes are note perfect and performed with all the hostility that's required of them.

I hear that Mustaine has his own coffee brand these days. I'd wager it only comes in two flavours – Bitter and Extra Bitter (special Metallica blend).

There's no overt bitterness from Mustaine tonight though, as the only piece of crowd banter Dave offers is that he's not into wasting our time and money by talking at us, and immediately runs through _Devils Island_ , _Hangar 18_ , _In my Darkest Hour_ , which never fails to rattle one's teeth, _Skin o' My Teeth_ and _Symphony of Destruction_. While I still give the records the rotation, I don't listen to them these days as much as I used to, but it's amazing how quickly the tunes come back. They go all the way back to 1984 and throw in _Loved to Deth_ from _Killing is my Business.. .. And Business is Good_ which I've never heard played live before at any of the previous four Megadeth shows I've been to. It's a predicable crescendo when they pull out _Peace Sell_ s followed by a _Holy Wars/Mechanix_ medley but it's something I never get tired of. And Dave doesn't even bleat anything this time about how he wrote _Mechanix_ and not 'those other guys'.

For a lark, some local lads unfold a white bedsheet sized banner with a spray-painted Metallica logo emblazoned across it. It's a cheap shot; an unnecessary taunt. With incidents like this, and I can only imagine it's a common thing, it should be little wonder Mustaine has had a complex lasting more than a quarter of a century. For the non-metalised amongst us, Dave Mustaine was asked to leave Metallica in early 1983 by the three other members, sparking one of the music industry's great long time feuds. Mustaine was never going to go quietly, forming Megadeth not long after and creating one of the genres greatest rivalries. I suspect it's the constant fear and frustration of being number two that generates the sense of urgency in his guitar tone. Few can play with as much speed or dexterity as Dave Mustaine. I've never considered them second fiddle to Metallica. There are times when only Megadeth will do, as there are times when the only appropriate sound to come out of your speakers is Slayer. There's been plenty of those moments this week in the lead up to the show.

Tonight however, Mustaine handles the taunt with dignity choosing to ignore it completely and not rising to the bait. Shit Dave, are you in danger of becoming a self-assured man content with your own position in the world?

It's a brilliant show, the only weak spots being a couple of newer tunes that are quite frankly rubbish. Slayer is going to find it hard to follow. It starts raining as I walk to the bar at the rear of the Riverstage for another overpriced beer. I don't normally consume a great deal of alcohol at shows, or much at all in general. I haven't tonight either, but by my standards, have exceeded my quota in the last week. I still couldn't stop thinking about her though. I haven't had the relationship with alcohol, and later gambling, that a number of the people I grew up with have maintained over the years. I have no interest in or knowledge of horses so it wasn't hard for me to keep away. While greyhound racing has kitsch appeal, I've always considered horse racing a rich man's sport. I understand the nature of gambling, but it's hard for me to reconcile parting with hard earned dollars on an activity I've no interest in, or can be part of. In any other manner than losing money on it of course. I'm irritated that it's infiltrating mainstream rugby league. Targeting the people who can generally least afford it. I've given Hugo express permission to march into the Royal Exchange hotel and slap me across the face should it become known that I've been spending my lunchtime there with a fistful of betting slips and a charred counter lunch before me watching the goings on at Moonee Valley.

Thankfully music, particularly metal, was always enough of an escape. The timing of tonight's show couldn't have been better for me.

In the course of the show I've made 'friends' with two lads on the fence beside me. One takes his shirt off proudly to show me his series of Megadeth tattoos. I'm tempted to ask him what he'd do should the 'Deth record an album of 1940's jazz/swing covers but I think better of it. Never get a band tattoo until they're finished I say. It's established the other gent is there to see Slayer and has come down from Cairns to see them. I mention that I grew up in Far North Queensland which immediately sets up a brothers-in-arms type dynamic. He informs me he's 'down here farken' representin' FNQ', and if Slayer play _Angel of Death_ he'll 'be jizzin' in his farken' pants, and all these southerner cunts better keep out of his farken' way'. Well noted.

And representing indeed he is. While there's undoubtedly some things from that region that will never leave me, I'm no longer a representative of it. Enough time has passed now that I too am one of the 'southerner cunts' that my northern peers refer to. The tourists only ever see the palm trees on the esplanade. His girlfriend attempts to light up a cigarette, but she's got it the wrong way round and is lighting the filter. Trys to smoke but it's not happening. I'd point it out to her but I'm too distracted by the full bicep tattoo she's sporting depicting a young lady masturbating.

In my opinion, Slayer do find it tough going indeed tonight. The mix isn't that good, which doesn't help, and it needs to be, because as musicians, I don't believe them to be quite in the same league as what's just preceded. They play some tracks from their forthcoming record which just aren't a patch on anything before 1994. It seems they're doing a separate show in Sydney, playing the whole of _Reign in Blood_ , so I think they surely must have some inkling of it themselves.

The set doesn't pick up until they play War Ensemble backed up with standouts _Mandatory Suicide_ and one of my personal favourites, _Dead Skin Mask_ from _Seasons in the Abyss_. Annoyingly, they refuse to play the title track from the record. You don't go to for Slayer for subtlety, but right after Megadeth it all seems pretty one paced apart from those few exceptions. I'm also disappointed that nothing from _Diablos in Musica_ features in the setlist, and that _Disciple_ from the _God Hates Us All_ record comes across flat.

The punters at the front start to get restless, then Kerry King berates everyone for not being 'into' it enough. Kerry, there's normally a reason when the general punter starts hurling abuse. Obviously bored with the set, a young lady of questionable character starts giving her (assumed) boyfriend an impromptu, not to mention highly enthusiastic blowjob in the rain on the grass verge in full view of the drinking hill. Ah, death to all but metal. Just when I think it can't get any more archetypal than this, it does when in true _Boogie Nights_ fashion a dozen or so of unscrupulous punters descend on the area armed with mobile phone cameras/video to record their love for posterity.

This doesn't deter her, and she continues with renewed vigour. I'm sure footage will be available on Youtube shortly amongst the countless cute cat clips. After she finishes her stellar performance, the two of them walk back to the drinking hill, the gent high-fiving anyone within a two meter radius of him and the young lady wearing the look akin to one who believes she should be afforded a Nobel peace prize for services to humanity. Maybe she should. Imagine how much better the world would be if there were blowjobs aplenty rather than bombs. Once again, probably a good thing that _The Lost Girl_ isn't here to witness this. I would never have heard the end of it, dragging her along to such a spectacle which would have only reinforced her point of view about my favoured musical genre.

I hear the opening riff to _Angel of Death_ and turn to see if my newfound chum from 'up north' is around still. Thankfully he's moved on. Better wash those jeans mate. Slayer finish up with _South of Heaven_ and leave without an encore or even the usual thankyous. Drummer Dave Lombardo casually throws a stick over his shoulder into the crowd without looking, and that about sums up their attitude tonight. There's not much that annoys me more than when a band throws the towel into the ring in the manner they've done tonight. Particularly when they've been around as long as Slayer, and should know better. As I leave the venue, studiously avoiding the traditional post-Slayer melee that invariably occurs when somebody looks at somebody else's girl the wrong way, I wonder if I'm annoyed more at myself than I am with Slayer. For I've thrown in the towel too and I'm therefore just as guilty. I didn't know what to say to _The Lost Girl_ , what I should improve, what I could do differently. I didn't do any of those things. I let her go without a fight, without a whimper.

The most un-metal way to leave things.

# Gig 3

# Magic Dirt, November 2009

It's a couple of months since Magic Dirt bassist Dean Turner lost his 9 year battle with a rare form of tissue cancer and the Annandale show on the small 'Dean Tribute' tour has the very real potential to be the last proper Magic Dirt show ever. This excludes the Big Day Out shows early the following year which don't really count in my mind. An allotted short half-hour set in the scorching sun at 2.30pm with hordes of southern-cross tattoo-sporting males infinitely more alpha than myself elbowing me in the back is not my idea of a fun time. Each and every one of them yelling requests for _Dirty Jeans_. Ready with the fucking handclaps.

And besides, there's no truer measure of the quality of a band's set than when at a vantage point that allows you to see the whites of their eyes. I've barely left the couch in the last few months since _The Lost Girl_ left and Vito suggests that we head to Sydney to catch this – he doesn't need to sell it to me any more than he has already. Ours is a friendship galvanised by Magic Dirt. We'd probably crossed paths many times at shows (Dirt or otherwise) without realizing since the mid 90's before we finally wound up working together in the same office, and discovered our shared musical obsession (for MD in particular) when Vito decided on one of our many late nights at work to give his battered copy of _Life was Better.._ a spin at a volume that neighbouring tenants expressed some concern with. A fine effort given that the neighbours were a particularly loud bar.

I'd arrived in town a few hours earlier than Vito, so had chosen to spend the time at one of my favourite pubs on the Rocks. There's a spot in a nondescript corner where if you're sitting at the right angle you can catch just the tiniest glimpse of one of the peaks on the Opera house at the corner of the window. It's not the wide sweeping, commanding vista of the structure framed by some of the other venues around the Quay.

I've come to think of this window as the _Bridesmaids View_. Close enough to the action to remind us what might have been if the cards were dealt a little differently, but still just out of reach. All down to timing, like so many things. The construction technology of the day didn't allow Utzon's concept to be realised in its truest form. The much flatter soaring elongated elliptical shells that Saarinen reportedly fished from the discarded pile of competition entries, were replaced by regulated spherical segments. Fast forward 40 years and we'd be able to construct something closer in accordance with the original vision. But then if it were built to that design, instead of the seeing the top of a maintenance handrail from my window as I do now, I'd be looking at nothing at all. I doubt that it would even get to construction stage however in 2009 in any case. I couldn't see the budget for such works being approved by the controlling bean counters who know the cost of everything but the value of very little. And if that didn't finish it off, workplace health and safety regulations would. We'd see stock framing which would then be clad in shop assembled components. Gone would be the intersection of structure and art. There aren't any heroes in architecture any more. No one is allowed to be.

We all scare so very easily.

Fuck, one of Australia's greatest icons and I'm seeing it as a glass half empty moment. I leave to meet Vito at Glebe taking a long walk via Redfern and my half empty glass becomes totally empty when I pass Redfern oval. Fucking South Sydney. Why did I have to develop an affinity for this rugby league club? Probably partially because my junior colours were the same red & green. And probably partially because pity sometimes turns to love as the late, great TISM point out in _All Homeboys are Dickheads_. Fitting though I suppose, seeing as I was a shit rugby league player too. Couldn't make a tackle to save myself. The last time they were in a grand final was before I was born, and I have the strongest suspicion I'll be long since gone before they find themselves in that position again. Birds of a feather flock together, and I believe that you don't choose Souths as your team (no kid in their right mind would do that) – Souths chooses you. I'll be happy at some point when I can think of them as just 'Souths' without feeling like I need to add a derogatory adjective before the club name.

The curtains to the Annandale stage open and Magic Dirt launch into a wave of feedback, combining blistering cycles that tame back to a low hum, which I've heard so often and never tire of. It's in a low patch that the opening notes to _Babycakes_ emerge. I know many will disagree with me, but I think this is the quintessential Magic Dirt tune. Part issue-laden shoegaze that gives way to blistering aggression for seven minutes. Gloriously radio-unfriendly. Barely three minutes into the set and Adalita is already bending her back contrary to any sound chiropractic advice. Without a pause it's straight into the likes of _Sparrow_ , _Redhead_ and _Ice_.

The recently retired _She-riff_ is brought out of retirement for the first and probably last time so I savour it. An old familiar reliable for the past eleven years. I understand why nothing from _Young & Full of the Devil_ was played on the last tour, but it didn't stop me from being disappointed. The rarely heard _Fairy Park_ gets some air with Raul singing in Dean's stead. Neighbours-era Craig McLachlan lookalike Matt Sonic is once again on bass duties, as on the _Girl_ tour when Dean became too ill to perform, and once again would have made Dean proud. If Magic Dirt decide to go on, I hope he's offered a permanent role.

I had already accepted that it had to happen, but was hoped it wouldn't – the tunes from the 'Warner years'. I can't pretend I was ever a huge fan of this era. And it would be hypocritical of me to pretend at the last gasp. With that said, I have to be thankful for this period as in my opinion, it had undoubtedly maintained Magic Dirt's longevity. If it weren't for those records, perhaps we wouldn't all be at this show. I'm sure this period brought them more commercial success than previous releases (at least through the eyes of this punter, naïve to the inner mechanics of the record industry), although nowhere near as much as deserved - but it also had the unfortunate side effect of attracting the afore mentioned alpha males I'd spent a lifetime avoiding at any opportunity if I could at all help it. I resented the very presence of these individuals who started turning up in number at the shows around the turn of the millennium.

And I certainly wouldn't have been allowed so many disc rotations at home either. There were only so many times _The Lost Girl_ was going to listen to _Babycakes you always Freeze me Up_ or .. _These drugs_.., or _Bodysnatcher_. The likes of _Teevee_ or _Locket_ gained far more acceptance in our household. On the back of this, _The Lost Girl_ even came to some MD shows with me, which she probably wouldn't have done otherwise. And I got _Vulcanella_ and _Mothers Latest Fear_ on these records which I consider the equal of the previous material that I favoured. Despite my general uneasiness with this era, there was always enough in it to keep my hope alive. So in these respects I suppose in some measure I look upon those few "ïn between years" as subsidising the records that came later, and still allowing me to hear my previous favourites being played live.

I suppose very few things wind up exactly along the path that we're seeking without wavering a bit at some point.

I think back to first year architecture, I was much younger, hungry to create blistering avant-garde strokes of genius that would be revered long after my bones had turned to dust. Then I think of _The Kill Line_. The phrase that was jumping out on the screen at me all week on the latest project I'd been assigned to. It's a reference to the particular area of a chicken processing plant where the 'live birds' are brought to meet their demise. Hung upside down on a conveyor and dunked head first into an electrified tub of water. A sharp enough current to render them unconscious before being neatly decapitated by coldly efficient blades at the other end. If the odd one is missed, then a gentlemen is ready and waiting with one of the nastiest blades I've ever seen. Yessir Mr Dundee, that is indeed a knife. I tried to avoid eye contact during a site visit as I see a sharp glint in his irises that suggests something of a disturbing relish for his occupation. I'm also envious in a way, as it's a relish I haven't had for mine in some time. There's something not right with this guy, I was told by the floor manager who led me on a tour of the existing facility. I can't say I disagree. And I'm glad there's a fixed glass observation window separating us.

And so now the plant is expanding and it's my job to replicate a new 'live bird' area and a second kill line. It's not that I'm a snob. Hard to be when hailing from Far North Queensland. People are still eating chicken in a global financial crisis, and for that I should be grateful as it's paying the bills. And after all, somebody has to do it. Those entrails won't make it into nuggets of their own volition will they?

Maybe what's bothering me more than the task itself is that I'm remembering an infamous end of year twelve celebratory trip in which the participants embarked on a random avian killing spree to the tune of approximately one hundred and fifty birds of various species for no apparent reason. The result of twelve years of schooling, the pride of the Queensland State education system. It shits me how life can be so circular.

Fourteen years later, and it's come back round to the wholesale slaughter of birds. I'm just doing it in slightly nicer clothes than my colleagues back then. And in far greater numbers. At least nobody is using the word "ephemeral" around the plant. There's a punch to the face coming to the next archi-wanker I hear using the term, irrespective of the context. I doubt the new live bird shed is going to earn me an invitation to the next national awards evening, nor a spot amongst the academic elite at university, so I guess I won't be at too much risk of assaulting one of my peers.

..And as if the band were reading my thoughts at the time we get _Snow White_ , _Teevee,_ ..and of course _Dirty Jeans_ working their way through the amplifiers. I handclap along with everybody else. Just for the fuck of it. C'mon, I'm not a total grinch. I wish _The Lost Girl_ were here, she would have liked this.

Adalita gives a short address that basically forms a eulogy for Dean. She makes a remark that sticks with me regarding Dean's "there are no rules" philosophy for forming a band or how one should play. Even though we're well past the age where we'll be looking at rock stardom the seeds are sown that evening for the formation of Throat. It will be short lived, but very fun. And we'll play _All my Crushes_ as a cover. Yes, right out of the 'Warner' years. I'd like to think of Dean smiling at the irony given my prior statements.

I'm brought back as the opening chords of _Horror Me_ tear at the five hundred or so throats in the venue. Adalita leaves the stage to balance atop of the bar with, whom I believe to be the venue manager laughing nervously in the background. Maybe trying to recall the inclusions or exclusions as it may be of his public liability insurance policy. Or maybe that's just what I'm thinking now I'm over thirty. In any event it's one of the most aurally and visually hypnotic things I've seen in some time. I wish Slayer had been at this show to understand why I think they should hang their heads in shame for their performance a month ago.

And it doesn't let up. The more recent _White Boy_ from last years _Girl_ is equally searing. Adalita leans over the first couple of rows and I touch the white SG .(which some ingrate will steal during the Perth Big Day Out – a crime which should be punished with confinement to a small room with the strains of Cliff Richard playing on repeat for eternity). Oh yeah.. .. by now my disappointment at the Melbourne gig of last year has well and truly faded into oblivion.

The regular set ends with _I was Cruel_ , my favourite from _Friends in Danger_. Mid way Adalita steps off the stage into the front couple of rows. She bounces a few lucky individuals including Vito and myself before sliding over in front of me, apparently deciding that she's going to play on the beer-soaked floor for a while. Very, very cool.. ..but not very hygenic.. there's my over thirty brain kicking into action again. I'm wondering if there's something I should do. I don't see how she's going to manage to get to her feet again from this position amongst the punters – should I help her up? Does she even want to be helped up? And when would be the appropriate time to do so, lest I break the rock spell of the moment?

Before my train of thought ends she's up and back onto the stage which she then methodically takes apart.

First the microphone stands. A stage hand goes to fix Raul's stand which he refuses. She's only going to push it over again. One of Adam's floor toms gets ruthlessly flung away as she falls over taking the bass drum with her, as well as the tiny Sarah Kelly from the redsunband who's attempting back-up vocals. Adam's still valiantly trying to play while his kit is being obliterated. The stage hand is attempting to reassemble it while Adalita begins disassembling the other side. Raul obviously thinks his task is way too easy, so decides that it's in order to jump on the man's back. We all need a challenge I guess. By then _, I Was Cruel_ has evolved into a frenzied jam and the Dirt leave the decimated stage.

After about ten minutes the gear is reassembled and the Dirt reappear to play Drunk for you, before finishing with a cover of the Stooges _I wanna be your dog_. Once again Australia's hardest working roadie sees his work evaporate in short time as the microphones once again assume a horizontal position. He's at least the equal of Paul Weller's guitar tech. He is tonight in any event. He seems to be having fun, unlike the Modfathers' tech. You couldn't pay me enough to work for Weller.

Soon it's an all in stage invasion. I wonder if this was close to accounts I've read of what it was like at the early Birthday Party shows. With Twisted Nick running amok. Without the fights. I've never understood the need to fight at shows and coincidently the most I've ever seen was at a Weller show at the Shepherds Bush Empire. Raul leans over from the stage and I graze my fist across the first few frets of the neck to create a God-awful racket and scream how I want to be the Dirt's fucken' dog.

How can the rich have more fun than this I ask you?

The Dirt stumble from the stage and it's over. I get the feeling they haven't left anything in reserve. I ask myself how is it they weren't playing to more people with shows like this, and feel bad they've never become the international superstars I've felt they deserve to have been. At the same time though, I'm grateful that the general populous at large hasn't gotten their grubby hands on them. It's only the occasional alpha male one has to put up with.

In true Dirt fashion, they don't disappear at the end of the show, and graciously chat, signing anything put in front of them. Vito's vintage _Life was better_.. poster that he's dragged from Brisbane in a postpak generates some interest and we get some commemorative photos. It's the _Star Trek_ fan's equivalent to getting to talk shit with Shatner. Star Trek fantasies are all illusion of course, and so is this, but I like to think it's illusion underpinned by kindness.

What a gig. Vito and I walk down Parramatta road in silence, elated we've seen one of the best MD show's either of us have witnessed over the course of fifteen years. Or from any act come to think of it. But that elation is offset because Dean couldn't be a part of it, and because we know that we'll probably never see the Dirt play as the Dirt ever again.

And the elation wears off when I realise that when I get home to Brisbane, _The Lost Girl_ won't be there either.

# Gig 4

# The Dirty Three, January 2010

Tonight is a concept evening with both the Dirty Three and support act Laughing Clowns playing a chosen record in its entirety. In the case of The Laughing Clowns, it's The _History of Rock 'n Roll Vol. 1_. I don't know any of the track listings, but every now and again there's something that sounds familiar that I've likely heard Ed Kuepper play on a solo outing at some point.

The songs make more sense to me here with the full complement of musicians. There's a strange middle aged lady wearing a 1950's house dress playing some serious 1985-style saxophone solos recalling the soundtrack to a Rob Lowe or Judd Nelson/Ally Sheedy sex scene. While Emilio Estevez misses out. Again. The bad boys always win. But don't worry Emilio, I'm sure big brother Charlie will have no problems in hooking you up.

Overall, not a bad show, though I'm still not going to soften my stance on The Saints and purchase a Kuepper record. I'm accompanied to the gig tonight by my friend Mirian, better known as Min. Probably the most 'rock' of all my friends besides Vito. Not that you'd know it to look at her. She's the polar opposite of Vito. Introspective and quiet. But then I've seen some of the most punishing gigs played by exactly those kind of people. We've both got a love of Beasts of Bourbon and Tex Perkins, though I think Min has an interest in Tex that exceeds mine. Seems most women do. I think I understand why. Despite both burgeoning middle aged tuck-shop-lady triceps and beer gut, he swaggers like there's no tomorrow, and doesn't give a fuck, not even a flying one. _The Lost Girl_ became a Tex convert when she went with Min and I to a show on the last Beasts of Bourbon tour before they imploded for the seventeenth time. I still wonder if she was wishing I was Tex when we got home later that evening. But I'm not Tex. I don't swagger and I do give a fuck. I would have loved to have played in Beasts of Bourbon though. Not as Tex or Spencer Jones, but as either Kim Salmon or later Charlie Owen. It might be Tex and Spencer up front, but for mine it was Kim and Charlie driving the tune, quietly going about their business in the background. But I know I'm not Kim or Charlie either.

After what seems an inordinately long time, everybody's favourite quasi-hobo Warren Ellis and partners in crime Jim White and Mick Turner stroll out on stage. Good to see Warren hasn't seen either a hairdresser or a razor since I last saw him with Mr Cave in London. That ever expanding bald spot just sets it off too. My only disappointment is he's wearing shoes. Fuck I hate shoes. I resent the social convention that says I need to wear them. Unavoidable on construction sites unfortunately. Jim White isn't wearing any tonight however so that kind of makes up for it. _The Lost Girl_ didn't like him any better as a Dirty One of Three any more than she did as one of Nicks' Bad Seeds. I think you either just get the Dirty Three or you don't. She didn't. She needed words, she couldn't deal with flailing instrumentals, suggesting to me that the sound of feral cats at the height of sexual ecstasy was more pleasing to her ears. Somewhat harsh I thought.

Like a good born and bred Victorian, he immediately launches into a semi-coherant rant with a few well timed, if not predictable stabs, at 1980's Queensland and just Queensland in general before kicking off with _Sirena_ to open the _Ocean Songs_ retrospective. It's hardly a new phenomenon and I guess we have it coming. The couple of generations before me earned it good and proper for all of us. I was too young in the 1980's to truly understand the political landscape at the time, and there weren't too many voices of dissent in Far North Queensland. At least not from the adults in my circle of contact. Quite to the contrary in fact, for this was conservative heartland at the time. Good on the Government for teaching those uni students some real world lessons in life at the end of a baton. Stealin' our taxes the lot of them, what with their free education and all. By the time the mid 1990's emerged and I was old enough to vote, I'd missed the protests I'd seen on TV, and I'd also missed a free university education. But the stigma of being a Queenslander remained.

I wonder when they'll let us get over it. Maybe in another generation.

Every so often in those formative re-building years after _The Inquiry_ we'd see just a small taste of what I assume it to have been like at the height of the Conservative governments powers. I can still remember as a young punter early in university days, what I'd considered to be something of an overzealous attitude employed by police at community radio station ZZZ's Market Day festival at West End. Even with little prior festival experience and therefore not much basis for comparison I felt the tension in the air.

Obviously the rebranding of the name 'Queensland Police Force' to 'Queensland Police Service' and all that implies hadn't filtered its way through to some of the ranks yet. The weather wasn't kind that day and as soon as the bands were pulled from stage I moved on. It was always the music first and foremost for me, and when that was no longer happening I saw little point in hanging around. As I understand it, that's when the real conflict between authority and punter began, which is now part of ZZZ history. And I'm glad to have missed it. Even as someone who leans to the political left however, I will say that there were plenty of idiots present that day who I wasn't upset to see ejected.

I remember that day mainly though as the first music event that _The Lost Girl_ and I went to together. And it turned into a riot. I didn't know back then that I'd be dragging her to plenty more over the years through baking heat, driving rain, hordes of pissed idiots. Most against her better judgement I'm sure, but she followed me anyway. I'd been in Brisbane a year by then and she'd only just arrived from Far North Queensland to start uni earlier in the year. I hadn't really known her while we both lived in the State's north. I'd run into her in the CBD one day and asked her if she'd like to come along. I wonder how things may have turned out if we'd been together then. Instead it took me another decade to get around to it. She'd phased in and out of my life over the ensuing years since that day. She was there while I moped about after Girl no.1. She was there when I head-butted Girl No.2. Always in the background while I fucked up every opportunity with any female that took my fancy. And she was still there after they'd gone. The best thing that happened to me was right in front of me the whole time and I couldn't see it. Maybe that's why now it feels like destiny has cheated me.

'This one's about when you've had a really great love and then it disappears but still sits inside your head like a festering fuck' announces Warren Ellis to the opening strains of _Distant Shore_.

I can't attest to getting festering fuck style imagery from anything on _Ocean Songs_ (I do get that from _Kims Dirt_ , my favourite Dirty Three tune, but that's not on _Ocean Songs_ so won't be heard here tonight unfortunately), but if only he knew how on the money he is with that statement. It couldn't have been better timed for me if it were scripted.

While the Dirty Three's music is generally substantially maudlin, I really don't interpret it quite how Warren introduces most of the material thereafter:

'This one's about getting cavity searched at the airport' he says of _Backward Voyager_.

'This one's about when you decide you're going to spend 5 years of your life in bed getting to know yourself better than the good Lord ever intended and then you get to 65 and realise those were the best 5 years of your life.' A finer description of _Last Horse on the Sand_ I've not heard.

Shit Waz, I guess it's lucky I've got a sharp scalpel at home. I love how you can take away anything you choose from Post Rock.

That being said, he's actually quite chipper tonight in comparison to previous performances. Why, I haven't even been called a cunt yet. Might be because he's been on the back foot a few times during the evening with a young lady who's been trading banter with him. Apart from being quite obviously the biggest Dirty Three fan in the venue it seems she's a violinist herself, and has sent quite a number of her own tapes to him over the years. To no reply. She's got him cornered and there's no escape. He can only apologize profusely and awkwardly. He changes the subject by giving Youtube a blast and urging everyone to put their phones away. 'There's nothing more depressing than going to play for someone and being confronted with a sea of phones' he explains. Most ignore him. Ah, the kids today. Here's an idea, let's part with our hard earned cash for entry into an event so we can view it live through a tiny screen with shitty low resolution, and then watch it again later with the added bonus of shitty low quality audio that fails to reveal any of the nuances that make the live experience. So we can prove we were there to our friends who couldn't care less anyway, because they're too busy updating their own 'status' and taking photos of their food to post on-line.

I understand exactly what Ellis is saying all too well. Seeing your passion diluted by the unappreciative is at times debilitating. It's why many others in my profession are happy if we never see another house cross our practice. It seems absurd you'd engage a professional to dispense advice with skill they've acquired over a long duration, and then promptly ignore that advice at all costs. I ask them if they'd go into hospital for surgery and argue with the surgeon about the best way to remove your appendix despite having not studied medicine. The point is usually missed as the conversation is then directed toward then how expensive fees are. Surely the solid month of work you've just completed can't cost more than a mid-priced bottle of wine from the local bulk liquor outlet?

In thinking about it, I feel a pang of hypocrisy as I've spent a few hours on Youtube searching out live gig footage for guidance on how various guitar parts have been played. Or various early and long since out of print Northern English post-punk releases I would probably have never had the privilege of hearing otherwise.

I look over to where Mirian has been sitting on one of the couches against the wall. She's fast asleep. The only person I've seen fall asleep at a show of any kind. And the thing is, it's not the first time it's happened either. I think I'll wake her up when it's time to go as I gently remove the glass containing remnants of a rum and coke from her hand. She's passed out from exhaustion rather than excess alcohol consumption. The price of running your own business in Australia. So very rock Min. At least it looks a little bit like the excesses of rock music, but she could have at least had the decency to piss her pants to add some authenticity. I can't help but smile when I think of Slash's clothing advice to young up and coming rock stars in his autobiography. Based upon his time with Guns n' Roses, leather pants were preferred on the basis they were far more forgiving than denim jeans when you pissed yourself after passing out. The use of the word 'when' as opposed to 'if' being key, as though this was simply a foregone conclusion. The expectation that anyone may exercise a semblance of self-control in order to prevent this event from occurring in the first place is not even a remotely worthwhile consideration.

The highlight of the set for me is _Deep Waters_ where Ellis and Jim White have a Violin/Drum duel with White's kit steadily disintegrating due to the relentless (not to mention incredibly skilled) pounding he's giving it. But fuck, I'm a big fan of Mick Turner. He's not the frontman, but in my opinion it's really him who binds them together, playing in patterns regular enough to hold them as a trio, but with enough slightly off-kilter timing seamlessly integrating with Ellis' at times wild excursions.

They draw to a very satisfying close to the set and finishing with _Ends of the Earth_ and Warren tells us that he loves us all in the style of either Jeff Fenech or Michael Jackson. And we love you too Warren. Don't ever shave.

# Gig 5

# AC/DC, February 2010

That's right fellas, be as obnoxious as you can, I think to myself on the train on the way to the QEII stadium packed to the hilt with hordes of my fellow AC/DC fans. Why it's not like there's anyone on the train who may just want to get home from work without your philistine antics. Oh yeah, and as you get off, throw that empty VB bottle over a fence and have it smash on some poor bastard's driveway. That'll teach them for daring to live near the stadium at Mt Gravatt. That's twenty five minutes of my life I'm never getting back. And I'd wager I'm losing an IQ point for every ten seconds I'm exposed to these Mensa candidates. It's lucky we're not heading a few more stations south. Although, if my intelligence quota level were to diminish to those depths, I may find myself suitably qualified to host any number of football orientated shows. Every cloud has a silver lining.

AC/DC have reached a point in their career where it's more spectacle than gig. It's been that way for a while now. I've heard they have a convoy of seventy semi-trailers carrying their stage setup from city to city for this tour.

There are red flashing devil horns that it seems one in every ten people have purchased for twenty dollars a unit. When I get to my seat at the rear of the northern stand and look out over the stadium, there's a veritable sea of them. In my estimation, given there are about 45,000 people present, this adds up to about $90,000 for one item in the vast array of cheap tatt for sale, and the great unwashed lap it up accordingly. I'm very afraid this is going to degenerate into a nasty circus sideshow quite quickly.

That said, I look at myself and ask who am I to cast any form of judgement on the gathering tonight when I'm wearing my South Sydney (fuckin' Souths) training singlet, some paint covered shorts (I'd been doing some renovation work around the house), and thongs. They're the good thongs mind you, I know an important occasion when I see one. In fairness to myself I'm dressing down as rain and thunderstorms are expected over the stadium tonight. I'm undeniably born of the same blood. It wouldn't matter what I looked like externally, you can't stop some things seeping to the surface. Not even Georgio Armani could save me. I get talking to some folks in the same row as me and we get along famously in no time. They seem a bit concerned I'm there by myself and ask why. I don't think they quite understand that this sometimes happens once you get to thirty years of age and your friends are married with other focuses. Maybe it'll be different for them. I can see this is a tribe, and I've never really been part of one, having had a foot on the threshold of many but never taking the step over.

Don't worry about it bro' at least yer here, farken' representin' says one of the alphas in the tribe. I'm actually not overly worried. I've been to plenty of gigs by myself and I'm sure I'll go to plenty more. And I'm not sure what I'm representing. Young folk these days seem to have a penchant for using the verb without the accompanying noun. I'd ask them what they believe the appropriate one is, but maybe they're too polite to give me an answer I might not like.

I find out Anna, the girl next to me, turns twenty one today and can't believe her luck getting to see AC/DC on her birthday. As a gesture of goodwill the next time I return from the bar I bring her a rum & coke, for which she's grateful. I thought she'd be a rum girl, and I'm right. Being able to almost always accurately guess her beverage of choice is probably my only real talent when it came to women. Of all the super powers to be gifted with, this would be the most useless of them. _The Lost Girl_ was a rum girl too. It pissed her off that the Zoo didn't serve it; the proprietors felt it made people aggressive. I don't know there's necessarily any scientific evidence for this. I'd suggest that quantity of alcohol rather than type probably plays more of a part.

But _The Lost Girl_ didn't need any additional stimuli to voice her opinion when her sense of fair play was upset. It was one of the things I loved about her, but I admit there were times I'd wished she'd just keep her mouth shut. At barely five feet, she'd think nothing of calling a couple of substance enhanced males on their anti-social behaviour. She was highly intelligent with a sharp accompanying wit, and generally her opponent didn't have anything close to the verbal skill required to match her. The time-honoured Australian male fallback is of course to physically threaten the partner. For someone so very smart she didn't understand this basic reaction. It was usually initiated by announcing they believed said partner was a 'faggot', despite this flying in the face of logic given the obvious romantic attachment to said female. It wasn't an 'insult' that bothered me, and the only temptation I had to resist was to plant a kiss on them. There weren't too many insults that could drive me to violence. We are what we are. She was a smartarse by nature, and telling her not to be would be like telling water not to be wet. And I wouldn't have wanted her any other way.

One thing collectively angering everybody at the show now is that support band Wolfmother are still playing. The lofty heights they once reached are now well and truly over. The unanimous consensus is they should generally just fuck off. When you get to the level AC/DC have reached, nobody is really keen to see another act. The only time this is successful is if the fan base for the support is EXACTLY the same, and that's clearly not the case here. There's a collective sigh of relief when _Joker and the Thief_ emerges, signalling the end of the set. Strong suggestions follow from the punters that on their way from the venue the band might like to partake in several acts frowned upon by both the Australian judicial system and RSPCA alike.

The stage lights disappear before the big screen crackles into life (and thank the Lord they have one, as everybody on stage is a speck from where I'm at) to reveal a quick animation of Angus Young stoking the fire on an old-time locomotive before AC/DC explode into _Runaway Train_ from their latest record _Black Ice_. It may well be urban myth, but I remember hearing of a press conference when the _Ballbreaker_ record was released where an enthusiastic journo accused them of producing the same record a few times in a row. 'That's a dirty fuckin' lie and you know it!' bellowed Angus. 'It's at least a dozen times by now...' Ah, the AC/DC principle – if it ain't broke then don't fix it. Given the speed in which tickets sold out nobody thinks anything is broke, even if Brian Johnson is looking all his sixty three years and the wizened Angus resembles someone exposed to excessive radiation with an odd mix of long hair and bald spots. They play a few more from _Black Ice_ , before getting into _Back in Black_ which sends the heaving throng into a frenzy. I reckon that could be heard three or four suburbs over. Similarly _Thunderstruck_ has everybody on their feet and seems rather appropriate given the weather.

There are things you can say in Far North Queensland, and while parties may disagree about the merits of your argument generally it will be an amicable debate and at the end of the evening a good time will have been had by all before going their separate ways. And then there are things you can say there that will result in your public lynching. I'd been all but disowned by extended family members for supporting a non-Queensland rugby league team, but so long as I generally kept it to myself, it'd be quietly tolerated. Suggesting that Brian Johnson is a better frontman for AC/DC than Bon Scott ever was however falls into the lynching category. But that's what I believe.

There are bands that would have, or should have, folded after such a charismatic front man (INXS anyone?) passed away, but for mine, AC/DC changed up a gear. Who can tell me that _Back in Black_ or _The Razors Edge_ aren't the equal of any Scott-era record? It's probably testament to the primary creative forces of AC/DC, the Young brothers. Angus obviously draws the attention, but for me it's the rhythm guitar of Malcom that makes their sound. Brian Johnson is all my generation of AC/DC fans have ever known, with me being an infant when Bon Scott died. Yet it's Bon Scott who is revered amongst my peers of similar age. What we're buying here tonight may be a ticket to an AC/DC show, that's what it says on the label after all, but really it's a ticket to nostalgia. Now that's a powerful commodity. Hearing _Thunderstruck_ or _TNT_ provides us with a window, albeit a brief one back to a time before the existence of Global Financial Crisis' or Lost Girls.

And what on the planet could possibly be a better vehicle for constancy and predictability than AC/DC? I wonder how many schoolboy uniforms Angus has. Is it a robe full of them? I'm willing to bet though that's the same 'old guy' hat that Brian Johnson's been wearing for the last twenty five years straight. I speculate if it's ever seen the inside of a washing machine.

'Here's a song about a dirty lady!' Brian Johnson enthusiastically shrieks as they continue through the set. Thanks for that Brian, that narrows it down for me mate. That description excludes maybe five songs from the AC/DC repertoire. There aren't a great deal of lyrics here relating to the transport infrastructure problems along Sydney's western corridor. Generally the content revolves around riding one's motorcycle, a girl with rather large breasts, or having sex with a girl. Of course, there can be a number of combinations within those variables. And sometimes, just sometimes, there's even the holy trinity where you can be riding your motorcycle over to the house of a girl with large breasts with the sole intention of having sex with her. The stuff of Yeats or Wordsworth I'd say. In this case it's the dirty lady depicted in _The Jack_. One of the best parts of AC/DC is that you can't take it too seriously.

After the _Black Ice_ title track, they once again fall back into what everybody wants to hear from _Dirty Deeds_ to _Hells Bells_ which involves Brian Johnson swinging from a massive church bell lowered above the stage. I can see why it took seventy semi-trailers to cart the stage setup around the land when a four storey high inflatable 'Rosie' appears at the back of the massive locomotive they've got on stage for _Whole lotta Rosie_. And guess what, she's got massive breasts too. Hence the title I guess. I've never really understood the obsession with cup size, but it's probably not the right forum to chat about it. I'm wishing they would play that great whinge of the working man, _It's a long way to the Top_ , but I know it's not going to happen. The other tale I'd heard, which once again may or may not be urban myth is that they've refused to play it ever since John Farnham once did a version (because he thought it suited his voice) causing Angus to cite that it was now tainted forever more. I'd even settle for the regular version without the fantastic chorus variations. (It's a long way to the shop if you want a sausage roll, or It's a long way to the Cross if you want to fuck a mole.)

By the time Angus is getting into an elaborate solo to finish _High Voltage_ , the heavens have opened and it's pouring rain. All the guys in the area I'm in have dispensed with shirts, so I figure 'when in Rome' and also lose mine even if I'm not an alpha male. Go on, join the tribe. I also figure in for a penny in for a pound, so i lose the thongs too. Barefoot and shirtless at AC/DC in a storm. Surely it can't get any more stereotypical than this. It does though when Anna also decides it's a mighty fine idea and renders herself barefoot and bare-chested, much to the hearty appreciation of every male within a thirty metre radius. Clothes really do just get in the way of a good time don't they. She's standing on the metal seat gyrating to _Highway to Hell_ and then for the closer _For those about to Rock (we salute you)._ Her boyfriend is slapping her on the arse in time with Phil Rudd's drums, an action which she is actively encouraging. He's working up a bit of a rhythm there, and not missing a single beat in standard 4/4 timing.

..that's one small slap for man.. ..and one giant backward leap for feminism..

I don't think I'll forget a second of my first (and given the bands age, probably last) AC/DC show. For those about to Rock, I do indeed salute you.

And for those about to dance for ten minutes semi-naked square in front of a complete stranger, I salute you too. Happy Birthday Anna, wherever you are.

# Gig 6

# Massive Attack, March 2010

Occasionally I'll have a flirtation with a genre that's not necessarily a staple for me, and Massive Attack at the Brisbane Riverstage is indeed one of those moments.

I would say I'm not a fan of electronica at all, but I have every Massive record from _Blue Lines_ to the newly released _Heligoland_ so I figure that qualifies me as a Massive fan. In my time living in North London I became taken with the music of Mike Skinner in The Streets. Hip hop and dance were never my thing, but even now, years later when I sporadically play _Original Pirate Material_ , I'm transported back to Holloway road and can almost taste the North London air. All from a record a guy essentially made in his bedroom. I suspect that may have been drawn and quartered by my fellow metal devotees back in younger days had I dared to have admit to this. If only they'd get over themselves they might discover the mesmerizing bass driven rythmns. I shudder to think what may have happened should my _Best of.. Cat Stevens_ record be idly discovered amongst my collection. A traitor to the tribe. As far as I'm concerned, even though I have my preferred genre, it counts for very little in the end. What counts is conviction and authenticity. Anybody who plays a show with an ounce of ability but a ton of conviction in any style will always trump those who are along for the ride even if they have unparalleled ability.

Massive Attack guest female vocalist Martina Topley-Bird plays a short set of her own as support, while really, I'd rather just hear another half hour of Massive Attack. Everything on show is more or less a whimsical ditty wafting away on the breeze, spontaneously created with repeating loops on the new generation of Casio I guess, much the same ways as Reggie Watts, but about a quarter as entertaining.

After a short interval the current incarnation of the Massive Attack live show arrive on stage and play a variety of tracks from _Heligoland_ , which I'm disappointed with, as I don't really like the record, and the way it's played tonight much less – it's turned into a vapid dance festival which isn't what I came to see. I came to see the stinging bass and cranking guitars that constitute _Mezzanine_. What's being presented is a mere shadow of that which appears to be an odd mix of _Heligoland_ and _100th Window_ (the largely disappointing follow up to _Mezzanine_ )tracks with _Future Proof_ recognizable in the mix, which I wasn't really into either.

The show takes a turn for the better when a scruffy looking older gent who for all intents and purposes looks like he's been recruited on the promise of a bed and a countermeal at the local pub starts on vocals for _Girl I Love You_ (my pick of the current record) and I instantly recognize the voice as Horace Andy. For years I've only ever known these people by voice but haven't had the first clue as to what they look like in the flesh, aside from del Naja & Marshall. From where I'm standing, Massive Attack is really del Naja, at least in a live sense anyway - Marshall it would seem doesn't do much for the show – he's absent for a great deal of it, and barely twiddles a knob otherwise aside from a few low key vocals. At least Flavor Flav wore a giant clock in Public Enemy even if he actually did fuck all. Besides fightin' the power, of course. Horace Andy is a guest, but I consider him more integral to the success of Massive than Marshall.

I move up to the barrier when Angel kicks into life – this is what I wanted to see – it has all the bottom heavy sting it should have, and is then followed up by the title track from _Blue Lines_ which is equally good. Topley-Bird appears to perform _Teardrop_ , but I would have much rather heard from a smooth Elizabeth Fraser than Topley-Bird who seems to have swallowed either a bag of batten screws backstage or smoked a crate of cigarettes. It's a pared back version, with no bass which annoys me greatly, as in my opinion it's removing an integral element and the tune is the poorer for it \- and it's the complete reverse of how I've been trying to reconstruct it at home all week. I spot the bassist slouched on the drum riser drinking a bottle of water and I casually heckle him for sitting down on the job. If he's not going to play his instrument, perhaps he'd like to give it to me and I'll happily run through the progression to _Teardrop_ I suggest.

The great thing about being on the barrier of a large stage is that you get to see the finer detail in the performance that you otherwise miss from the back. The thing that's not so great about being on the barrier is that you forget you occasionally can be heard on the stage, even over the noise. He casts a look over in my general direction and slowly gets to his feet. It's only then I realize the man weighs about 130 kilograms, just a fraction under twice my weight. As he meanders down from the riser I'm frozen in a moment of pants-shitting terror not unlike those I've experienced on the traditional Far North Queensland pig hunt. The bogan bar mitzbah as I refer to it.

The best way to ensure your young male offspring grow up to be real men without a hint of homosexuality is of course to take them and their friends of similar age to a remote area and arm them with rifles. After they've shot a ute-full of feral pigs and any other assorted small marsupials that have had the misfortune of crossing paths with the posse, then they're bound to committed heterosexuality for life. Please somebody publish this thesis, as surely it's a theory worth nominating for the highest order of academic acclaim.

The attitude has changed significantly in the North since, and that's a good thing. I didn't go on many of these hunts, and each time I prayed that wouldn't encounter any animals of any kind. The pants shitting moment of terror occurs when a pig can't see a way out from its pursuers and feels its best option is to turn and charge them down. In this circumstance there's limited time and not much margin for error. Aside from this possibility, I didn't enjoy the idea of shooting an animal for no material gain.

It's an activity certainly not for the squeamish.

Not that I am at all these days. I've seen many things at various production facilities I can't un-see and now I'm thoroughly desensitized to the vast majority of them. I thought I'd seen it all until earlier in the week during at a site visit to a beef production facility that I'm working on an expansion for, I saw a mobile crate of decapitated cattle heads wheeled past us. Intact cattle heads without the skull and hence no supporting structure, they almost resembled deflated basketballs. A mechanical engineering student in the team instantly vomited, while his superior, a tough-as-nails senior mechanical consultant hailing from rural Ireland unsympathetically suggested to the youngster that if he were to be working with her he 'best be fookin' gettin' over himself'. I strolled away whistling a medley Slayer's _Dead Skin Mask_ and Megadeth's _Skull beneath the Skin_ as it just seemed appropriate in the context. Thinking I best consider myself lucky I wasn't to be fookin' working for her.

_The Lost Girl_ wasn't squeamish at all, something I really liked about her, she didn't conform to many of the traditional 'girly' stereotypes. She'd grown up in a family that had always had a small boat of some description and enjoyed fishing immensely, another passion common to those who've grown up in Far North Queensland. As a female though, she was spared the mandatory ritual pig hunting. I've been fishing where friends have brought girlfriends along and they've baulked at the prospect of baiting their own hook. _The Lost Girl_ thought nothing of gutting a fish. Just as well as she caught more than me. I was crap on the water in just about every aspect then, and I am still now.

By the time the behemoth of a bassist has made his way down to the front, Teardrop is coming to a conclusion. I hold my ground. If you're going dish it out, you've got to be prepared to take it after all. Even if the man has the potential to easily make me one with the concrete terrace at the barrier. I breathe a sigh of relief when he simply smiles sweetly at me and picks up the bass guitar from the stand it's leaning against. All is forgotten and forgiven though when they pull out a soaring rendition of _Safe from Harm_ , with another female guest vocalist (whose name I've shamefully forgotten) hitting some shrill notes I suspect could be heard over the next reach of the Brisbane river. She's the superior vocalist tonight and I wish she could take more of the show. The highlight of the set for me comes though in the form of _Inertia Creeps_ which is played with even more malevolent darkness than it is on _Mezzanine_ if that's at all possible. There's so much that young metal enthusiasts could learn from this if they cared to. Bass player is earning his keep now that I can feel the vibrations in the back row of my teeth.

An extended version of _Antistar_ , or what I think is _Antistar_ flows into _Karmacoma_ from _Protection_ to finish what is a something of a mixed bag, but worth the admission price. I just hope they gave Horace chips with his counter meal.

# Gig 7

# Kuepper & Bailey, May 2010

My friend Tracy had suggested I am unfairly prejudiced against Ed Kuepper & Chris Bailey and the Saints in general. I've examined this possibility and wonder if this is indeed the case as I purchase tickets for the duo at the Troubadour. This may well be true, but I ask how did it get to be that way? I've tried to like the music of The Saints, I really have. I'm told I should by Tracy and every other article written about them. I was told this by some of my university lecturers who were young enough to be involved in the music scene at the time, amidst the perhaps not quite so random raids on live music venues. I respect their place in the archives of Brisbane musical history. The Saints' contribution to Brisbane music is indisputable. Particularly given the much documented nature of the era surrounding them.

Context, Tracy tells me, context. Unfortunately I'm not old enough to have witnessed this, and can only rely upon my own experience.

Tracy has repeatedly extolled the virtues of The Saints to me. He describes seeing them on UK television as one of his musical life changing moments, up there with the Pistols and Joy Division. It seems fitting he's now settled in Brisbane, hometown of The Saints, half a world away from where he'd grown up and first heard them. Tracy had recently acquired a beat up Yamaha bass and we'd been casually attempting to play bad cover versions of tunes we liked. He'd wanted to call our 'band' The Sinners, as tribute to The Saints, but I'd refused. I'd done a google search and revealed there was a hillbilly band in the backwoods of the US of the same name I didn't want any association with. Tracy reluctantly concurred and thought Throat might be a more suitable name, which I didn't mind at all. Punk but not punk.

It was Tracy who took their sub-standard performance at the Zoo the hardest.

It was billed as The Saints, but of course it was just Bailey plus hired hands. There were minimal people at the show, and subsequently Bailey produced a performance of below minimum standards, punctuated by pleas for someone to buy him a drink. Tracy bought plenty of his own in quick succession. The last I saw of him at the show was when he quietly and uncertainly descended the stairs out of the Zoo to Ann Street, a broken figure of dejection. It was the same at the last ever Brisbane Strikers match. There was to be no last match heroics. Probably the only other thing aside from Baileys performance that evening I've seen him as bothered by as much was the terrible form of the football that evening.

Sitting quietly by himself on the hill at Perry Park, steadily working his way through half a Chinese tobacco field. You'd think he'd be used to it, as a Leicester City supporter. But I know better. Despite the result being entirely predictable, it still feels like a punch to the solar plexus at the end of every season when Fucking Souths once again fail to make the finals. I knew full well that evening that Leicester had just been relegated to what used to be called the dreaded Third Division. I didn't ask him how they were going, despite an overwhelming urge to do so just to hear him say it. There's being a cunt, and there's being a cunt.

That 'Saints' gig still ranks as one of the worst I've ever been to, and even Tracy couldn't put a defensive case in front of me for that one. Not far off was one of Ed Kueppers shows during his residency at the Troubadour. Ed struggled to keep a rhythm throughout the entire set and finished with one of the most unsexy, unsultry, versions of _Fever_ I've had the misfortune of listening to. Every molecule in my body cringed.

So that's my context, and it's the only one I have.

Two out of five of my desert island top five worst gigs of all time. Gut wrenchingly so. In fairness to Ed however, I've seen him play more than a dozen occasions over the years and his performances weren't all as off as this one. As far as I'm concerned though, my scepticism is not only justified, it's absolutely necessary somebody calls a performance for what it is for the sake of the Brisbane music scene. There are far too many instances of performers whose latter day sins are all too readily forgiven on the basis that their previous exploits are etched into folklore.

I was recently gifted a book of collective gig/album reviews by surviving Go-Between Robert Forster and was delighted to find a review of the Saints show at the Pig City event at UQ, which I remember well. Forster places the Saints in Brisbane music history far better than I would ever hope to be able to – I guess it helps he was part of the music scene of the era while I was barely more than a zygote. His review of the show itself suggests that it was something of a stroke of genius. It was a fine gig, but certainly not to the calibre he's describing. At least I didn't think so. I feel this gives credence to the above point. And also the reason why a current artist tends not to be a reviewer at the same time.

It's a different kind of show tonight – it's a journey through the influences that made Bailey & Kuepper rather than 'Ed & Chris play the Saints' which may well have been a disaster. There's not a _Stranded_ , nor a _Know your Product_ to be found.

They're both sitting down, and Chris Bailey has a guitar tonight which I think is a good move. It keeps his hands occupied which limits the rock god posturing. There's an obvious symbiotic relationship happening that keeps the other in check which is what is maybe lacking in their solo appearances. Ed doesn't have the strength of Bailey's vocals, and Bailey doesn't have Ed's playing discipline which he's showing in abundance tonight – everything is either clipped or slurred exactly when it needs to be. I don't have a back catalogue of Ed's solo work so can't name individual songs, but a fair bit of the show is being drawn from previous Ed appearances. It's better with Bailey at his side, and God help me, rather enjoyable. The one thing I don't enjoy though is a cover of _Send in the Clowns_ which I remember only because Sideshow Mel performs it on the _The Simpsons_ with a lot more emotion.

You can't keep a good man down though and true to form Bailey has to take the usual and (sigh) expected shots at Queensland lifestyle. Didn't see that one coming at all Chris. I remember at the end of the Pig City show he sarcastically encouraged us all to retire to the main refectory where we could 'discuss the relevance of it all'. That's a boulder size chip on each shoulder there. I'm not really sure of the genesis of the comment. Surely a high proportion of the most strident supporters of The Saints in their formative years would have been University of Queensland students?

After this event which was supposed to be a one off show, the Saints again reformed to support to The Bad Seeds for at least the Brisbane show of the _Dig! Lazarus Dig!_ tour. _The Lost Girl_ wouldn't be dragged to this one and looking back, it was probably why she relented to seeing them play in England a few months later. But too much Cave is never enough for me. Given that it was billed as The Saints playing _(I'm)Stranded_ in its entirety, I would suggest it's a reasonable expectation one would hear _(I'm) Stranded_ played in its entirety. It would seem this meant something different to Bailey and co who felt it fair to leave out the title track. I don't remember being drunk and missing it. I suspect Chris might just enjoy pissing people off.

All we need now is for Dave Mcormack to pop up and tell one of his patented Joh Bjelke-Petersen stories. Bailey then encourages 'chicks' to get up on stage and describes Ed as being a 'chick' even though he's had a 'manly' career. Ed ignores this but I can see mentally chalks it up.

This is probably the most enjoyable show I've seen of the dozen times I've seen either Bailey or Kuepper or the one off (which later proved to be a two off) Saints gig. Ed still has no place in the Bad Seeds though, and I'm hoping that proves to be bad media reporting before they come around again. And Bailey still pisses me off. I'm not sure I'm going to be a Saints convert anytime soon. If it hasn't happened by now it probably isn't going to, but still I keep going to the shows, hoping I'll see something in them I didn't see before that will validate their long held status for me. Or maybe I'm just a closet sado-masochist and haven't quite worked it out yet. Whips and leather substituted by bad musical performances.

After Tracy and I finish discussing the relevance of it all over some more drinks I head home and I find _The Lost Girl_ sitting on the top step of the front staircase. She's not been here since she collected the last of her belongings last November.

Can I stay here tonight? She asks without offering any explanation as to why she's randomly appeared with no prior warning. Sure I say as I let her in the front door, and back into my life, though in what capacity I'm not sure yet. I'll sleep on the couch she says, but the inflection in her voice suggests it's more a question than a statement.

I'm the first to admit I'm rather slow on the uptake, but even I know she hasn't waited on my steps on the other side of town for however long to sleep on the couch. And I don't want her to either. So she doesn't.

# Gig 8

# Peter Hook, September 2010

It's one of my greatest regrets that I will never see Joy Division play live.

I know that it won't be the same, but seeing Peter Hook play tonight will be the closest thing I'm ever going to witness. Except maybe New Order but New Order is not Joy Division, despite having three out of four of the members in the lineup. At least I'm not expecting it to be. I learnt my lesson years ago seeing Robert Plant play at London's sadly now demolished Astoria thinking I was going to get a taste of Zeppelin in their halcyon days. Instead I got what I suspect was a reasonably inebriated Plant stumbling about on stage meandering through mediocre solo material before murdering _When the Levee Breaks_ and _Going to California_. I consider it a modern day miracle he left Kashmir alone that night whenever I think back. It felt like an act of betrayal.

There were several ticketing options available for the show tonight. Aside from the regular admission ticket, there were VIP package options available, one a 'Gold' and the other 'Platinum'. I read through the specifics of each and there doesn't appear to be much fundamental difference between them. I can only assume a potentially volatile Hooky tells gold option ticket VIPs to fuck themselves as a collective whereas on a more personal level, platinum option holders are given the privilege of being encouraged to fuck themselves individually. I'd asked _The Lost Girl_ which option of insult she'd prefer. The look she returned suggested the regular ticketing option would do nicely. Fine by me, there's something about paying for an autograph that doesn't sit well in my world. I've been told to fuck off enough for free too. Still, I can't blame the man for trying. Joy Division never saw a genuine financial return for their efforts in the short span they were active. It saddens me when I think Ian Curtis never saw the extent of his legacy.

The intent of tonight's show will be that _Unknown Pleasures_ is played in order, in entirety. Over the last few years this has become quite a popular format. Metallica have been playing all of _Ride the Lightning_. I've seen Screamfeeder play _Kitten Licks_ in full and also have taken my mother to see John Fogerty play Creedence's _Green River_ this year. Creedence is the only music my mother and I have in common. For such a tiny man, Fogs makes a substantial racket. Keep on Chooglin' John, I hope you never stop.

I think it might be an attempt in some small measure by the artists to restore their songs to their original context which has been wrestled away from them with the advent of file sharing. The notion of the album appears to be just about dead to younger kids these days. And in a larger measure, they know there's a lot of people who will gladly pay to see it. I'm here tonight after all, with my sceptical passenger in tow. I've been playing the record to her today, as well as _Closer_ , plus other compilation material. Maybe she'll accompany me on a Joy Division journey through Manchester one day after all. I've seen a lot of her in the last couple of months and I'm hoping things will get back to how they were before she left. She hasn't revealed her intentions since the evening I found her waiting on the steps to my flat, and I haven't pressed her for any. It seems to be an unspoken arrangement. Perhaps if I leave it alone things will just evolve to where I want them too. Nothing like avoidance as a sound strategy for dealing with one's issues.

Before we can see Hooky we endure what seems an eternity of support band The Wreckery. I only know them as the band Hugo Race went back to before the Bad Seeds recorded _The Firstborn is Dead_. I suppose therefore I should feel obligated to show some interest, but I don't. There's a few nice hooks here and there but not enough to pull me in. While you can't judge a bands performance on how they look, in this case you can. Embittered council town planners aren't generally known for generating much in the way of musical spark.

_The Lost Girl_ and I catch sight of Tracy down the front and make our way to join him. He and I recently started playing appalling music together against looped drum samples. I'd like to think we'll get better. Hailing from Leicester, at the height of Northern English post-punk it was Tracy who developed my interest in that direction. It was concreted for me one afternoon by the inspired choice from the musically inclined landlord of a Northern English pub to play _Closer_ right through when it was only he and I in the pub. I'd always favoured _Unknown Pleasures_ , but in the context of a bleak and cold English winter it fit perfectly, unlike the summers in Far North Queensland. There's a gentle and sad winding down in _Closer_ once you get to _Heart & Soul_ that _Unknown Pleasures_ lacks. Particularly with the knowledge that Curtis never saw it released. I only listen to it a few times a year, it must be from start to finish, and only in winter. I've played it today in September though because I wanted _The Lost Girl_ to hear it. I'm prepared to break my own rules only for her.

One good deed deserved another so Vito and myself had introduced Tracy to Magic Dirt shortly after his arrival in Brisbane a decade ago.

Peter Hook and band members (known as the Light) walk on with little fanfare and start with a few early tunes from Warsaw days before they were Joy Division, notably _Warsaw_ , and _Leaders of Men_. Whilst there's certainly a few pleased punters who lean towards the punk side of things, I am less so – as far as I'm concerned this doesn't at all capture Joy Division, but thankfully it's short lived and opening _Unknown Pleasures_ track _Disorder_ kicks in. It quickly becomes apparent why Hook has his son playing bass as well as himself – it's obviously a stretch for him to sing and play at the same time – for at least two thirds of the gig he doesn't not actually touch it.

More notably it would appear it's also a stretch for him to remember the lyrics to his own songs – from front & centre position Tracy, _The Lost Girl_ & I can clearly see the 'cheat sheets' he's flipping through, referring to them constantly. At least he's got them on a music stand and isn't trying to hide them, but _The Lost Girl_ isn't impressed he can't remember the words. I try to explain to her that in fairness, it was Ian Curtis who wrote them and the rest of the band didn't listen to the lyrics Ian was singing most of the time. I guess that's why it's entirely plausible alarm bells didn't ring when he came out with the lyrics to _A Lonely Place_. New Order didn't play any Joy Division for a long time after Curtis's death. Vocal duties in New Order fell to Sumner, so Hooky probably wouldn't have listened to them in potentially almost three decades. But that said – if you're going to ask a discerning punter (and few are more discerning than this punter) to part with his or her hard earned, the ability to remember lyrics is somewhat imperative. Despite any justification I can make, I admit it is hard to argue with her on this one.

I look past this though when the second track from _Unknown Pleasures_ , and one of my favourites, _Day of the Lords emerges_. Slow and brooding, Joy Division at their darkest. It's obvious the knob twiddler behind the sound desk is working overtime on the vocal mix – they've managed to make Hook sound uncannily like Curtis – though this is less obvious on _Candidate_ and _Insight_ , where they've chosen to use instrumental power over the subtleties only Curtis's vocals could deliver on more Spartan tracks.

What I'm most looking forward to is my favourite Joy Division song, _New Dawn Fades_ which comes next. From the roar of approval it seems to be the favourite of many of the punters. I can't quite put my finger on why. Though it was recorded over 30 years ago, it still sounds like it could have been released by an indie band last week. Timelessness - the common theme I imagine all musicians and architects alike strive to achieve. I've not made much progress on that front myself. It doesn't seem to matter these days anyway. Bricks and mortar aren't bricks and mortar anymore. Even they have become largely disposable with a limited shelf life of barely a decade in a lot of cases. Music much less.

In popular opinion, the success of _Unknown Pleasures_ has to be largely attributed to the production and engineering skills of Martin Hannett. I've recently come to hear what he meant by 'slower, but faster' on the drum tracks. From my understanding of the recording process, Hannett recorded each component of the drums on separate tracks to enable him total control for levels of each in the final mix. There's a high-hat going at least of a constant double time compared to the rest of the kit and instruments, set down so low in the mix it's barely discernible, but integral to the sound. It wouldn't be the same if it were absent.

Under a year from now when Amy starts playing drums with Tracy and I we'll try to play this like the record and it will be a dismal failure – all you'll hear is a constant crash cymbal at the expense of all else. She hasn't the touch to pull this off, and I doubt many drummers do. We'll find we delete it altogether though the tunes are the poorer for it. Not that it makes much a difference to the general punter in Brisbane.

I check to see what my opposite number is playing and it seems there's yet another way to play the verses of _New Dawn Fades_. The beauty of guitar is there are an almost unlimited ways to skin cats. I'll stick with my version as it's more befitting the level of ability I possess. Which is fuck all at this juncture. In my mid to late teens I'd loved the Moby version of this song, and embarrassingly I thought it was a Moby original for the longest time. Likewise the Nine Inch Nails version of _Dead Souls_. Moby to Nine Inch Nails. To one Far North Queensland devotee of all things metal. Testament to the power and influence of Joy Division. Just like _The Lost Girl_ , Joy Division had always been in the background. I was just thoroughly unaware of either of them at the time. Some people make discoveries in an instant, for others it's an unfolding, slow-burning process. I've always fallen into the latter camp. All the best things have always been that way.

_New Dawn Fades_ is one of the highlights of the evening, and good as it is, I'm still left wishing I could be teleported back to the UK in 1979 to see this played by Joy Division at their peak. Before Curtis was gone. A few years ago, Tony Wilson, one of the other key figures involved in the Joy Division story sadly lost his battle with cancer. Wilson, Hannett, manager Rob Gretton, and Curtis, all gone. Nothing lasts forever.

They dutifully finish the record with Hook getting into as many rock poses as he can manage during _I Remember Nothing_ before leaving the stage briefly to return with a short array of non-album tracks including _Transmission_ and naturally, _Love Will Tear Us Apart_. At least he doesn't dance like Curtis once did in a bid to disguise his epilepsy.

In contrast to Bob Plant's London show those years ago, this has been thoroughly enjoyable. I don't know if _The Lost Girl_ is a convert but I think she's had a good time as well, and is coming home with me in a good mood. I challenge anyone to find a person that doesn't resonate with _Love Will Tear Us Apart_.

I would remind Hooky after reading some of his comments about how he hates 'these fucking cover bands playing it' referring to tracks from _Unknown Pleasures_ – only a quarter of Joy division does not a Joy Division make. Your band's almost as much a cover band as mine is pal.

# Gig 9

# Gareth Liddiard, November 2010

Looking through an old scrapbook, I found a photo where I can't be any more than five years old. I'm standing in front of the Old Museum in Spring Hill next to one of the rubber dinosaurs they used to have on display out the front. It was probably the first time I'd been away from Far North Queensland. I vaguely remember being somewhat disappointed in the whole thing. I used to love dinosaurs. Fucking loved them. I was hoping for the authentic article. Full sized Tyrannosaurus Rex skeletons. And not a cast of the bones either. The real thing, dug from the ground and assembled. Or at least a Triceratops. The rubber replicas with their gaudy colours didn't quite resonate with me.

Gareth Liddiard's show tonight will be the first time since that photo was taken that I've been back here, despite living in Brisbane now for fifteen years. It's obvious the place has fantastic acoustics, probably by coincidence rather than design, but it seems as though we've walked into a P&C meeting rather than a gig. There's a young lady(whose name I didn't catch) playing a solo set on stage and as I open a can of beer, the volume of the ring-pull makes an audible crack, loud enough to earn some disdainful looks from many of the seated 'punters' in front of me.

Not the usual type of folks that I've seen at the Drones shows I've been to, but I remind myself, it's not the Drones, just prickly Drones frontman Gareth Liddiard on his own performing his first solo record Strange Tourist. I'm wondering how he'll go without the other Drones around him. I see that Fiona Kitcshin is there tonight, but is relegated to flogging t-shirts behind the merch desk.

True to form, the first thing Liddiard does as he sits down is to tell some people to be quiet. After the first song, he chastises more people for being late as they walk through the entrance. And then also tells them to be fucken' quiet. And then calls them cunts for good measure. I love it. _The Lost Girl_ had declined to attend as she had other plans, so it's only Hugo and I tonight. I'd seen the Drones with her at The Zoo in earlier days before they had the fan base they do now. The venue would be nowhere near large enough for them anymore. I can remember even back then Liddiard calling _The Lost Girl_ and I cunts for no real apparent reason, before taking the obligatory Victorian shot at Queensland and subsequently letting us know that Fiona was going to 'bash' us. We saw her at the bar later on and I asked light heartedly when my proposed bashing was to occur. The smart-arse in me couldn't let the opportunity pass. The weary sigh suggested that she was perhaps accustomed to being on the receiving end of her frontman's jibes. Used to enough teasing of her own from me, _The Lost Girl_ jabbed me sharply in the ribs and told me not to be a wanker. Fiona told her not to worry, giving her a knowing glance. Sisters of the world unite.

I've been called a cunt or generally sworn at by so many Victorian artists now I'm starting to lose count. I've richly deserved it on the odd occasion. I used to regard Girl No.1's taste in music as somewhat 'soft', and let her know this many times. I'd learn that everything is contextual, as Tracy reminds me whenever I feel like making a disparaging remark about music of other genres and eras, but I was eighteen at the time and listening to mainly all things metal orientated. One of the many things I'd been wrong about back then.

Hunters & Collectors were somewhere near the top of Girl No.1's preferences. I'd only known them via _Holy Grail_ and sappy pub favourite _Throw Your Arms Around Me_. In a bid to see what Girl No.1 saw in them I went to see them play in Far North Queensland during their final tour in the late 90's when I was visiting. Then I understood. There's an aggression and grittiness in the early material that I didn't see in the pub cover band anthems. I don't know if that's what Girl No.1 liked about them, but after seeing _Talking To a Stranger_ and _The Slab_ played live I was hooked on 'Hunnas' as they're known to the great unwashed.

Like so many times in the years I've known her, she was right and I was wrong. She probably inadvertently opened my eyes to Australian post-punk after I sought out the original Ian Rilen version of the Hunna's cover of _Stuck on You_. I can't help but think of her whenever I hear something from _Human Frailty_. But context or no context, Girl No. 1 can still keep her Simon & Garfunkle.

Years later Johnno and I went to see Mark Seymour play in one of his first outings as a solo performer. It wasn't well publicized, and few people were there. We made arses of ourselves all evening, shouting _Do You See What I See?_ at each other. For a performer trying to transition from band frontman to solo artist playing to smaller crowds, I don't imagine there can be many things worse than a couple of pissed idiots making repeated requests for the previous band's material. Eventually Seymour asked us if he were to play it, would we two cunts kindly shut the fuck up? Johnno looked at him and slurred a well enunciated 'Noooo..', in the way you'd reproach a two year old when trying to make a point clear about their behaviour. Seymour quietly cursed to himself and played it for us anyway much to our delight. And we did shut the fuck up after all.

Our paths would cross again at his book launch years later when I purchased a copy as a birthday present for Girl No.1. The weekend prior I'd been at Hugo's house for a barbeque where he'd had the Ipod on a random shuffle. Boston's _More than a Feeling_ followed on from _Holy Grail_. I don't have a great deal of Boston in my collection and I'd never heard the songs back to back before. To my ears the strum pattern is remarkable similar. I guess there's only so many chords. Like any self-respecting groupie, I'd brought along ticket stubs from the Hunna's show and from his own solo performances for signing in addition to the book for Girl No.1. I elected to make conversation while he was at work with the pen by opening with 'so Mark, I was listening to some Boston on the weekend..' I didn't get to finish the sentence before once again Seymour offered a quiet, 'Oh, fuck,' curse to himself. Strong reaction I thought. Still, he graciously signed the rest of my memorabilia. It was only when I read the book before passing it on to Girl No.1 (I didn't think she'd mind) that I saw a passage revealing his annoyance for comparisons being made between the two tracks. I had no idea, and obviously hadn't read the book at the time. _Thirteen Tonne Theory_ is an excellent read by the way. Sorry Mark. For all of it mate. It was actually an honest musical observation, not at all intended as a taunt. And wear your millstones with pride I say. I'd be a happy man to have written anything half as good as _Do You See What I See?_

Now I could never be accused of having the most uplifting record collection, but I'm finding myself wanting to ask people if they've a spare cyanide tablet as Gareth Liddiard meanders through his set comprising of tracks mainly from his first solo record, _Strange Tourist_. Themes oscillate wildly from suicide on Christmas Day, the perils of being of Indigenous descent in Australia, the life of a dog shooter and many more unrelated fun-filled subjects in between.

It's compulsive listening. I compare it to eating salt & vinegar chips while you've got a cut on your lip. You can't help going back for more despite knowing full well there'll be a sting with every sliver of fried potato.

You embrace the pain. I read that the Drones _Shark Fin Blues_ has been voted the best Australian song ever. I consider that debatable, but Liddiard may well prove to be perhaps one of the most important Australian songwriters of his generation. Obviously highly intelligent and well read, with a turn of phrase and a knack for storytelling unlike anybody else I've heard in the Australian music industry for some time. He pauses between songs for a rant about the quality of the Courier Mail. Another shot at Queensland. Another dig at one of the punters for something. Another shot at football. I guess I can't disagree with anything he's said. And given the way fucken' Souths have performed this year, I don't even want to think about football, though I think that Gareth and I are coming from entirely different angles regarding our respective problems with the game.

Being in South-East Queensland, it's appropriate that he launches into a version of _Sixteen Straws_ from the Drones' _Gala Mill_ record. A tale of Moreton Bay penal colony woe and suffering. Just for something completely different to what we've been hearing for the last hour. I've run out of Salt & Vinegar chips so now I'm dowsing that cut with vinegar straight from the bottle and lining the wound with salt afterward. I'm glad _The Lost Girl_ didn't come along tonight.

He manages to drag the last song out for approximately fifteen minutes, a commentary on all the ills of the world combined, finally ending with the Twin Towers burning. Fucken' happy days hey.

By the end of the show, he's told about a third of the people in the venue to shut up, but I can see that it's all self-parody, and probably always has been. He's clearly a self-aware man. I'm of the view that it's not a crime to be a cunt. The far greater offence for mine is to be a cunt and not know it.

Afterwards, Hugo and I stroll back to a city venue for a drink in lieu of a cyanide pill. Maybe they'll be playing some Spice Girls there to lift the mood. I smile to myself when I hear a guy on stage in the next room butchering a version of _Throw Your Arms Around me_. I don't need to take bets that _Betterman_ will follow.

'So what exactly are your plans with her then?' Hugo asks as he puts two Rum & cokes down on the table. 'Because there's only a limited lifespan this can last you know.'

I'm not sure I appreciate the commentary, but before I can ask if this is some kind of mini intervention an extremely vertically challenged, in addition to being tremendously drunk, man randomly sits down at our table looking on expectantly. I wonder if he's going to dispense some sage-like wisdom on my situation with _The Lost Girl_ , but he sits there in silence. I've seen him a few times before here, something of a mainstay at the establishment. It's an awkward Mexican standoff between the three of us for a couple of minutes, until our friend sees something more exciting in the betting area of the pub directly behind us and departs just as casually as he arrived.

Hugo's train of thought is lost now he's been distracted, but his point has been made. Maybe he's happy to let it sink in a while so he doesn't push it. I've never known him to be a beacon of tact or restraint. It could be that fatherhood has afforded him these new powers. Instead, he changes the subject as to whether midget is the correct term for the gent who's now downing pints faster than Oliver Reed with some new pals. Clearly any new found tact was just a brief anomaly. I tell him I'm unsure of what constitutes a midget and what counts as just being very short, but it's irrelevant as I don't think it's a socially acceptable term irrespective of what the technical definition may be.

There used to be Sydney band called Midget I say, in fact one of the band members gave Magic Dirt their name I believe. A fountain of useless musical knowledge.

The traditional meat tray raffle comes around and we dutifully buy some tickets. It's closely followed by tickets to the 'Rum & a hundred'. For the uninitiated, the grand prize to this one consists of a bottle of Bundaberg Rum that's wrapped in a one hundred dollar note. All class. I'm sure this has been going on here since the 1920's. It's one of the oldest city venues, as evidenced by the black & white photos on the wall beside us. In this pub an old friend of the family re-encountered the girl he would marry after the end of World War II after an absence of several years. They'd been going out prior to his enlistment, but she left him for an American soldier while he was serving in the Middle East. Nice. Not uncommon though in Far North Queensland, and probably not in Brisbane either. Greener pastures and a pair of silk stockings. It didn't last and she found herself here working behind the bar. As fate would have it, he and his brother chose this pub for a drink while in town for an RSL meeting. Destiny had offered him a second chance. Depending on your perspective. Some of his friends and relatives who were less enamoured with her felt he'd taken a grenade far worse than any the Germans had hurled at him in the deserts of North Africa.

I wonder if I'm getting another chance with _The Lost Girl_ too. Hugo was right, there was only so long the current status could endure.

Hugo wins the meat tray at the same moment we hear a dull thud behind us as our midget friend has hit the floor, passed out cold. Hugo's excited. This meat is going to make peace with his wife for staying out at the pub mid-week with his idiot friend getting half-cut. What I would give to be there when he walks through that front door with 10 kilos of rump steak balanced on his head, as he's choosing to carry it now.

After a short deliberation between door security and management, it's deemed the midget doesn't require medical attention. He's carried to the pokie's area to sleep it off on couch next to some slot machines. I just hope they do the considerate thing and leave a bucket of change for him for when he wakes.

# Gig 10

# The Fall, December 2010

'You're going to The Fall' a largish gentleman in his early fifties with a Northern English accent says to me in the Boundary Hotel bathroom. He phrases it as though it's a statement based on a foundation of solid fact without the barest hint of inflection to suggest it's a question.

I am indeed going to the show at the Hi-Fi, how he could have known this I'm unsure. I've only just arrived so it's not like he could have overheard Tracy and I talking about the band. My age and Far North Queensland drawl wouldn't place me chronologically or geographically likely as a fan either. Maybe it's a guess from a lonely man to start a conversation, or maybe something else he sees that I can't quantify. In my brief residency in the UK I always felt more of a sense of belonging there, the north of the country in particular. More than I often feel at times here in my own country.

I wonder what it would have been like to be young in Manchester in the late 1970's at the height of post-punk. I'm sure I would have been a post-punk devotee. If not that, then a devotee of the New Wave of British Heavy Metal that was developing just a few hundred kilometres down the road. I guess I'll never know for sure, but I feel I would have been in my element. In the same way as how I feel Shane Warne would have been better suited to Australian cricket in the late 1970's. His own era never really suited him, despite being the dominant force in it for his tenure. I'd contend he would have dominated any era he played in though.

I'd be lying if I said I was a dedicated fan of The Fall. I admit this to my new found Northern accomplice. Still, after becoming absorbed by the various books and doco's Tracy has lent me over the past couple of years, this is one of my most anticipated gigs of the year. Out of the twenty-eight records or so Mark E Smith and co have made I have some compilations Tracy made me (before this I had little idea who the Fall were – they weren't big in Far North Queensland) and a few records I wasn't aware of sitting on my hard drive, amongst the thousands that make up several Terabytes. Little wonder music is so disposable these days.

His eyes light up when he sees he's found a younger set of ears willing to be educated, and he wastes no time filling in the gaps of post-punk history I might not be aware of. I wonder if this is how I'm destined to turn out in another two decades or so. By that stage I might be boring Hugo's daughter shitless with historical tales of musical deeds she has no interest in. Right now she thinks it fantastic when I read her stories about _Thomas the Tank_ , but I know that won't last. Or worse, I could wind up like many of the elderly ladies of my grandmothers generation, reciting recycled tales about previous generations long dead before even they were born with a vigour that would otherwise suggest they knew them personally. I dreaded visits to them as a kid, and I'm sure I wasn't alone. I sensed even family members visited out of obligation rather than desire.

I'm interested in the subject matter here though. The conversation turns to Joy Division, and as if on cue, he tells me he was at the last show they played at Birmingham Uni. I wonder if he's telling the truth, but don't question his integrity. He's about the right age, from the right region, so it may well be accurate. If everybody who said they attended this show was really there it would mean the hall had the same capacity as the new Wembley stadium. There was such a small window to even see Joy Division play that it's hard not to question the credibility of anyone who says they did. At least he has the good grace not to suggest he was at the Sex Pistols show at the Lesser Free Trade Hall in Manchester 1976 as some are known to. There was a reported forty-two people in attendance. After subtracting from that number the soon-to-be members of Joy Division, manager Rob Gretton, producer Martin Hannett, The Buzzcocks, Tony Wilson and his wife, John the Postman, and God help us, Mick Hucknall, there's not much room left for too many other general punters.

I won't be boring _The Lost Girl_ with any English post-punk history after the show tonight. I'd kept up the unspoken casual arrangement that was taking place over the last few months in the hope that she'd come back in a more permanent way eventually. But my friends were right, the arrangement we had couldn't last forever. I decided it couldn't be an unspoken or casual one any longer. I knew what I wanted. I just wasn't sure if she knew I did, or if she knew herself. The previous Sunday morning we'd been in bed reading and I chose to gauge her reaction by asking if she'd like to move some of her stuff back in to my place. Baby steps I'm thinking. Not everything at once. She closed the book she was reading and rolled off me to face the window without saying a anything before heading to the bathroom. Wasn't quite the definitive reaction I'd been hoping for as I heard the shower start running. Still, the cat had to be thrown amongst the pigeons, and I guessed by the silence I'd tossed a starving mangy feline into the middle of St Peters square. There was only so much water in my hot water system. She had to come out sooner or later. In all the time I'd known her I'd never seen her get dressed so quickly. If only it was like that all the time. Had to go and do some things before work tomorrow. I see. So.. I pursued.. What would you like to do..?

I don't know she said, barely turning around as she walked out my front door. I thought of the old photos on the pub wall in the city and of second chances. I wonder whether that was mine evaporating as she trailed down the front steps of my building.

It's been almost twenty years since The Fall played in Australia, so I'm sure I'm not the only one here who's never seen them play before, and barely let myself believe they're actually here until I see Mark E Smith, Elena and the rest of the current line up (but for how long?) file out on stage.

Not that I've a chance of recognising much of the vast amount of material I don't own, but from the lyrics of the opening tune, those I can understand past Smiths' slurring 'maybe I'm drunk, maybe i'm not' type vocal stylings (which in this context doesn't bother me in the least) I'm gathering it's from new record _Your Future Our Clutter_. I believe most of the set in the Sydney show came from this record.

Smith wanders around endearingly like a disorientated pensioner in the early stages of dementia, periodically making random adjustments to amplifier tones and volume as he has for the past thirty-four years. I wonder if he actually can't be bothered doing it anymore, but does so simply to fulfil an expectation. And the rest of the band have the expectation their gear will be constantly meddled with. It's all part of being in The Fall. The casual manner in which he knocks over the crash cymbals with not a hint of 'rock' intent has me in hysterics. It's more a senile version of Basil Fawlty than a Cobain tearing up equipment in the throes of rock energy.

The future of The Fall I guess now lies in the enthusiasm of Mark E Smith's younger recruits who tonight play like their life depends on it. And so would I. The Fall are in the rare position among their contemporaries to have played continuously since their formation without any significant hiatuses. There's generally two ways to rock longevity – you either stay the same, refusing to change come hell or high water, and hope the punters don't get bored, what I'll refer to as the AC/DC principle; or become a chameleon, constantly reinventing yourself to stay fresh. The Fall subscribe more to the latter, or rather Mark E Smith does, hiring and firing on a regular basis. By virtue of this, the sound is constantly re-invented. I don't think anybody joins The Fall with a retirement plan. At last count there's been 66 past and present members. What I wouldn't give to have a go at my version of _Blindness_. I'm hoping they play my favourite Fall song, but it's not to be. I'm tempted to yell out to Smith and urge him to give me a go, but I show restraint. I've read it has happened that way on an odd occasion. At least one punter did the same and was allowed on stage, subsequently becoming a member for a short while after.

I'm impressed with the relentless groove driving through my spine throughout the set.. ..it's the Fall mantra.. ..repetition.. repetition.. repetition.. It's one of the best gig's of the year, and I'm delighted to say I've seen the Fall play (don't think they'll be back anytime soon) and wonder what it would have been like in 1981. Given the political climate at the time, I'm thinking the police would have been there to enforce the mandate of the powers that be as opposed to the mere law of the land.

The set closes with what I think might be a reprise of _Your Future Our Clutter_. It's not long before they arrive back for an encore with Elena returning, with not only the handbag she's had over her shoulder for the entire set, but two other handbags. Maybe she's stolen some towels as you would from a hotel.

As they leave stage an over-zealous security worker clasps his hand on my shoulder as though he's the long arm of the law informing me the show is over and it's time for me to leave. I gently beg to differ as they've played multiple encores in other shows on this tour, which predictably results in more pressure on my shoulder pushing me in the direction of the door while aggressively telling me to get out as though I've been behaving in a drunk and disorderly manner. I'm not even close. Sure enough Mark E Smith and co return to stage and he begrudgingly lets me go. It's an incendiary gesture, and I know I shouldn't have done it, but I can't resist giving him a sarcastic 'well done mate' and a polite golf clap as he passes me. Insults don't generally get much of a reaction from me, but overt bullying tactics annoy me on a different level. I think he had the wrong venue – there would have been plenty of the great unwashed to manhandle up the road at U2 who are playing the stadium tonight. Wouldn't have minded seeing The Edge play actually. I'm in two minds as to whether he's a really great guitarist with a fine sense of touch and control, or whether he's quite average with the benefit of some fantastic gear worth as much as my flat.

It's kind of fitting I suppose as I understand last time they were here there was some kind of 'civic disturbance' though I don't know any of the details. I guess this is just another small taste of the rubbish patrons copped in Brisbane in the 1980's. I think of how Peel described The Fall as 'always different, always the same'. Maybe that applies to Brisbane too. Maybe we've become a little bit more sophisticated in the time I've lived here, but I think it's only surface treatment.

The Valley is still just as full of young pissed idiots as it ever was. I'd like to think I wasn't one of them back in my day. At least not the same kind of idiot.

I'm still being asked the 'what school did you go to' question by women who are thirty years of age, as though it matters more than a decade after either any of them or I finished school. It's not a casual question, but a fully loaded one that demands the right answer, so it would appear it's still a matter of significant importance to some individuals. The answer now is as equally unimpressive as it was when I moved down here for university. Certainly not worthy of the GPS rowing stickers I see proudly stuck to the rear windows of Grand Cherokee's that have never seen anything but bitumen, as it was back then too. Soon enough the aforementioned thirty year olds will have their own Cherokees with the same stickers. And the wheels on the bus will go round and round.

The developer husbands they're married to who aren't used to being told no, incredulous that any planning law or framework should even remotely apply to them. Their own shitty house renovations they feel the need to discuss at length on a Sunday afternoon as though I should be on call at any time of the week. The real estate agents whose word is gospel to them over good design sense and judgement. I've seen it all since I was a student and the personalities are the same, continuously recycled. As always, they don't care at the abattoir what school I went to.

And the sight of a girl leaving, perhaps for the last time. That's nothing new to me either.

No, you can't really apply Peels statement about The Fall to Brisbane. It's always just the fucking same.

# Gig 11

# Grinderman, January 2011

Given the start to the year weatherwise, I figure things can only get better. At least the talk show hosts.. ..uh sorry, 'journalists' have all gone back to Sydney now the waters have receded and a suitable amount of misery has been captured on film and an appropriate amount of concern for the well-being of those they've interviewed has been feigned. It was the boat rides that got to me. The offer of trips to residents of now underwater suburban Brisbane streets back to houses they've spent a lifetime paying off. Waiting, camera at the ready, like bloodthirsty vultures for that moment when the poor individuals first catch sight of their house, rooftop the only thing visible above the waterline. The perfect moment to ask insightful questions such as 'how do you feel?' It was the same with the Victorian bushfires a few years earlier. I remember a resident was asked if they were scared as they stood beside the remnants of a lawnmower literarily melted onto the concrete slab they were standing on. Scared? No, surely not. After all, being surrounded by fire intense enough to melt a lawnmower would be an everyday experience for most of us wouldn't it? Stay in the studio guys and please don't insult real journalists by using the word to refer to yourselves.

I consider myself lucky I live in Brisbane's Northside in an area with quite a reasonable elevation. Quite unbelievably it's business as usual around my locality while not more than a fifteen minute drive away it's a complete disaster area. I haven't seen _The Lost Girl_ since last November, but I call her as soon as I see the extent of damage. She lives in one of the worst affected areas, but her street seems to have been spared. I'm grateful for her fortune, but feel sorry for those who haven't been quite so lucky.

My sometime musical nemesis Ed Kuepper opens for Grinderman's Tivoli show that evening. He's actually pretty good tonight if a little meandering and longwinded, and I have to admit some of it is outstanding. Credit where credit is due. All things considered, he's an entirely more appropriate opening act than the one Nick's management chose (I'm assuming) last time Nick was in town in Grinderman guise. Her name was Lola. Or more correctly, Lola the Vamp. And yes, thankyou Mr Manilow, this Lola was indeed a showgirl too.

I'd been hearing a great deal about this burlesque performance at the time, and I wasn't entirely sure of what I should be expecting. I had assumed it related to somewhat bawdy entertainment prevalent at the turn of the 20th Century. I think this may be it. Lola's act consisted of waltzing on stage wearing a jewel and feather encrusted bikini and caressing an oversized unicorn sculpture that's set up front and centre. She didn't utter a word. She promptly removed the bikini top to reveal an ample chest with only about five square centimetres (times two) of plastic preventing the Tivoli from requiring a different kind of licence. She caressed the unicorn some more. She left. She returned wearing a mask and a different bikini. She took her top off again. She caressed the unicorn again. And then she left. A stagehand appeared and wheeled the unicorn away. Show over.

Fine support Nick, well researched sir. I guess the more 'arty' of the Bad Seeds fans (I couldn't be accused of being one of them) appreciated this as a triumph on the level of performance art, and would tell me I don't 'get it'. And they would be quite correct, I don't. I can't help wonder though. If one replaced the weedy background Parisian music with, say, Nickleback, and took away just a little section of plastic, the bogan in me that will never leave Far North Queensland thinks it wouldn't be out of place to wave a twenty at her. And it's all fine, I've no moral problems with any of it, I haven't a superiority complex. What I do have a problem with is in the twenty five mins it took Lola to caress the unicorn, I could have heard Twisted Nick play _O'Malley's Bar_ , _The Curse of Millhaven_ , and _Stagger Lee_. Oh well, variety is the spice of life I guess.

Nick's appearance gets that little bit stranger every time I see him play. The hairline has receded a fraction more, and now there's a handlebar moustache to go with it. This however is dramatically offset by multi-instrumentalist and Australian natural treasure Warren Ellis who looks decidedly more dishevelled each appearance. Around this time last year with the Dirty Three, he looked as though he could have potentially been involved in the 1880 siege at Glenrowan, or perhaps have led a Mexican revolution of some description in the early twentieth Century. At the very least starred in 1970's pornography.

Now here he is, with no shoes (good form Warren, it's about time!), a twenty-five dollar suit that appears to be about three times too small, from one of those discount mens clothing stores that ex-rugby league players appear to have shares in and long straggling hair that's not seen a shampoo bottle for an extended period. With matching unkempt beard. He could well have just wandered in from the nearest homeless shelter, though I suspect he'd be better attired should he have done so.

It's a good thing appearances don't matter, as they tear into _Mickey Mouse & the Goodbye Man_. Despite being essentially a stripped back version of the Bad Seeds, Grinderman are a totally different animal. Gone are the mournful piano pieces and gothic vocals in favour of fuzzed out garage guitar, something Nick hasn't ever really indulged in previously. Neither Mick Harvey or Blixa Bargeld were that type of guitarist. And certainly Nick has clearly become more confident on guitar since the last time he played in Grinderman mode, but he's still much better when he relinquishes it to engage with the crowd. He grabs one gent's outstretched arm and refuses to let go as he wails lyrics into those faces in his immediate vicinity. I imagine it'd be exciting at first to be accosted by Nick, but it'd quickly turn to fear.

I'm glad I missed him at the Big Day Out due to a timetable clash with Tool, as I think Nick is at his best in a smaller venue.

The intensity doesn't let up through a barrage of tunes from both their current and debut records. Predictably, the highlight that evening is _No Pussy Blues_ , which he delivers with the self-parodying hilarity it needs. The delivery embodies the frustration of the material and he makes me believe he is genuinely suffering a lack of female companionship, even though I'm quite sure that's not the case. The trials of getting older have been a dominant theme in his music in the last couple of years, whether in Grinderman or Bad Seed incarnation. _Go Tell the Women_ is exceptional. The tired resignation in his voice radiates off the tape. It's something I've found myself thinking about more frequently of late.

Two very drunk girls stand in front of me and can't stop talking to anyone who dares to listen. They've moved here because they've almost gotten beaten up by another girl five minutes earlier and it was only her boyfriend that restrained her from doing so. I become the conversation target, and I don't have it in me to tell them to piss off. And one of them is kind of cute unless I'm fooled by the low lighting, the three beers I've had and the half bottle of Bundaberg she's had. Ah, God bless the Tivoli. They look like they've just turned eighteen and are silly as wheels. Referring to the other girl's boyfriend as 'ancient'. He can't be any more than a few years older than me. I suppose from their perspective, mid-thirties are a long way off. Don't worry ladies, it'll hit you before you know it if you're not careful. All your wingmen will have disappeared, staying at home tending to small children, looking upon you as an object requiring sympathy on account of not yet having 'your shit together'. I'm sure the sympathy will cease in time too, giving way to mild indifference and the slow but sure lack of invitations to more 'family' orientated events. You won't understand the next generation coming through, and they won't understand you either. They'll view you as ancient and damned for eternity once you're a couple of years past thirty and haven't set up your white pickets in front of your house to fence in the golden retriever. That's at least a common viewpoint uniting the generations in South-East Queensland. The youngsters buy into it. Happy to do so because the other alternative can't possibly happen to them.

And that's how you find yourself caught in Brisbane no-man's land. Limited connection to anything current, but far too young to be digging in your vegetable patch at the retirement village listening to The Seekers. It's another thing I miss about London. Age didn't seem a social barrier at all, it was quite normal to be forty years of age and unattached.

I remind myself it's getting to the point it will be almost feasible these two ladies here could be my daughters. Almost. If I think about it further however, it's not really feasible because I would have been required to be deemed attractive by women when I was a little younger than they are now.

It's hard to believe I've known _The Lost Girl_ for the majority of the time these two have existed, and it makes me wonder what might have been yet again.

I see at the merchandise desk there's a T-shirt with "No Pussy Blues" emblazoned across the front. For a moment I'm tempted, but then think I'm not sure I want that to be the over-riding message I'm putting out there when I'm wearing it despite the inherent truth. Given the title, I suspect it would only serve to make the statement even more accurate than it already is for me. I'm quite sure the _The Lost Girl_ would be only too thrilled to see herself referred to in this context.

_Palaces of Montezuma_ closes out the set, and much as I've enjoyed it, it wasn't as good as the previous Grinderman outing to these shores, and certainly not of the same musical calibre at all as The Bad Seeds. Each of them are finer musicians than this format allows them to be and I feel this is a side project that isn't made to last. But I understand why they've chosen to pursue it. They're trying to shake things up a bit. It's easy to fall back on the familiar. I wonder if that's what I'm doing with _The Lost Girl_ right now. I hadn't thought of it like that at since she left me at the Nick Cave show in London a year and a bit earlier. Well, technically, she really left me a couple of weeks later in Brisbane, but looking back at it now it was really that evening at the Palace that she parted company. Of course it had to be The Bad Seeds to break the camel's back. I blame you Nick as much as you blame this Deanna person you're always whining about.

Maybe it's time to take the blinkers off.

# Gig 12

# Adalita, March 2011

I've loved watching musicians setting up their own gear before a show, whenever the opportunity has presented itself. I consider it a small insight into the mechanics of their mind. This can only occur on the small stage now, and rarely publicly for anyone who has achieved any relative measure of success. I'd guess it's been a couple of decades since the likes of Kirk Hammett or Slash were required to tinker with their own live equipment at all.

What are they hearing through the number of small adjustments to gear they're making that is foreign to my ears? Do they genuinely know what they're doing? Mark E Smith has made a career of seemingly arbitrary adjustments during live Fall shows to the chagrin of his band mates at most times I'm sure. I suspect that's just to annoy them though rather than as an aural judgment. But, as I say, that's his thing and it's doubtful he could escape it if he wanted to.

Or is it all just a slightly more educated version of the hoping-for-the-best guess I have with my own DIY rig?

I've left work early to make it to Tym Guitars in the Valley and I'm just in time to see Adalita setting up her own gear for a short in-store warm-up set before her show tonight, and she looks to have a degree of control and certainty that is sorely absent from my own sonic meanderings. I think the last time I saw a Magic Dirt soundcheck would have been at an Oktoberfest gathering in Musgrave park several years earlier. I'd gone straight to the empty stage area by myself to escape the growing numbers of college-aged alpha males beating chests and attempting to out-do one another in all aspects of all manly endeavours. Queensland leaders of the future. The fact that Magic Dirt were playing was the only reason I'd bothered to attend. Local Sixfthick guitarist turned Magic Dirt guitar tech for the evening 'Doctor' Dan Baebler was just finishing tuning guitars and Dean Turner was running through the bass line of the Scientists' _We Had Love_. Before disappearing backstage Dean came down to the barrier and we chatted about The Scientists for a while. They'd just done a short run of shows a not long ago prior. If I had known this would be the last time I'd see Dean play with Magic Dirt I'd like to think that I may have said something more poignant. But I doubt I would have found the right words. Perhaps the most appropriate thing to talk about was The Scientists in any case.

Adalita completes her three song set at Tyms for the main show later tonight, and I see I'm not the biggest Magic Dirt groupie/stalker in Brisbane, and feel a conflicting mix of relief and envy (phew, happiness is not being the worst and, shit, you mean that there's a bigger one than me?)

No, that title goes to the almost certifiable blonde girl amongst the 30 or so people that have turned up at Tym's. I make this mental diagnosis despite my lack of anything resembling psychiatric qualifications. In that field I believe her condition would be known as batshit crazy. I've seen her at many a Dirt show over the years, but not up this close. She usually occupies the other end of the stage barrier. No sooner had Adalita removed her guitar strap than she's swamped by _Blonde Stalker Girl_ , who's thrusting various pieces of Dirt memorabilia forward for signing while issuing a non-stop monologue detailing every occasion they've met in chronological order. Including what Adalita was wearing at the time. Where's Nurse Ratchet when you need her. Though I can't help but be impressed by her eye for detail.

Adalita must be wondering why she agreed to be exposed to these people in an intimate, enclosed environment with only one exit to the street when Brisbane's second biggest groupie/stalker congratulates her on her debut solo record, citing that it's "better than I expected".

Oh Fuck me.

Fuck me. I immediately correct myself clarifying that I meant "EVEN better than what I expected.. ..cause..uh.. y'know.. I expected it was going to be.. .uh..y'know.. ..good". I wade through this verbal mire some more while she signs my record, her wry smile telling me she probably knows exactly what I was thinking.

That's the way you moron. There's no better way to get yourself out of hole than grabbing a shovel and digging double time. At least I'm not discriminating. I can say stupid things to women of respected national rock status just as easily as I can to women of non-rock status.

The brain-to-mouth filter has descended into sputtering failure, and once again, the archetypal illustration of why all those women have formed orderly queues to the front door over the years. How _The Lost Girl_ got past this I'll never know.

Shortly after breaking up with his girlfriend my then South African flatmate in London once explained to me his 'rule of three' when trying to talk to women in bars while we were at our local pub on evening. Rule 1: have three drinks – Rule 2: tell her three lies – Rule 3: repeat rules 1 & 2 as many times "as necessary". 'Watch and learn my friend' he said, spotting what he determined to be a likely young lady with some friends by the bar. Out he went, blazing away in bursts of three like the Earps at the OK Corral. I never did get to see the point that 'necessary' would have been achieved, as unlike Wyatt Earp & Doc Hollywood he was shot down quite quickly and so decided just to employ Rule 1 with me instead. Many times over. I estimate I would have spent at least half an hour trying to drag one hundred and ten kilograms of Springbok pride up the single flight of stairs to our flat later that evening after the pub's landlord had sounded the final bell. I don't think his newly ex-girlfriend knew it at the time, but he did her the biggest favour of her life by leaving. As much as I liked my flatmate, it was clear to me that she was far too good for him, and better things were to come her way.

It's barely 5pm in Brisbane, I've not had a single drink yet and I can't tell one woman one simple lie properly.

Well, it wasn't really lying, and I wasn't trying to. In my verbal fumblings, I'd simply just said more than I meant to. Because the truth is that I did have my doubts about how her record would turn out. Adalita probably had her own doubts as well. As I've witnessed with other musicians, it's a tough transition to go from being in a band to a solo artist. Particularly in a live performance with idiot punters shouting requests for your former bands material. (Once again, I do apologize Mr Seymour) There's no hiding. No bass of Dean Turner behind you. The alternating choppy and fluid tone of Raul Sanchez isn't there to pick up any guitar slack. It's total exposure. Magic Dirt was always more than Adalita as an individual, and I was fearful something would be lost. You're always a harder marker on those you like the most. You only have to listen to Peter Sterling commentate on any Parramatta Eels game to see that. And I'm generally best left alone for a while after South Sydney's last game of the season. Fucking Souths.

The record turned out well though, showing different sides that may never have been revealed in the Dirt. That's something that was easy to be truthful about.

'Fuck man, you've got some mad skills with the ladies' my younger colleague from work offers as we head out the door for a drink before the show. Probably should be spelled 'skillz' and 'ladieez' knowing his generation and their aptitude for spelling and grammar. Smug little hipster bastard. Sadly, there's really nothing of my mad skill set I'm able to impart to him I say. Some things are innate and can't be taught. The English cricket board invented many different contraptions over the years in a bid to simulate Shane Warne's leg spin technique to give their batting lineup a fighting chance on the pitch. They eventually arrived at a machine known as 'Merlin' that was said to have replicated his delivery action perfectly. What Merlin wasn't capable of doing however was to simulate following you in all the way from the boundary line to the wicket at a distance of two metres while telling you repetitively that you're a cunt. Possibly even the most useless cunt he's ever met in his lifetime.

Owen's actually not that much younger than me really, but it seems that way. I finished the architecture course in good time, but most students these days seem to take a few more years to do so. So much more expensive within what is really only a slight generational shift. For the non-parentally funded, it means time off to work full time for a longer duration before completion than I did. If I had to do it again now I'd probably have become a plumber. And maybe a lot happier for it. And they've a decidedly larger debt at the end as a reward at the end of the degree. I feel sorry for them. Owen is very much into hardcore, not the hardcore I grew up with, but nevertheless we've found common ground. We've gone to Sick of It All and Madball shows together, and I've accompanied him and his friends to some of the local hardcore he likes, even if I felt like an undercover police officer in the presence of the youngsters. While hardcore might be his focus, he does have a musical curiosity and is keen to see Adalita play.

_The Lost Girl_ is also meeting us tonight in addition to some of my other friends. I haven't seen her since the end of the last year when I attempted to firm up our relationship status, which didn't go as well as I'd hoped it would. We've remained in contact though, and there hadn't been any hostility. I hadn't given up hope. Still. Even though I am a man of logic, or at least like to think that I am.

The show is at the Old museum, but I'm glad that it's not in the P&C hall that Gareth Liddiard was in a few months ago. This room has a much more relaxed feel to it. I don't imagine that Adalita will call us cunts right off the bat either. Despite her Victorian residency and we being from Queensland and all.

Adalita emerges from behind the curtains with album opener _Hot Air_ playing over the main rhythm guitar track that she's pre-recorded into her looper. I understand why she's doing it that way. There's enough to worry about by herself on her first proper 'solo' tour, but in time I'm hoping she might record the twenty seconds or so live into the loop pedal to play over, the same way Sianna Lee did at her own solo shows after the demise of the late, great Love Outside Andromeda. I love seeing something built on stage from scratch before you.

_The Lost Girl_ arrives late and joins me when she spots me down the front. She's been to enough Dirt shows to know I'm not going to found at the back of the venue. She claims it's the first show she's been to where Adalita hasn't already fallen over on stage in a wail of feedback. I think those days are over I tell her. At some point we have to leave some things behind. Some things.

My favourites from the record _The Repairer_ and _Fool Around_ find their way into the set early on. _Fool Around_ highlights how under-rated her vocals are with the sparse guitar only serving as the barest guide. I think this is one of the aspects of the solo material which is more evolved than it was probably ever allowed to be in Magic Dirt. Support Amaya Laucirica joins Adalita on stage for _Good Girl_ , and a stripped back version of Magic Dirt's _Full of Rope_ suffers a little without Raul Sanchez.

The tempo picks up for _Goin' Down_ as Adalita hands a couple of drumsticks to people on the floor at the front to bang on the ground in time. One recipient is an angry young lady who belts the floor with such fury I can feel a sonic sphere of hatred emanate from the point of impact at each strike.

The show finishes with a far more aggressive version of _Jewel Thief_ than appears on the record, then Adalita re-appears for an encore with an unexpected version of Dirt classic _Ice_ which she gloriously messes up. She's got it so wrong that I'm pissing myself laughing, and all she can do is the same. Let's bear in mind this is a tune she's been playing for the best part of twenty years. 'I'm gonna fuckin' get this' she exclaims and eventually overcomes the mental block preventing her finding the right chords. _The Lost Girl_ has gone home before the encore. She knows my friends are there tonight and I think she'd prefer to limit her contact. She hadn't said anything, but I get the impression she thinks there might be some hostility toward her. I haven't seen any evidence that would support this. They're all too aware of my prior record to be ascribing blame anywhere else but my direction.

As Adalita makes her way off stage I've got my eyes on a couple of set lists I see taped to the monitors. So has a young lady to my right. I also see _Blonde Stalker_ over the other side. She's going to pounce on these like a viper as soon as there's clearance in the crowd. I make a deal with the girl on my right that I'll block _Blonde Stalker's_ path while my new pal stretches over the stage to retrieve them and we'll get one each. Yeah, just like Maverick and Iceman engaging Russian built Mig fighters over the Indian Ocean. I feel guilty for my part in the conspiracy but I've made a commitment and will not leave my wingman. It works as the play book intended and _Blonde Stalker_ misses out. I can see that she's crestfallen and in a moment of compassion I hand her my copy. I've got heaps of them at home anyway.

We all need our dose of illusion to keep us from despair, I know it better than most. She could probably listen to _Babycakes You Always Freeze Me Up_ on repeat for hours at a time. But why are they never well balanced quiet librarian types I ask looking skywards, why indeed you bastard? Come on, we've discussed this. I've long since stopped expecting to be dealt an ace, but for fucks sake, what about a few two's and three's every so often so I might at least have to have a chance at putting together a run?

Her eyes light up and I've made her day, but I don't want to engage any further so I gently manoeuvre a beardy hipster in her direction while I escape. If one wants to escape a marauding pack of zombies the best way is to shoot your colleague in the leg so you're not the slowest thing on the pitch. Deal with her and stay fashionable my friend. Like I said, there's no crime in being a cunt, just being one and not knowing it. I'm also a self-aware man.

We hang around for Adalita to emerge after the show and get the obligatory groupie photo. I embarrass myself in front of her for the second time in one day when she wants to see the photo we've taken and my tech ability fails me. A keen photographer, after patiently waiting for an eternity for me to fumble through the menu she takes the camera from me and gives an impromptu tutorial on mastering the settings. On my own camera. In my defence I've been using the work camera and haven't touched mine in ages. My friends watch on sympathetically, but it's nothing new to them by now.

'Mad skillz, fuckin' mad skillz man,' Owen gleefully reminds me as we head back into the valley. I haven't told him that he's going to be working on my project at the abattoir in a couple of weeks time. He's going to be attending the next site visit which will require in particular, one of the most painful inoculations you can ever hope not to receive. I've booked him in at the doctors for Monday. I'll tell him as soon as he gets in to work that day. Delivered right into the back of the deltoid it feels like someone has taken a bat to your shoulder blade for about a week afterwards. So laugh it up right now chief. We'll see if you're still laughing come Tuesday. Smartarsed little fucker.

# Gig 13

# Texas Tea, July 2011

..Now let's not be groupies, Vito and I tell one another when we see a bleary eyed Texas Tea walk through the door at Camden's Wheelbarrow. We'll play it cool we agree, give them some space.

After a couple of weeks of what I believe to be almost daily shows throughout France they're looking understandably a little less spritely than on a Sunday afternoon at the Brisbane Powerhouse.

And I'm also probably looking less than spritely having arrived at the pub direct from my Joy Division pilgrimage at Manchester. What I wanted to do a couple of years ago with _The Lost Girl_ , but didn't. Dragging her around to sites which held no cultural significance to her, or the vast majority of people for that matter wouldn't have gone down well. So I did it by myself. Joy Division was always such a solitary thing it was probably better like that anyway. On my way to the Manchester train station back to London I go via the old Factory Records HQ which I believe is now owned by Peter Hook, at least in part. On the door it lists that 'Hooky & friends' are set to play there tonight. I have some mixed feelings about heading back now, as I'm thinking how good it would be to see Hook play in Manchester, but then I also remind myself that Curtis has been dead for more than 30 years, that it's not Joy Division, and that it'll probably simply be a bad DJ type set.

Even if they are playing a live set, I'll probably not be able to help myself and give in to temptation, asking Hooky if I can play _New Dawn Fades_ with him - given that he is known to have something of a volatile personality, he will no doubt suggest that if I haven't already considered going and fucking myself, then that may indeed be a viable option. As the man himself has previously advised, never under any circumstances meet your heroes.

So I think I'm happy to have ventured back south, missing the Hooky show. Despite being visibly tired, TT are nice enough to join us for a couple of drinks before the show. And just to show how non-groupie he is, from what resembles a small hessian sack, Vito dumps his entire Texas Tea & Vegas Kings collection and other bits and pieces of collected merchandise on the coffee table in front of Kate & Ben for signing. Yeah, real smooth Vito.. ..oh well.. in for a penny, in for a pound.. I then show how much of a non-groupie I am by doing some shameless, shameless self-promotion for Throat for some future support slots (though I think the Throat and Texas Tea crowds may be mutually exclusive).

Unlike most of my metal brethren, I've never considered Country a dirty word. What other music besides metal contains such pain, angst & heartbreak? But there's Country and then there's Country. I'm more a fan of the Johnny Cash variety. Not the _Ring of Fire_ era Cash though. I may find myself unpopular in Nashville for saying it, but in my opinion later era Johnny Cash is vastly superior to anything he released in his younger days. Latter day Cash is the music of an old man who's had a lifetime of regrets to look back upon, and the song writing experience to crystalize them perfectly. And a master of the cover version. It's a rare occasion when I enjoy a cover more than the original.

And I'm a fan of Texas Tea style country as well. The style Texas Kate was once heard to describe as "Country without the 'O'". So succinct.

Vito and I congratulate one another on all of our non-groupie cool that we've demonstrated ever so well, and we leave Ben & Kate to adjourn to the Underworld where we change up the drinks a number of times and also increase the consumption to something closer to George Best's finest session rate. I have a feeling this is going to be a bad move, but we're having a good time, so I make no attempt to put the brakes on. It's been about a year since Vito moved here and I haven't seen him since he left. Thinking about George Best, I ponder with Vito, that if you put Best, Oliver Reed, Dudley Moore, Pete Cook, Shane McGowan, and, I don't know, any number of Australian journalists I can think of from the late 70's/early 80's together in front of an open bar, who would be the last man standing? I cast my vote for either Dudley or Shane, but not before either have happily pissed their pants.

Vito & I return to the Wheelbarrow and it's not long before Kate starts the set with a version of _Cane Farmers Song_ that I've requested. It's one of my favourite TT tunes that doesn't get played live often (mores the pity), and it's a treat to see it here.

I'm instantly transported back to Far North Queensland in the mid 1980's during a pre-harvest burn off. Black ashes floating gently along with the breeze for kilometres. Our version of snow in lieu of the real thing, us mesmerized, standing in backyards as black powdery flakes curled down in their thousands, wondering if this was what is was really like in winter half a globe away. Housewives far less than mesmerized or amused as they hurriedly retrieve newly washed sheets from clothes lines.

Shit, to be seven years old again.

December in the back yard, pretending to be Dennis Lillee sending Ian Botham's stumps cartwheeling, or Allan Border, the only man offering a line of resistance against the might of the best West Indian pace attack in history.

July in the front yard, pretending to be Wally Lewis threading a path through confused NSW defence, scoring in the in-goal area, careful not to slide into the bougainvillea plants bordering the neighbour's fence.

Then Dennis retired, and in time not long after, so would Wally and Allan. In the case of AB, by then a shadow of the stubborn batsman that had single handedly held together a brittle and still evolving lineup in one of the most tumultuous periods of Australian cricket.

And we'd gotten older, and had long since stopped pretending. Or at least just pretending to be other things. We'd never be Dennis or AB or Wally and we knew it by then. The ritual burn offs had also wound down, and the cane farms gave way to housing developments with increasing momentum. The song finishes, and I'm snapped back twelve thousand kilometres and a quarter of a century to central London, but Kate's voice resonates for long after. Floating ash on a southerly.

_Whiskey & Wine_ and _Face of a Fighter_ follow to the middle of the set where they play cover _Our Lady of the Shooting Stars_ for Vito, the always pleasing _Daredevils Lament_ and my other favourite, _Winner Makes the Graves_ (yeah! the one with the faster tempo that appears to have become favoured in recent years) which I like better every time I see it performed.

There's a couple of mild hiccups in the set where Kate can't seem to find the right key, which Ben rectifies once he sees her capo is on the wrong fret. Maybe I'm not the only one who's consumed a few more beverages than usual before a show starts.. _Billy_ and a few other usual suspects appear before a fine version of _Macy & Me_ completes the set. We're not at the Powerhouse on a family-friendly Sunday afternoon and I'm belligerently (probably VERY rudely looking at it in the sober light of day) suggesting that Kate and Ben should "play some farken more'", scaring some nearby Spanish tourists in the process. They oblige with a version of Ray Charles' _I Got a Woman_ , and I take that as the cue to chat to an attractive blonde girl I see looking at me from the other side of the stage.

Fuck it, I tell myself, I'm not in Far North Queensland now, I'm not in Brisbane now, I'm not going to wish I was Tex Perkins. Shit, I'm going to be Tex Perkins. Well, I'm going to have some of his swagger anyway, that every woman in the known universe would appear to swoon for.. ..or at least every single female I know in any event. And furthermore, seeing as I'm presently over the other side of the world, I would wager I'm most unlikely to run into _The Lost Girl_ right now. And shouldn't I be making some positive gestures to move on in any event? I bet this girl is sick of those plum-in-the-mouth-broomstick-up-the-arse-dithering-Hugh-Grant type Englishman anyway, so she'll surely lap up some 'Straylian charm. Fucken' surely. I'm wondering what kind of accent she'll have, hoping it'll be a soft northern one, similar to where I've just come from in Manchester, but hopefully more of a quiet, considered version of it.

And so of course she replies in broad Australian drawl. Not typical of London at all really. She's from Melbourne, and knows who Magic Dirt are at least (Adalita is one of her heroes too – Hooky was wrong in this case as it's always a privilege to chat to her, and she hasn't suggested that I should consider fucking myself on any of them. At least not yet). And for one of the few times in my life, I'm sure I'm pulling with spanking bare white hot wit. It's always in the back of my mind that from the outside it may actually be that I'm pulling with the cringe worthy prowess of William Shatner in _Star Trek IV_. Here was a man that wasn't old, but clearly wasn't the young twenty something of 1960's _Star Trek_. Trying to pick up a girl who was twenty something. I still feel sorry for The Shat for having to do that scene, but right now I try to remove those doubts from my thoughts. I'll bet Tex wouldn't let it bother him.

This is going to be the best Texas Tea show ever.

I get some more drinks from the bar, and I have to rub my eyes as it seems like an apparition of Danny Glover from _Lethal Weapon_ era days appears in the mirror behind, and with a questioning raised eyebrow, asks me if I'm too old for this shit. Why yes Danny, I am, and what's more I know it better than anyone, but fuck you sir. Fuck you and the horse you rode in on.

It's all going swimmingly, I've got the short odds at the TAB now, I've got the ball in hand and a clear field ahead to the try line, right under the posts. I feel bad I'm keeping a family man out late but I confidently tell Vito to give me ten minutes, then he can take my gear home, I won't be needing that couch tonight. Besides, he's just as pissed as me. I can see however that he'd rather the pair of us be heading home immediately, so I pull out the balance sheet and I remind him of all the times I have stayed on his wing at various venues. I remind him that although Maverick wavered, in the end he never left Iceman's wing to fight those nasty Soviets over the Indian Ocean. He counters with my performance that night at the Lychee Lounge. Yes Vito, I did/we did fuck that up for you. Spectacularly so I'll admit. So I remind him of his 'help' with that girl Tenille, though I have to accept a certain responsibility for digging my own grave by asking her if I could be her Captain. I decide that I have to play my ace so I remind him of his piss-poor wingman-ship (as far as I've let him know) on the night he first met _The Lost Girl_ at the Zoo. Wingman-ship you call it you bastard, fucking tantamount to sabotage I say. Not entirely true of course, but good, I've suitably guilted him into hanging around.

Then all of a sudden, the vast quantity of alcohol I've partaken in, more in one evening than I'd normally consume in several months, hits me all at once, and very badly. Her flatmate tells me I was never going to get anywhere with her. Ah, I see, the fullback is trying to make a late cover tackle on me from across the field. I beg to differ I tell the flatmate, as I give the fullback a don't-argue fend. She's got a boyfriend you know says the flatmate. Whether she does or not, I'm barely coherent now and I voluntarily give up the pursuit. Maybe she's just been having some flirtatious fun, and anyway, I don't have it in me to knowingly chase an unavailable lady. I'm in Brisbane again. It's a city, but also a state of mind. The fullback hits me with a crushing tackle. My odds have blown from short to immeasurably long. I'm face down in the sodden turf, well short of the line as the full-time whistle blows, in typical South Sydney fashion.

You never were me, and you never will be me, and you well know it, says Tex. I have to sadly acknowledge this irrefutable truth. Danny Glover chokes an I-told-you-so laugh into his hand.

The Wheelbarrow starts to spin and I've only vague vignettes of my bumbling attempts to buy a ticket at Camden tube and thus causing Vito and I to miss the last one with my antics. Vito caps it by giving the cab driver home some mildly confusing directions but we make it in the end. I wake up to the sad news the next day that Amy Winehouse has been found dead over at Camden, not too far from where we were, and for a second I wonder whether she was drinking with us given how I'm feeling – and for the next twenty-four hours after I'm thinking Amy got off easy.

# Gig 14

# The Dropkick Murphy's/Sick of it All, October 2011

Owen and I had clearly underestimated the draw of the Dropkick Murphy's in Brisbane. It seems that everybody who is Irish or who wishes that they were Irish is here tonight and the venue is sold out. The Murphy's are actually from Boston of course, but if you've got a drop of Irish blood in you from three generations back, it would seem that's close enough. It's not the Murphy's that the two of us are here for though. It's our shared love of Sick of it All that has pulled us here tonight.

There's a local three piece garage punk set up as the opening act. It's one of those bands where the singer is also the drummer – something that has novelty appeal for a little while, but I've never thought of it as a concept that has genuine longevity. Show me a successful band over a decent period where this is the case. There's a punch in the face coming to the first individual that says Phil Collins or the Eagles. Filthy Phil doesn't count. And he's retired now anyway. I don't know how many nights I've spent sleepless knowing that the possibility of hearing In the air tonight live is now forever extinguished for me. Oh hang on, yes I do. That would be zero. Unfortunately I don't get off that easy in regards to the Eagles. I've even been forced to accompany my mother in the past to see them play. A band united by a bank account. Even now after all these years, the undercurrent of resentment for one another is still palpable from even forty rows back.

For no apparent reason, lining the front of the stage tonight are inflatable giant penguins that take all of five seconds to wind up in the crowd. After much simulated intercourse with these, the preference then becomes to kick the ever-loving shit out of them. One of the security guards looks on enviously. Go on mate, you know you want to. Give it one, right in the beak. It pays to stay in form. You never know when it'll be necessary to use some unnecessary force. If only I could somehow harness the collective IQ here – I'm sure that in mere minutes a solution would be found for every problem from world poverty to environmental degradation. Unfortunately that may well mean that Bob Geldof might have enough time on his hands to write some new music, or worse still, find his way out on a reunion tour with the Boomtown Rats playing I don't like Mondays to a new generation. Everything has its price I guess.

After a short interval, New York Hardcore legends Sick of it All take to the stage, as Owen disappears down into the pit with the rest of the young and enthusiastic. I prefer to keep my vantage point on the mezzanine, my days of thrashing around in the throng of this kind of crowd are behind me. And the thing is I don't miss it one bit. This is what I'm here to see – you never know how long it'll be before they're here again. They were here a couple of years ago, but previous to that, I'd only gotten to see them as a young man twelve years before. True to fashion, they don't waste any time, covering _Built to Last_ , _Death to Tyrants_ , as well as all the things they should be playing from the _Scratch the Surface_ record. Front man Lou Koller is much more active than on the last occasion on account that he had a broken leg then. It's a brilliant set, though I wish they'd play my personal fave _Kept in Check_ from the much under-rated _Life on the Ropes_ which they seem to passionately avoid. Still though, it's almost faultless execution of a genre that they, and a handful of others virtually invented.

It's a type of music that reflects the era of New York they grew up in, at perhaps its most violent. Or at least what the contemporary history books lead me to believe it was I suppose, depending on what your socio-economic status was at the time. It's harsh and direct with nary a guitar solo in sight. This is the genuine article, unlike some of the other hardcore I've seen with Owen, which translate to me as pale replicas of their idols. Suburban upper middle class kids beating chests and wailing things about "hard times" and "gettin' respect'. Situations that none of them know a shred about. Find something else to sing about guys, something that you know intimately and you'll be the better for it. Just ask Owen, I've pointed out many issues that his generation can pick from.

Aren't there enough things in Brisbane to be annoyed about to form some more original compositions? It doesn't take me long to imagine several possible tracks that could go on a record. How about _Read a book Gen-Y(u no it won't kill u)_ or _Ode to the Speculative Property Vendor_ or the potential sing-along classic _, I'd Say Fuck the Brisbane Broncos, But I'm Afraid She Just Might_. Shit, I think I could pull out a hardcore EP in no time. The realization that I'm well on my way to becoming a cranky old bastard occurred to me a short while ago when Owen and one his peers failed to deliver on what I had thought were quite clear instructions. Before I knew it, the words 'you know what your problem is guys, you just don't fucking listen' had escaped me. I'm sure that it can't have been that long ago that a weary senior architect had said the same thing to me.

Sick of it All cover Sham 69's _Borstal Breakout_ before finishing with the best performance of Scratch the Surface I've seen them do. I hope I don't have to wait another decade before they're here again. I'm not sure that they've got another decade in them before the delivery of their own tunes loses authenticity.

The Dropkick Murphys are for me, dangerously close to a novelty act. Whilst I think they're described officially as Boston Punk, which is made as a point of distinction, to me they are really more of an amped up version of The Pogues. Paddy-wackery with a harder edge. I wish I'd have thought of it first.

The Dropkicks are a little more accessible to the mainstream, and of recent times they've been given a huge helping hand with _Shipping up to Boston_ featuring prominently in Scorsese's _The Departed_.

The venue goes dark and soft Celtic music with Enya style female vocals fills the space. It's quite stirring as it builds sharply with some dominating kick drums coming in after a while. This is of course spoiled by bogan Australia once again when someone starts up a 'let's go Murphys, let's go' chant. Until it was ruined I felt like puttin' on some war paint, telling a quick fable about Cuchelaine and then set about killing the English in their thousands. In their fookin' t'ousands I tell ye.

The Murphys explode onto stage with a song about some drunk girls. They're American, but mysteriously develop an Irish brogue. A couple of songs about that incident around Easter time a few years back in the old country wouldn't go astray either. And some more songs about some more drunk girls with these ones being both drunk and horny if you can believe your luck. Speaking of drunk, guitarist Tim Dropkick has looked quite sick since he stepped out on stage. Without warning he lurches forward and vomits on his monitor in front of him. He doesn't miss a single downstroke and none of the other Murphys even blink. Then he does it again. If it were anybody else, I'd feel a bit annoyed that I'd parted with my hard earned to have someone give me less than their stellar, but there's something about the Murphys that makes this all part of their appeal. Another song later, he makes it not once, or twice, but thrice. Good on ye Tim.

As a non-Murphy fan, I'm not well versed in the majority of the set list, but I know enough to recognize _Going Out in Style_ and _The State of Massachusetts_.

_Shipping up to Boston_ makes its appearance at the end of the set proper and receives a roar that makes the massive chandelier that takes pride of place in the atrium shake.

Aside from the odd cover band that are the staple in many an Irish pub, the Murphy's are the first band I think I can say that I've paid to see that's used an accordion. And the guy playing it is going to score with any number of young nubile groupies after the show if he so cares to, not in spite of it, but because of it. Because of two phrases on an accordion of all things. And his mate on stage left will too, despite the fact that he's now standing in his own vomit. I think of my great -grandfathers old concertina squeezebox that I'd inherited. My mother thought it fair that I should be its custodian given the fact that I'd been the only one to attempt to coax a note out of it since his death in 1972. While I'd a natural affinity for music for most of my life, I've much less a natural ability for the playing of it. My attempts to master the art of the German Twenty key Concertina were viewed far less favourably by _The Lost Girl_ than the exploits of our man in the Murphys right now. I'd struck a deal that I could be allowed to practice it in the three minute ad breaks of whatever British drama had taken her fancy. It wasn't long before even three minutes intervals of out of tune and time Concertina were considered intolerable, and any further development on the instrument were decreed banished to the garage downstairs. I guess it doesn't matter much where and when I play it now. But it's a moot point, as my heart is no longer in it.

The Murphys exchange smug looks, secure in the knowledge of their imminent forays. I'd be happy to not score as a result of my rubbish Concertina. What I wouldn't give for her to tell me how shit my playing was again.

After the traditional appearance the band return to curry some local favour with a cover of _TNT_ , and apparent crowd favourite _Kiss Me, I'm Shitfaced_ where more than a dozen young ladies of that very persuasion are encouraged to the stage, swaying in unison to the chorus. The band leave the stage for the last time and I see Owen chatting to one of girls, so I leave him to his own devices. I wouldn't want to jeopardize his chances by employing any of my 'mad skills' as his wingman. Doesn't look like he needs it anyway. All in all it's been quite a fun performance. The music of the Dropkick Murphys isn't made to be taken too seriously. I think the only thing that could have made it better would have been a guest appearance from the Pogues Shane McGowan. And pissing his pants no less.

# Gig 15

# Mogwai, November 2011

I never thought there'd come a day where I'd hope a band would turn down the volume. I'd always thought the loudest thing I'd ever hear would be Slayer playing at Brisbane's Festival Hall. Every time I'm on a building site and somebody is working with a jackhammer and I feel the vibrations underfoot, I'm taken back to that evening where the timber flooring moved so much I thought it would implode. To the great shame of our city, a jackhammer was indeed taken to that timber floor a few years later and Festival Hall was no longer, but not before the great Michael Franti played there one last time. I believe at that point he hadn't worn shoes for more than a decade. I hope he kept up his streak.

The multi-level chain bookstore that replaced Festival Hall wasn't to last either and capitulated like many of its rivals, falling victim to internet sales and a good exchange rate. I haven't had much cause to visit that part of town since the demise, and honestly couldn't tell you what occupies the space now. I know what we've lost though, and it was more than a commercial tenancy.

That Slayer show was the loudest gig I'd been to until I caught Scottish noise bastards Mogwai on their last tour. I guess the correct term for the genre would be 'post rock', but I think the former is more apt. Unassuming in appearance, they look like they might be electricians or quietly spoken IT/communications engineers. On their last trip to our shores however, they managed to put on the most aurally intense show I've ever witnessed. One of the few times I've wished I'd brought earplugs, after heartily scoffing at Tracy's suggestion I should do so. They're masters of the quiet/loud principle and have few peers in that regard. It's the switching from tightly woven, quiet instrumental harmonies to vicious walls of sound that arrive so sharply in unison without warning that does it to you. Even if you know what's coming you're still not prepared for the blast. It was quite unpleasant when at the show's finale, they left the stage with some delay effects gear still self-oscillating for two or three minutes until a tech pulled the plug. I don't know what the upside of this was in their minds, or if they just thought it a fun thing to do. The few hundred people in attendance doubled over with both hands wedged against their ears certainly didn't find it overly amusing. They should know better. I'm sure if this were Glasgow they would have been punched in the face by the time it got to that point. A bad end to an otherwise good show.

It's an outdoor venue tonight, as part of the inaugural Harvest Festival, so at least some of the sound might dissipate. With little fanfare Mogwai take to the stage and immediately launch into _Rano Pano_ from latest offering _Hardcore Will Never Die, But You Will_. From the outset I'm reminded of what I love about Post Rock. It's the collective mentality. No frontman. Everybody has their job, and nobody's job is deemed more, or less important than anybody else's. Of their contemporaries, Mogwai were my favourite. While I'm also a big fan of Australian equivalent, Decoder Ring, they just lack the same punch as Mogwai, and both Godspeed! You Black Emperor and The Dirty Three don't have the same degree of tightness as the Scots. Also, the emphasis in both Godspeed and Dirty Three is shifted toward violinists Sophie Trudeau and Warren Ellis respectively which starts to move away from the idea of 'no frontman'. 'How very socialist of you' _The Lost Girl_ said when I tried to explain it to her in those terms. She felt the same about Mogwai as she did about The Dirty Three. It always pissed me off when she skipped the record to the few isolated tracks with vocals. I also expressed the analogy to her by making comparisons to amateur porn. There doesn't need to be a leading man with a ten inch penis, just as you don't necessarily need to be a guitar virtuoso in Post Rock. You can see yourself realistically having a go despite your limitations. 'Perhaps you should start thinking like a leading man' she hinted. 'That's one of your problems.' After all, that was the sales pitch that Hugo and Vito pushed on her she reminded me as she cheekily slapped my leg with her forearm and closed fist.

I'm annoyed by the 'hipster' tag that seems to be associated with Mogwai now, but it's hard to argue with it when I'm surrounded by individuals that appear to fit the criteria as the band move into more material from _Hardcore_ and previous records _Hawk is Howling_ and _Young Team._ I don't fit in with this group of people any more than I do with the metal loving population I grew up with.

I get what I've been waiting to hear live for a long time when the familiar keys to _Auto Rock_ gently floats in through the Jacarandas. Aside from the terrible end to the previous show, the absence of _Auto Rock_ in the set list was the only other blight. I remember hearing it for the first time played over the PA in Rockinghorse Records, and it's been my favourite Mogwai piece ever since. Such a delicate piano that builds into a sister guitar line and thundering bass drums, which are replicated here tonight with some spectacular duel drumming. It's been used a number of times in movies to accompany scenes of human triumph, or overcoming adversity, and subsequently hijacked by Lance Armstrong's 'Live Strong' campaign. While not necessarily a bad thing in itself at the time, it has now been sullied by Lance's doping revelations. I can't help but think about this when I hear that opening piano. Thanks for that Lance. Nothing is pure, even when we want to believe it most. But to me, _Auto Rock_ has always had the funereal feel of an impending descent. A grim acceptance of letting go, defiant and resolute that doesn't fit with any of the imagery that it has been used as a soundtrack for. Maybe I'm the one out of step, given that Mogwai themselves saw it fit to make it the opening track on Mr. Beast as opposed to the closing.

I've found myself unable to let _The Lost Girl_ go, despite this being the sensible and logical thing to do. It's not something I've ever been good at. Maybe it's a residual behavioural trait left over from an earlier life in the far north of the state. There was never a great deal of money to spare in the household, and simply throwing things away was never an option, even if those items were no longer as functional as they could have been. I remember living with Hugo at one point when both of us were students when he'd casually thrown one of my dinner plates out the window and into the rubbish, on account of it having a sizeable chip on one of the edges. He was quite right to do so, yet I felt a surge of an old anxiety rising over one shitty plate out of a cheap dinnerware set. It doesn't seem to matter who you are or how much money you might accumulate in the bank, there are some things that will probably stick with you till the end of your days. In one of the many Metallica tour moments filmed for posterity, while guitarist Kirk Hammett is being interviewed, then bassist Jason Newsted can be seen in the background pilfering and bagging leftover sandwiches from the crew dining area to take back to his room for later. This was in the early 1990's at the bands peak creative and commercial success, and Newsted would have had likely several million dollars in tour earnings at that point. The same man had however also worked countless jobs washing dishes in restaurant kitchens, living in less than salubrious conditions and I guess the instinct learned during those years couldn't be extinguished by any amount of money. I don't think _The Lost Girl_ ever understood any of this. Despite the fact that we both grew up in the same town she came from the other side of the cane tracks which divided the suburbs both physically and metaphorically.

I think I still had all the remaining dinnerware from that set the day _The Lost Girl_ demanded we acquire new homewares.

Mogwai draw the set to a close with an energetic version of _Batcat_ and it seems fitting at this point that a community of flying foxes that hanging in the nearby foliage take silently to the dusk sky.

The hipsters disperse in search of the newest craft beer as Mogwai guitarist Stuart Braithwaite unassumingly hops the barrier in front of the stage and into the mix of punters without entourage or any rock pretention. Lenin would be proud. 'Great set' I say as he passes me. 'Thanks mate' he offers in return as he heads out of the botanic gardens back into the CBD. Maybe he's just going out to dinner, but I'd like to think that he'll fix somebody's fibre-optic cable on the way.

# Gig 16

# Throat, April 2012

It's taken a fair while and a couple of losses of momentum to get us to this point, but we've reached critical mass around Johnno's 40th birthday party, where he's braved the unknown and offered to have us play our maiden show at his suburban home. It'll be a substantially easier crowd to play to versus a potentially hostile pub crowd, but I'm still unsure how it's going to pan out given that of myself, Min, Amy and Tracy, only Tracy has played in a live band situation before, in the early 80's and at that stage he was playing drums. We're fortunate tonight though that Rob, Tracy's friend who is here on holidays from the UK, has a bit of experience at the mixing desk and some knowledge about PA equipment – this is good because the rest of us don't have any. His input setting up is of particular value.

A month after _The Lost Girl_ left I picked up a guitar for the first time in many years. I'd purchased a second-hand BC Rich Warlock back in early university days. At that point in time Sepultura were at the peak of their abilities, and I was privileged to see them in their classic lineup before they fractured barely a year or so later. I so very badly wanted to play like Max Cavelera and Andreas Kisser, so when a couple of days after the show I saw a battered version of Max's axe of choice for sale I didn't hesitate. One of the few spontaneous things I've ever done. Although I did learn basic chords, it became obvious how hard it would be to progress further, so the Warlock sat dormant in the corner of the room. I wasn't going to mount any kind of challenge to Max or Andreas anytime soon.

_The Lost Girl_ absolutely loathed that thing, did she fuck. Probably the single nastiest, ugliest gothic lump of wood the music world had to offer. Sitting there in the corner of the room, reminding us both of the less than sophisticated backgrounds we'd come from, it was something I'd refused to let go of. She'd threatened on more than one occasion if ever there were an intruder, it would be the first object she'd use as a defensive weapon. Hoping it would be destroyed in the process I surmised. I'm glad it never came to that as I suspect it'd easily kill a person, without a scratch to it either. In the event of a global nuclear war, cockroaches and the Warlock will be the two things to survive.

I didn't have the mind of an eighteen year old any longer, and the Warlock was never destined to be viewed in public. It had served its purpose well though. I'd used it to relearn to play before upgrading to a better Ibanez model, which provided another activity to help distract me from her absence.

Tracy had purchased a second-hand bass that, like the Warlock, had intemperate and unpredictable tonal qualities. The two of us began casually playing Joy Division tracks over pieced together Steven Morris drum loops until Tracy suggested to work colleague Amy that perhaps she'd like to try out learn how to play drums. I doubt she'd ever contemplated picking up a stick before that.

I was also attending a small block of guitar lessons after work. There was only so much I was going to learn on my own without input from someone with more knowledge. My 'mentor' as they called them at the academy was a graduate of the Queensland conservatorium and very much into French Jazz of the 1920's. She'd asked me how I saw myself playing at the introductory lesson. I'd like to have the speed of Dave Mustaine, the guile of Jack White and touch of Dave Gilmore I responded. The look on her face reminded me of Friday night train station staff staring at fresh vomit on the platform knowing that in about thirty seconds they're going to be the one to have to clean it up. Because it's their job. Wondering what the fuck they've done wrong in their life to be in that position. I suspect Miranda was having similar thoughts as soon as I'd spoken the words. It was going to be a very long ten weeks for her.

I would have been elated if I had a tenth of the ability of any of those three. Although a music obsessive, I was never strong on any academic level. I performed appallingly in all aspects right up to year eight, where music ceased to be a compulsory part of the Queensland educational curriculum. Miranda had an uphill battle ahead of her, but she had the patience of Job. I'd routinely shirk my prescribed homework exercises despite best intentions. When I'd attempt to bullshit my way out of difficult tasks, stating that I was looking to play more 'sloppy and soulful', she correctly translated that back to me as 'so you're looking to be fucking lazy', tapping the music stand with the notes she'd made for me to reinforce the point. Still, I'd enjoyed my time there, and some of the knowledge that she was attempting to impart did sink in eventually. At my last tutorial I commented on a five string bass in the corner of the room. She'd been practicing with it the best part of the day, and proudly displayed her shredded fingertips to me. 'You see that? That's hardcore man. Fucking hardcore. That's what yours should look like.'

The only woman I've met ecstatic to have callouses. I would see that bass again less than a month later when she was wielding it as touring bassist for The Grates. I almost fell over when she walked on stage, transforming from the tough technical taskmaster I knew to bass-slingin'-rock-goddess. To think I warmed up with the bass line to _Feels like Pain_ at some of our lessons and she never said a word.. ..all business and no jive.. Given the choice of being invited to play in a highly successful Australian band or teaching a never ending chain of gormless fools harboring hopes well in excess of their potential, I would have elected to go with the former as well.

I wondered if Throat was a distraction for Min as much as it was for me. Not long before we started playing together she'd ended a long on-again, off-again relationship for the final time. She'd immersed herself in a few hobbies since that point, singing lessons being one of them.

So I was happy for her when one afternoon she walked into 'band practice' and asked me what I thought of Nickelback. While in the seven or eight years that I'd known her properly at that point she'd surprised me a few times with preferences I didn't feel were of her character, I was pretty certain bad goateed Canadian mainstream rock wasn't one of them. It could only mean one thing.

'Dump him' I said. 'On general principle.'

To me the desire for the music of Nickelback is like the desire for heterosexual anal sex. It's something that nobody really likes to admit to in public yet, one of the few remaining taboos. And there's that uneasy feeling after it's over, the mixed feelings of guilt, the feeling that something's not quite right.. ..but you know you might think about going there again. At least that's what I'm given to understand. That being said, Nickelback reached the number one position on many charts across the world. Statistically, that's a lot of Nickelback hidden in record collections of a lot of people who don't want to admit to it.

Before I'd ever got the chance to even contemplate suggesting it properly, _The Lost Girl_ made it abundantly clear that no Nickelback-like action was going to occur at our house. 'But after a couple of listens, you might get a-hankerin' for those smooth Canadian tones', I teased. 'Keep that up, and there'll be no music played at all around here,' came the official response. I relented.

Min didn't dump him, and I was grateful for the fact. I instantly liked Dirk the first time I met him. Most importantly, I considered he was perfect for Min. I could even look past Nickelback, and whatever other musical skeletons he may have in his closet. Not quite twelve months later I was thrilled that they were engaged.

Although it was going to be a set full of covers, we decided we'd start with something Tracy and I had been working on. Our writing method consisted of the two of us attempting to learn how to play a cover of something we liked, generally not coming terribly close to it, but sometimes finding we liked the result anyway. Before we knew it we'd have a new song, and there aren't too many people in Brisbane who are going to pick up on something highly derivative of obscure late 1970's Northern English post-punk.

There were accompanying work-in- progress-lyrics to this one that hadn't quite meshed with the tune yet so we decided to keep it instrumental for the time being. Largely written by Min, they centered on a highly disgruntled extraterrestrial who'd become tired of his designated role on the spacecraft as chief anal prober of abducted humans. It's a travesty that this was never recorded. Australian music would have been all the richer for it. It'll have to be the publics' loss I suppose.

Even though a fair proportion of the punters here are known to us, I can see some disinterest showing quickly at original material so we cut it short and jump into our version of White Stripes' _Seven Nation Army_. Everybody likes to hear what they already know. The guy at your local who can play _Throw Your Arms Around Me_ followed by _Betterman_ followed by _Brown Eyed Girl_ is a hero for about thirteen minutes every Thursday night at about 11.00pm. He is in Brisbane anyway. It's a bit jerky to begin with as I think the nerves are showing, but this subsides by the time we go into Joy Divisions _New Dawn Fades_.

I don't think I'm quite getting the verse guitar parts right as per the original version on _Unknown Pleasures_ , but then it should be noted that Barney Sumner never played them like that in the live format in any case which is backed up by the few pieces of archival video footage I've been able to find. I'm actually a bit proud of the short solo at the end. I'd built a replica of a vintage analogue delay and I'm running the signal through that. I've spent an inordinate amount of time constructing circuits from schematics lately, hoping to find a unique sound through DIY equipment, given that my playing ability alone, such as it is, probably won't get me there. Still shirking my homework for the easy way out. Not that there's too many easy things about soldering in confined spaces. On this pedal I've discovered there's a sweet spot on the dials that allow the trembling, disparate tone I'm looking for. For a short while sad Manchester gloom hangs over Northern inner Brisbane. Sorry Johnno. Probably not the best choice for Birthday music. I don't think about this until later.

The tempo picks up with our Yeah Yeah Yeah's cover, and Min's vocals on our version of _Gold Lion_ sound pretty good from where I'm standing – while it's relatively simple for the three of us, I've only begun to appreciate its complexity from a vocal point of view.

She'd been quiet the few sessions prior to tonight, and had asked me in about seventeen slightly different ways if the vocals were sounding alright. I was struggling to come up with a new and creative way to say they were fine. I probably didn't appreciate it was different for her as vocalist than for me. If I played badly and was ridiculed by a punter it wouldn't have bothered me so much. But if that happens as a singer the criticism is felt on a more personal level as it's aimed at something that makes up part of you rather than the instrument you're holding. I'd happily volunteered us when Johnno made the suggestion we should play, and in hindsight I probably should have consulted her further. But if I did that she would have more than likely backed out and we wouldn't have made it at all. I think it's fair to say I didn't see Min as having the capability to play to sold-out arenas (how many do?), but her vocals were generally pretty good, and I could see potential for better things. While the sound was distinctly female, I liked the fact they weren't of the 'sweet girl' variety that seems to be routinely favoured on any number of musical reality shows on television. I'm thankful those programs weren't around decades ago. Bob Dylan would never have made it past an audition.

And it wasn't like I was going to get a call from Maynard Keenan anytime soon suggesting Tool would like to replace Adam Jones with myself. Jones was another one of my heroes. He didn't conform to any one style or technique and in a live setting never felt the need to thrash around wildly on stage playing Rock God or pontificating in any way like many others. Content to be part of a whole rather than attention seeking. I've seen them play four times now and not heard him utter a single word. It's a feature true of all the members of Tool. There's very few bands that play as a unit as well as they. I would have liked to give some of their ten minute tunes a go but instrumentally, the likes of Tracy, myself & Amy were never going to get close to resembling anything remotely coherent. Let alone Tracy and myself generating the unrelenting desperation Adam Jones and Justin Chancellor create within a guitar tone. I felt if Min had the inclination though, she'd come close to finding a female version of the vocals in _Pushit_ or _Sober_.

It's for those reasons we've chosen to keep our set selection simple as a pure reflection of our present ability. We bring our influences home with Magic Dirt's _All my Crushes_ , which I think might be the highlight of our evening. The timing seems a bit sharper than the others. I'd like to think Adalita would have been proud if she were there.

Johnno had been with me six months before when I'd seen The Grates. They were one of his Brisbane favourites so it seemed a nice gesture to include one of their tracks in our set. I'd nominated _Feels Like Pain_ , as a tribute to my long suffering teacher.

Our last song of the evening was our version of Neil Young's _Heart of Gold_. I'd never been a big fan of Young, but it was Min's choice, and Tracy & I had dominated the set list. Fair was fair. I invested substantial effort into attempting to translate harmonica to guitar, but it just wasn't working for me. The problem was that without a second guitarist and not much bass, it sounded incredibly thin and weedy. If I abandoned the harmonica parts though and focused only on rhythm guitar, all the richness of the tune disappeared. The culinary equivalent would be taking all the spices out of a Vindaloo. The solution came when Tracy & I discovered the lyrics fit almost perfectly to the tune of Bauhaus's _Belo Lugosi's Dead_ , in a nasty post-punk kind of way. I bet ol'Neil didn't see that one coming. Min certainly didn't. It took her a while to get accustomed to the idea after Tracy & I played it and we came to some compromises. Amy thought it hilarious. I think she enjoyed it the most, creating the Phil Spector 'wall of sound' type crescendo by belting the kit with reckless abandon. I personally think it's one of the best versions ever done. Hardcore man, fucking hardcore. At least one of the most unique. I don't care what Neil Young would think, because as Skynard would say, a southern man don't need ol' Neil around anyhow. And neither does a man from the Far North. The punters seemed pleased, or at least were too polite to throw a bottle at us.

So where are all the wanton groupies that rock n'roll has been promising me all these years? Certainly not in suburban Brisbane that night. There was only one groupie that I'd wanted in any event and she wasn't here. I think of The Sex Pistols, Malcom McClaren, and _The Great Rock 'n Roll Swindle_. It's largely incoherent nonsense but it does make me wonder who is really being swindled by Rock n'Roll. I believe the premise of the mockumentary is that the band is supposedly getting manipulated by the manager. At the last ever Pistols gig in 1978 (at least the last until the aptly titled _Filthy Lucre_ tour in 1996. I attended one of the shows and regretted it instantly. I hoped they did at least make money out of it.) they played only one song, a cover of Iggy's _No Fun_ , before leaving the stage amidst a hail of projectiles from the crowd. I've no doubt that the choice of song title wasn't accidental. Lydon offers the crowd the biggest shit-eating grin imaginable as he asks the question, ever get the feeling you've been cheated? of the punters who've parted with their hard-earned coin to attend. Even as the words roll out of his mouth with the characteristic sneer, he wears the look of a man who realizes he's been duped; I think he's asking the question of himself. I ponder the myth of the rock 'n roll lifestyle when I get home later and see my 'junk' table overflowing with soldering irons, resistors, capacitors, and every other electrical component known to man.

I get the sense that my window of opportunity for ever having children is getting smaller by the day, it may even be extinguished altogether; but if I were ever to have a daughter, I will insist that she learns guitar. Guaranteed soon enough she'd be spending large amounts of time with a soldering iron in hand, searching for that perfect tone that would make her Brisbane's next rock godess. Which would leave her with no time left over to swoon over unworthy lads. Or maybe her hero would be Django Reinhardt and she'd be a Parisian Jazz devotee. Either would be preferable to me than chasing the alpha-males I'd loathed.

Ah, the great rock 'n roll swindle indeed. For most, I don't really think rock leads to drugs. It certainly doesn't lead to sex, I know that much. Where it leads to is amateur electrical engineering.

# Gig 17

# Fear Factory, September 2012

I've come to believe being in a band is a lot like being in a relationship. There's the initial attraction, the period of working out the other parties, discovering their likes and dislikes, before settling into a groove. In some cases this only ends when old age or illness steps in to finish it. Sometimes there's a slow disintegration that's apparent to all and sundry. And sometimes it ends abruptly, without warning, with one/some of the parties none the wiser as to how their eviction transpired.

Although I've seen Fear Factory play on numerous occasions, this will be the first time without key members Christian Olde Wolbers and Raymond Herrera. They were meant to tour Australia a couple of years prior however the tour was suddenly cancelled due to a legal challenge from the two aforementioned personnel. It appeared the tour had been organized and they weren't the wiser. Evidently, they had very little idea that they weren't in Fear Factory anymore and nobody had seen it fit to enlighten them.

I wonder if Christian and Ray were in the American equivalent of David Jones looking at dinner ware when they heard the news.

In any case, I'm looking forward to seeing Burton C Bell and guitarist Dino Cazares, even with the two new hired hands accompanying them.

There's a young couple in front of me arguing over who should be the recipient of the last cigarette in the packet. Never mind smoking hasn't been allowed in a venue for many years now. I guess rules are made to be broken.

He's a fairly sophisticated kind of a chap (Gimme the farken' durry, I bought the farken' packet ya cunt! He's yelling at her), and she's a patron of the classics no doubt (Get fucked, I'm the one that has ta drive ya home ya pissed cunt! comes her response). Ain't love grand. Maybe I'm just envious.

I'm captivated by the tattoo covering most of her visible back. I'm imagining how I'd approach walking into the studio to describe what I'd like in order to arrive the result I see before of me.. "..mmm let's see, I'd like to start with a tatty brown couch that spans across my shoulder blades. On that couch I'd like to have a blonde girl in tiny denim shorts, topless of course. Goes without saying really. She'll have her arms around a creature that has the upper body of a kangaroo, but with huge bulging biceps, and the torso of a man. Yeah, you're right, that's a bit far-fetched, you better give it a beer-gut. Don't forget to drop liberal numbers of various shotguns and assault rifles around either. And the couple should have kids. Naturally, they'll be mutants too. Oh yeah, have that baby playing with a shotgun, I like that. So, now that you've got all that, I also want an oversized Australian flag behind the couch, but not a new one. Give it some rips and tears. It's got to look like it's been down and back to a few race-riots.."

The disputed cigarette is forgotten when Burton, Dino and the hired hands arrive from side stage and launch into the title track from latest record _The Industrialist_. It's loud and abrasive to the required levels, but the songs from the last few records lack the simplicity and directness of Fear Factory's golden age, the ten year period from the early 90's until the temporary disbanding in 2002 when the cracks were starting to show. It was after that when Dino left the band later re-joining at the expense of Christian & Ray down the track. There's a few more played from that record I'm not overly familiar with. I hadn't really listened to a great deal of material recorded after 2001. It just didn't reach out and grab me as anything from _Soul of A new Machine_ , _Demanufacture_ , or _Obsolete_ did, but I keep coming to the shows out of loyalty. Not much of that in the industry these days. The next generation don't view music in the same way.

I get my wish when they step back into their golden age catalogue to play _Martyr_ from _Soul of a New Machine_ and then a number from _Obsolete_ with the intensity I was looking forward to, and expect nothing less from.

A chill goes through me when Burton shouts the crescendo of title track _Obsolete_ at the end of the tune.

Obsolete. I guess that makes you and me both now Burton.

It had been quite a while since I'd seen _The Lost Girl_. I ran into a friend of hers one day in the CBD last week, who displayed quite an unnecessarily overt level of glee when she informed me that _The Lost Girl_ had been in a relationship since late last year. I don't think we ever really had an affinity with one another, but now there was no requirement for her to display any level of tolerance towards me. At least my friends were always pleasant to _The Lost Girl_ any time they'd seen her, despite a number of the females in my group of friends not being terribly thrilled with her, particularly after she disappeared for the second time. I only found that out much later.

She'd looked to move on, which was only logical. I'd tried to do the same in my own half-hearted fashion since then, but obviously hadn't enjoyed the same success as she had. Mind you, I don't believe it was all entirely my fault. The Universe had only steered the classiest ladies into my path. How could I forget one I've come to refer to as _Shitting Girl_. I'd met _Shitting Girl_ at a former flatmates wedding reception at the local golf course. She seemed quite nice until she'd downed a couple of wines and happily revealed to me a time in her youth when she agreed to a menage o trois with a couple she'd just met at the local pub. After arriving at their house at about 3am, she had second thoughts about her decision and excused herself to visit the bathroom where she promptly climbed out the window and ran off down the street. This was in the days before mobile phones were commonplace, and upon realizing that she was in an unfamiliar suburb with no idea of where she was, knocked on the door of a random house and asked the weary homeowner if she could use his phone to call a cab. He called one for her and went back to bed, kindly letting her wait on his front verandah for it to arrive. It was only then that it occurred to her that she should have perhaps had used the toilet at the couple's house before climbing out the window. Not wanting to wake up the good Samaritan again, she instead saw it fit to park her steaming pile in the middle of his front lawn. Because he'd obviously prefer that than to be woken up again. And years later she saw it fit to relate this tale to someone she'd know for barely two hours. I opted to retire from the reception for a while to hit some balls at the next door driving range, as _Shitting Girl_ downed more wine, wondering to myself if the early Sunday morning hackers on the course could expect to find an unpleasant surprise on the green.

I don't know if it was this particular tale of woe that inspired Hugo's wife Olivia to take it upon herself and sign me up to an internet dating organization for a three month introductory period. I'm dubious of the whole thing but it was a kind gesture made with genuine concern so out of the respect I have for her I went through with it. She probably made the mistake of letting me write my own profile however. Funnily enough, there weren't a lot of introductions. For those that did respond, I really did make a sincere effort not to mention that I thought _Rocky III_ was one of the greatest films ever committed to celluloid. I tried to keep conversation about Magic Dirt to a minimum.

Being an architect is viewed as an amazing and beautiful thing, up until the point it's revealed that there are some of us that design abattoirs and chicken rendering plants. Who would have thought that it's not all about visiting boutique tiling suppliers and selecting sofas. Surely reality television can't be lying to us all now can it? Olivia scolds me about being too honest and tells me I really don't know how to talk to women. Surely it can't have taken a person of her intelligence the thirteen years I've known her to work this out. I casually remind her of her husband's unfortunate use of the word 'incestuous' in the early stages of their relationship and she begrudgingly drops the line of conversation. She's married into a family of lawyers and she knows when she's beat. Anyway, at some point they're going to find out what I do, so there's no point being misleading. Although the distaste from all was obvious, I couldn't help but notice that none of them stopped eating their beef Rendang anyway. I guess that it must have just magically generated at the restaurant via a _Star Trek_ like replicator.

I'd met Jane the more traditional Australian way, at a football match a few months previously when I'd consumed far too much alcohol. Or after it actually. Before the Brisbane Lions game I'd been at the German club across the road all afternoon with Tracy and Vito, who was back on holiday from the UK. The sense of occasion had gotten the better of me and I'd foolishly kept pace with them and didn't stop for the duration of the match.

If it wasn't for my confidence-giving levels of consumption, I would never have attempted to start a conversation with the tall girl bouncing a football by herself up Vulture Street while I was walking back into the city. I startled her and she dropped the ball which then bounced awkwardly and headed out into the middle of the road. I held up traffic while I retrieved it from the intersection and delivered it back to her in a poorly executed drop punt that sailed well over her head. In her attempt to catch it she tripped over a car park bollard chain and landed in a large puddle in the driveway. At least I didn't head-butt her, but I did laugh. She didn't, but accepted my offer of a drink (well I drank, she had coffee – she was a non-drinker) to make up for my lack of Australian Rules prowess. Stupid game anyway.

Jane played in the equivalent women's competition in Queensland. I tried converting her into a South Sydney fan but like _The Lost Girl_ who was also an AFL aficionado, she wasn't having a bar of that. _The Lost Girl_ didn't have Jane's athleticism though. She was also into rowing, and decreed that one morning we would take one of the boats in the Uni sheds for a jaunt along the river. I'd never been rowing before and I tested her patience to the hilt with my horrible technique, and she swore at me profusely. Despite being a churchgoing girl, it didn't prevent her from utilizing a plentiful array of four-letter adjectives when she felt necessary.

In the end, which didn't take very long to arrive, it was apparent that we didn't have a great deal in common.

She didn't have any musical appreciation besides the hymns at church. She had no idea who Magic Dirt were. She asked me if I played in Magic Dirt. No Jane, I didn't, mores the pity. I really was quite unfazed by Jane's Sunday morning ritual but I think it bothered her a lot more than it bothered me that I had not a religious bone in my body. It's hard to compete with the big JC. Particularly when you're not really accessible because you're probably thinking about someone else anyway.

I feel like Fear Factory had designed their set-list around my own personal narrative, as fittingly they follow up with PissChrist. I'm ambivalent about the lyrical content as I really don't care either way, but if anything best displays Fear Factory at their musical strength it's the tunes that form Demanufacture, and this is my own personal favourite. They rely on punishing rhythm that constantly align guitar, bass & drums together without a guitar solo in sight, flying in the face of the traditional metal setup that would have dominated the Los Angeles scene when they first started playing as a group. Creativity out of necessity via lack of ability. I suspect that Dino wouldn't know where to begin with a guitar solo. I'd tried this argument at my guitar lessons with Miranda, citing Django's style of French Jazz might never have eventuated should he have full use of his left hand. She rightfully guessed that I once again hadn't done my homework and enquired if this was another stab at justifying my fucken' laziness.

Some of the time Burton's guttural vocals will follow this structure too, but when they're at their finest, he peels off with a mono-pitched drone that soars over the top and conveys a hurt far deeper than the 'tough guy vocals' ever manage to achieve. By the time they make it to the end of _Zero Signal_ and its final haunting refrain, I can see that it's gotten to even the most alpha of the male punters present. It's gotten to me as well. I look at my feet. I can see that she's not the one that is really _Lost_.

The show finishes. The male half of the couple from earlier heads into the nearby 7-11, reappearing with a new packet of cigarettes which he hands to his partner. Not just one, but a whole pack to herself. It's only two dozen cigarettes but it's something much more than that. And I really am envious.

# Gig 18

# Metallica, February 2013

I can't help but notice the increase in shirtless bogans at this years Soundwave festival. All showing how 'into' the music they are by tackling random people from behind. Or maybe there is no increase, more that it's simply a reflection of my diminished tolerance levels. I also witnessed the same Nobel laureates prodding a prostrate individual with their boots, because that's obviously the most appropriate way to deal with a medical emergency. Danny Glover once again reminds me I'm too old for this shit, and I can't disagree with him, but if I want to see Metallica play it's this or nothing. In the wait before their set, aside from bogan dodging, I've seen A Perfect Circle play a poor setlist plagued by sound problems culminating in an awful re-mix rendition of _Passive_ , my personal favourite. And this from a man so pedantic with his sound when he's playing as front man for Tool. On a more positive note, I've seen Slayer redeem themselves with a brutal version of _Seasons in the Abyss_ making up for its omission the last time I saw them a few years ago. It's sad that Jeff Hanneman, (who would sadly pass away shortly after this tour) isn't well enough to play tonight. He would however play at the 'Big Four' festival that a few years ago I was sure would never eventuate. Wrong once again.

I've seen Metallica play on four other occasions before this show, but I still get that tingling feeling of heady anticipation in the final minutes before they're due on stage. _..And Justice for All_ was one of the first records I bought back in the late 1980's as a kid. _Appetite for Destruction_ was the first, and my friends and I thought it was the best thing we'd ever heard until a cassette with a crumbling Lady Justice statue on the front cover fell into our hands. We'd put it on the stereo and as the initial swell of volume that forms _Blackened_ morphs into the unmerciful chopping of Hetfield's rhythm guitar, all of a sudden Axl Rose seemed nothing more to us than a whiny little shit. All the Slash soloing in the world wouldn't change our opinion. We'd found something that equalled the frustration of existence in economically and socially isolated regional Queensland. Maybe it was a good thing that we were still a number of years from adulthood, or we would have felt the full extent of the artistic repression of the time. I've long since diversified in musical repertoire, but I would count that afternoon after school when that cassette clicked into the tape deck as primarily responsible for shaping my musical preferences ever after.

In time honoured tradition, Ennio Morricone's _Ecstasy of Gold_ (better known as the theme from _The Good, the Bad & the Ugly_) is broadcast, signalling in about 30 seconds we're going to experience some old school Bay Area thrash. And old school it is, back to 1983 for their first ever song, _Hit the Lights_. As soon as it's finished they waste no time launching into the full version of _Master of Puppets_ , a treat given the trend of the last 15 years to cut it in half. Perhaps the highlight is a full length version of _..And Justice for All_ (all pummelling 9mins 50 seconds of it) that follows, reminding us of a time back in the late 1980's when they were the heaviest band on the planet. The purist in me is appreciative they've stopped resorting to one of those 'Justice medley' type things of recent years devised to give the punter a taste of many tracks across the record without playing them in full. That irritated me no end. There was no need to bow to the masses. If they couldn't maintain concentration for more than four minutes, that was their problem. That record still stands today, almost twenty-five years on, as one of the benchmarks of heavy music that every other record must be measured against. And it's still one of the sharpest, nastiest things going despite the production value being lesser than its successors.

Flawless in fact, which I guess stands to reason when you've been playing the song consistently for the last quarter of a century. The same comment stands for everything that they'll play tonight, over the next almost two and a half hours, through _Fade to Black_ , _Sanitarium_ , _Blackened_ , _Sad but True_ , _Harvester of Sorrow_ , _One_ , _For Whom the Bell Tolls_.. it's all there.

Yes two and a half hours for a festival slot. I'm not sure what other band on the planet would command that, aside from the Rolling Stones maybe.I don't think James, Kirk, Lars or Rob make a single error all night. Kirk Hammett could play those leads blindfolded while suspended upside down by barbed wire, and probably the reason that just about everybody else I've met that's into guitar themselves is only too keen to take the hatchet to him. Australian tall poppy syndrome at its finest.

I was talking guitar technique with a work colleague at a gig once where he suggested that there was at least twenty people in the room who could play better. There were about five hundred people in the venue, so I broke down the maths. Let's say one out of five owned a guitar. Of those, let's discount sixty percent as owning a beat-up acoustic that gets hauled out at a barbeque once every two years where they'll very badly strum an out of tune _Brown Eyed Girl_. And probably receive a blow-job if they perform it at the local pub on a Thursday night at 11.00 pm. But that's another story. That leaves us with forty people, of which we're two, who practice relatively frequently. And half of them are better than Kirk Hammett? I know I'm not. My acquaintance sticks with his story despite the weight of overwhelming probability to the contrary.

Shit, I love this part of Australian male culture. Doesn't matter whether it's music or football.. I wish I had a dollar for every time I've heard I coulda farken' scored then!!! eminate from the stands at a Queensland rugby league match. Usually from an overweight unhappily married suburban forty-three year old who struggled to hold his place as reserve winger in a junior representative side thirty years ago.

I'm sure there's a few classical musicians around that could probably out-shred Kirk, but I'm also sure that his technique is pretty solid and pretty fast. It's some fantastically expensive gear he's using, but I also suspect he and I could trade set-ups and he'd still manage to sound like Kirk Hammett on my low grade equipment, and I'd still make a very expensive and sophisticated rig sound very ordinary.

On the flipside though, seeing Kirk play like he does also serves as a sad reminder that in terms of song writing, they've only matched it on the rarest of moments over the following two decades.

I don't listen to the records as much as I used to, but the songs come back to me quickly, and I instinctively know them all word for word. For a short couple of hours I'm 14 years of age again, and the windows of possibility and potential are boundless.

They finish the main body of their set, and I'm feeling pretty good, until the Universe decides to lucidly demonstrate my current position in life to me by once again delivering _The Lost Girl_ , and her new partner my immediate vicinity. I hadn't seen her much in the last year, but ever since I learnt of her new relationship a few months ago, the Universe has seen it fit to cross our paths on an almost weekly basis. Kind of makes it hard to forget. I realise it's Brisbane with our two degrees of separation, but there's maybe forty thousand people here at the show, so what are the fucking odds. It's not even her type of music. She never like the genre and refused point blank to come to a show of this type with me, so it's annoying that she's here now. More than a bit actually as she's making a value judgment on quality. And not the quality of the music. I wonder if she watches _Rocky III_ with him too. Still, it's mainly only myself that I'm irritated with. I really am fourteen again.

I wonder if I can disappear before they see me? Nope, she spots me. They set up camp where I'm standing. So who are you here with she asks. Yeah, by myself. Thanks. I don't know why that was her first question.

They start up some public displays of affection about a metre in front of me. The thing is, I don't even dislike the guy. I haven't seen him in person before. He's substantially more of the alpha male variety than myself. I'd never discussed previous relationships with her, and I wonder now if this was always her default type. I might have just been a blip in the path of her destiny. In some small measure as perverse at it seems, I'm actually grateful for the guy, she seems happy. I'm still not going to have a beer with him though. I heard he's into sailing or boats of some description so it's probably a better fit. Her family have always had at least one boat, and I was never at ease on any form of vessel. I couldn't help but be curious despite not wanting to know. Nobody wants to hear too much about their upgrade. The last time I was on water was with Jane in that skiff, and that was a far from enjoyable experience. She loved boats too as well as AFL. I'm going to move but then I say fuck it, I was here first. Grace and Dignity.. Grace & Dignity.. I keep repeating it to myself like a mantra. I think of Q advising James Bond, _Never let them see you bleed_. He also advises 007 to always have a way out and I don't really have one.

Hands go on arses, and, like I've done so often in life, once again I concede. I attempt to move away quietly, but I'm not really focussed on where I'm going and step on a discarded bottle, but regain my balance after a few horrible seconds. Yeah, well, I can strike grace from the list now.

The Universe chuckles.

To think I passed up Hugo's fine barbecueing skills this evening for this shit. The man's an artist with the tongs, displaying perfect judgement. His skill in the kitchen is substantially underrated due to comparison with his wife who is exceptional. _The Lost Girl_ made plenty of claims to her own ability, but she too paled in comparison to Olivia. I knew better than to voice this at the time. I make my way past a group of girls just as one turns sharply to interject a point into a conversation and spills half a glass of rum down my leg. Now I smell of booze and it also looks like I've pissed myself. Slash would be proud. Dance rummie, dance. Sensational.

Out of my peripheral vision, I catch a brief glimpse of a tattered item fluttering past James Hetfield's head, then away over the main stage canopy. I can't quite work out what it is.

'Now that my friend, that would be your dignity,' the Universe smugly advises.

'Fuck you, you cunt, you bastard'I respond angrily. Live music has always been sacred and I'm pissed off that it's being spoilt for me tonight.

'Au contraire sir, you know very well you've had this coming for some time.'

'Yeah, I know. I know. You're still a cunt though.'

'And then some, and don't forget it. You should talk. Just remember it's a fire sale boy – if you're not careful I'll be marking down self-respect to half price.'

I follow my dignity into the middle of the seething mass, anonymity my best friend at this juncture.

Metallica thankfully choose to sidestep both the _Load_ & _Reload_ records, with the exception of _The Memory Remains_. I think they realize those much maligned records were by and large of questionable quality, with the exception of a few moments of brilliance. _Bleeding Me_ is one of my favourite Metallica tunes. It's one of those rare ones that come amidst their many, many latter day sins. The kind that you have to search for out of eighty minutes of recording contract filler.

Lars has been getting off his stool at regular intervals to do as much rock posturing as possible. Get back behind the kit you twat. What do you call a person that hangs around with musicians? A drummer.

These are professional musicians, and they do everything right, everything that's expected of them. Showmen of the highest order.

Wherein lies part of the problem.

It's hard not to get swept up by the spectacle – but that's exactly what this is. They're an amazingly tight band, and twenty-eight years together will do that to you, but it's not really a 'band' anymore is it? It's a business. Everything is choreographed to within an inch of its life, and you can bet James Hetfield will be saying the same clichéd things at the same time to a different crowd at the next show. And the great unwashed will lap it up. It is what it is I guess.

'Do you feel it!?' He bellows 'Do you feel it Brisbane!!!?' Feel what James? The vapour trail behind the fast flowing cash as it speeds direct from the overpriced merchandise desks to your wallet? That's fine James, I don't begrudge you, I'm happy your hard work (and it is hard work) is paying off. But don't bullshit me sir with this kind of banter. And please, quit referring to us all as 'family'. We're not. I'm just a guy who buys your records, and probably will continue to buy them, no matter how questionable they may be in terms of quality in the years to come. This is exactly why I like how Tool's Adam Jones keeps his mouth shut. It's in contrast to the last Magic Dirt show at the Annandale. Adalita can't play as well as James, Raul isn't Kirk, there's no pyrotechnics to be found and their stage is about a 100th of the size, but they all played as if their life depended on it that evening. And never once did Adalita take her heart off her sleeve. As I've said it's the authenticity that every music obsessive is searching for, irrespective of genre.

The camera pans across the happy faces in the front row, broadcasting them onto the seven meter high screen behind the band.. ..there's blind vacancy in the happiness though and I'd wager that the Mensa society need not visit here with any urgency. It doesn't stop me being envious of them. I wish that I could have that good a time without my thoughts drifting elsewhere, this time namely back up to the stands from where I've migrated down to the pit to avoid _The Lost Girl_. Then again, that's highly judgemental - maybe their minds are elsewhere too and they're just better actors than me. The set proper has finished and they return for an encore of _Battery_ before handing the gear back to roadies. It's time for the James Hetfield variety hour. He straps on his guitar to applause. Takes it off again to boos. Strap it on –YAYY! Take if off BOOO!. YAAAY! BOO! YAAY! BOO!.. And so on and so forth until the Yays have it and they break into _Seek & Destroy_. The Mensa candidates up front are delirious.

It's a fine show, there's no doubt about it. It was always going to be, but I still idly wonder what it would have been like to have seen them play in late 1985 at a five hundred capacity venue. Something only those who were there can know. I wish I could go back in time to see Metallica circa 1984-86 in San Francisco. Where maybe I could see live exactly what I heard on that shitty tape deck in Far North Queensland all those years ago. But then again, perhaps it was always like this. Maybe I've got my eyes on the rearview mirror and I'm seeing something that was never there in the first place. Maybe it's like the scene in The Matrix where the youngster with the telekinetic spoon bending ability attempts to explain to Keanu to realise that it's not the spoon that bends, but only yourself. Tough job that one. I think trying to explain relativity to Keanu's character would be like trying to explain Euclidean geometry to an eggplant. Or to a football talk show host.

_Seek & destroy_ finishes and suddenly it's almost twenty years since I've been fourteen and the openings in the windows of possibility and potential are once again as thin as the hair on Lars Ulrich's head.

The Soundwave promoter has a formula that's a sure fire winner. As has been illustrated countless times, nostalgia is a money maker and tellingly there isn't a band on the main stage after 1.30pm less than ten to fifteen years old. And mostly older, even on the smaller stages. A telling sign for the music business. And who better to keep the money rolling in than the Bay Area metal kings.

A while ago Tracy and I were nominating what each of our worst shows of all time were. I ran through my list of contenders. Could it be Robert Plant at the now sadly demolished London Astoria, where he murdered every Zeppelin track he performed? That show almost left me in tears on the tube home. Could it be Ed Kuepper at the Troubador trying to play _Fever_? Or Cat Power supporting Nick Cave where she repeatedly stopped and promptly abandoned songs before calling it a day mid-set? And then there's always every Limp Bizkit show they've ever played.. but no, it's none of the above. It's this show right here. But this time it's not as a result of anything that the band have done. It's simply poor timing.

Yeah, Number one with a bullet. Metallica have had so many chart toppers and they can add this one now. Maybe it will all be amusing in time, like when I accidently head-butted Girl No. 2 from uni. At least that amused everyone else. Less of a dance around the maypole for me.

I wonder when I get home if I'll see a sport update on the television where half of the South Sydney team have been suspended for urinating in their own mouths. That'd cap the evening off just nicely. Or Rage Against the Machine will announce they're about to re-form to record a Christian rock album.

As i scan the gutter for the said tattered item that floated away earlier I think of a scene in _24 hour Party People_ where Tony Wilson is at his lowest point. Curtis is dead, Hannett gone, wife gone, the Hacienda haemorrhaging money, Factory Records in a tailspin. A homeless man he encounters on the footpath offers him Boethius' _Consolation of Philosophy_ by way of compensation for the loose change Wilson passes him. The premise is that history, by its nature, is a constantly revolving wheel.. ..the fortuna rota.. the wheel of fortune. Whilst it is tragic, it also brings us hope in that at any given point, just like the good times, the worst of times are always fading away. Or to put in a context that perhaps is most relevant to me, for every Cliff Richard show, there's always another Metallica gig around the corner.

Yeah, I know. I know. Like Wilson, it's the only thing that's keeping me going, but also like Wilson, I'm not quite sure if I genuinely believe Boethius.

# Gig 19

# Cliff Richard, February 2013

Ah indeed, these times are sent to try a man's soul. I'm not talking about the global financial crisis. Nor the ever escalating threat of world terrorism.

I'm talking about the personal toll two hours of Cliff Richard will take on me. It's one of my darkest musical hours, waiting patiently in the Convention Centre foyer, my mother engaging in battle with others of a similar vintage at the merchandise desk to get a suitably awful t-shirt and well overpriced programme.

I'm not only required to carry these items for the rest of the evening, but also the coffee mug plastered with his image. I guess it's really not all that different from a set of glowing AC/DC devil horns. I can mock from my lofty righteous position, but let's face it, if I were able to pay my mortgage flogging my likeness on every day household items, I'd do the same.

I suspect this may be my punishment for calling the Universe a cunt a few days ago at Metallica. I can't say this had been one of the better weeks of my life. As I was skulking away from the RNA grounds on the weekend, I was wondering how things could deteriorate further. Maybe Boethius was right, except it's just around the wrong way. Metallica was supposed to come after this. The wheel should have been on the rise, not the descent. I'd completely forgotten I'd be here mid-week. It would appear that the two musical acts are somehow linked in something of a cosmic joke being ritually perpetrated on me over time. I've seen Metallica play on five occasions now which, disturbingly, mirrors the amount of times I've seen Cliff Richard. Generally they've played within a week of each other. A perverse Yin & Yang that goes all the way back to my youth in Far North Queensland, and will probably be with me until the end of my days. Courtesy of my mother's horrible, horrible taste in music I am unfortunately just as familiar with the likes of _Living Doll_ as I am with _Enter Sandman_.

How it could be that the same person could hold both Cliff Richard and Creedence Clearwater in the same esteem has me perplexed.

I hear some older women near to us pondering why Cliff's never been married, what with all the success he's had over his lifetime. I offer up a popular hypothesis on the subject to my mother, which is heard by all within earshot. At this point I'm finding myself as welcome at the Brisbane Convention Centre as Mel Gibson at a Bar Mitzvah. Of course, Cliff may simply be as socially hopeless as myself. Even money and fame doesn't guarantee a successful relationship. I'd be happy to take his bank balance though. My mother distances herself from me. Not the first time she's done that. No such thing as blood solidarity between either of us when it comes to matters of music. I remind her she's perfectly welcome to attend Cliff Richard shows by herself if that would be her preference. In better days I could have palmed off attendance duties to _The Lost Girl_ for acts such as Neil Diamond or Elvis tribute shows, but Cliff Richard might always have been a bridge too far.

In the end, I don't believe life presents us with many of the big, joyous moments that popular western culture leads us to believe we're all entitled to. Not that I've found anyway. There's really only small mercies. One of these is given Cliff's age and how far it is to travel from Europe to Australia, I doubt I'll ever see him again. The other is he has no support act. No Olivia Newton John. And he's not playing with the Shadows this time either, as he was at his fiftieth anniversary show a couple of years ago. Yes, I'd seen that show too. A week before Metallica were here touring for _Death Magnetic_.

We've taken our seats now and the lights have dimmed, for which my mother is grateful since it's harder to be identify her as associating with me after my earlier comment.

It's appalling from the outset, with overly rehearsed jokes between the band members and embarrassing dance moves they've clearly spent some time developing. They start with covers of early 1950's tunes I don't recognize, but there's no mistaking _Living Doll_. At every opportunity when introducing a song, Cliff makes it known what position it reached on the charts. It's something of an obsession that I don't quite understand, given that it's obvious to all and sundry that he's had an incredibly successful career. Still looking for validation after fifty years. He leaves the stage at various times, presumably for both a costume change and to check none of the audience have stolen his Zimmer, before announcing there's to be an intermission.

I feel like I'm six years old at a midday matinee show, but I keep my mouth shut when I remember the last time I saw Tool they also had an intermission. Theirs was for artistic reasons however, not medical checkups. I look around at the older audience, couples sharing packets of jellybeans, and I wonder what will become of myself when I'm that age. Will I still be going to see bands play? Will age dictate I suddenly develop a preference for Burt Bacharat? Will I be going to them alone, with a packet of jellybeans all to myself? I'd loosely thought I may still have been with _The Lost Girl_ , but that's patently not going to be the case. Not now, not ever. I wonder how many of the faces I'm seeing here will remember this in a few years from now. Maybe my mental state would start to falter at that point too. I'd look at the version of Peter Saville's album cover for Joy Division's _Unknown Pleasures_ tattooed on my arm and not have the faintest clue as to what it was, or why it was there. And she'd not be there to roll her eyes and remind me of it. I'd always said I'd rather retain my mental faculties and have physical limitations rather than sprawl into dementia, but I'm not so sure now. Perhaps it might not be a bad thing if I were unable to remember her. Before either of those events occur though, I think the best exit option might simply be a good old fashioned heart attack that finishes me in one fell swoop. On a Sunday afternoon at half-time during a South Sydney match with Souths ten points ahead at the break. I don't think I'd want to see the match out to the inevitable conclusion where the South Sydney defence transforms into the rabble I've come to know all too well as they once again sacrifice a promising position. Better to depart while there's still the element of potential.

Fucking Souths.

Yeah, better that than to be found as a bloated body on a couch in years to come, the television reverted to standby and a copy of Richie Benaud's _My Spin on Cricket_ by my side. Maybe in lieu of the cartoon afterlife of walking around on clouds in long white robes, you'd be given the chance to start over again in the time that you liked best, long before mortgages, unfulfilled talent and Lost Girls. I'd wake up and it'd be the very late 1980's/ early 1990's again, in what I consider to be the golden age of music. Cobain, Vedder, Staley and Seattle on the rise. Musicians who learnt to play the music of their heroes by ear rather than downloading tablature off the fucking internet. And they'd write distinctive songs of their own you could identify as theirs after only a few notes, which feel as relevant now as they did twenty years ago. Metallica at their peak, before they became caricatures of themselves. They'd been together long enough at that point in time that they'd refined their musicianship and could play better than they were ever able to since the first demo recording in 1982. But not long enough that they'd lost the hunger or ideas. Or before the weight of expectation meant they couldn't do anything other than falter irrespective of what they produced. I wonder if they were to have released _..And Justice for All_ last year if that would have been critically panned.

I don't feel the golden age was only limited to music. I wasn't sure that I could see myself remaining an architect until it came time to retire. The industry has traditionally been ridden with peaks and troughs, but these last few years have been different, much more volatile than ever before. Contrary to popular opinion, it's never been diamonds and fast cars even in the good times, but since the Global Financial Crisis fees have contracted to the point where practices have been forced to virtually buy projects to stay working. And clients, knowing this, have become unscrupulous. As a result, quality has of course decreased. It's hard to see an end in sight. Yet still, universities increase the number of architectural courses, and double the output of graduates for significantly fewer positions. It really is a business as opposed to an education. I'm grateful that I was lucky enough to see it for what it used to be, even if it was at the last gasp. As long as the money's coming in, the consequences of this are as foreign to the good folk of academic administration as the imparting of quality construction knowledge. Helped along by the myriad of renovation reality television shows that resemble anything but reality. The format really is the scourge of a generation.

Probably the best thing I'd done in a long time was convincing a high school work experience student to consider a different career path. I felt like the architectural equivalent of Yul Brynner in the 1980's, delivering his posthumous anti-smoking plea. It made quite an impression on me at the time. Hooked up to his oxygen tanks looking like as he really was, at deaths door, repeating the mantra ..now that I'm gone, don't smoke, whatever you do in your life, don't smoke... A decade or so later I ignored Yul's quality advice and did smoke for the briefest of periods. For a girl of course. She did, so it seemed the thing to do to get to know her better. Another spectacular failure, and I had no trouble dispensing with the cigarettes after I crashed and burned, but I shamefully admit that I did really enjoy smoking.

Not that I needed to repeat a Yul style whatever you do in your life, don't study architecture mantra too many times to the student. In the few days she was in the office, she saw heated arguments with project managers, despair at ignored site instructions, the frustration with underperforming consultants who were largely in the same boat as us. In some ways it was hard to blame them, the long unappreciated hours, and the general unhappiness of it all. She was a smart girl and could see which side the bread was buttered on. Certainly not this one. When I learned she'd chosen to pursue physio at uni this year I felt like high fiving myself, but still I felt a pang of guilt. What if maybe I'd turned away the next Frank Lloyd Wright? Unlikely, as I've said before, there are no heroes in architecture anymore. They're all as dead as Yul. She'd thank me for it later. Or rather she wouldn't, because she'd never know what she'd missed out on. Ignorance is bliss. It'll be one of these kids that will render me obsolete one day I'm sure. Obsolete.. ..I can still hear Burton Bell's guttural growl ringing in my ears six months later.

My wandering thoughts are broken when the sixty-something year old lady in the seat beside me tugs at my arm and asks me anxiously if I think Cliff will play _Devil Woman_. I'm not quite sure why this lady thinks I'm any kind of authority over the Cliff Richard set list, but I hope he does. He will if he knows what's good for him, there'll be a pensioner driven riot here if he doesn't. He better play _Wired for Sound_ too. Or there'll be a riot. And if he doesn't play _We Don't talk Anymore_.. ..yep, you guessed it, there'll be a fucking riot, and the stage will become awash with jellybeans hurled in anger. The thing is, in some perverse way, I'd be upset too if I don't hear all of those tunes. First and foremost it'll be on behalf of my mother who'll be upset if she doesn't hear them, after all that's why I've found myself here, at an absurdly premium price too I have to add. The older I get, the more I realize life is about sacrifice, and I'm prepared to take one for the team on this one.

It's more than that though. If I've paid for some pain, then by gum, I want to feel every second of it radiate through every nerve ending in my body. I want to feel the cheesy synth that forms the intro to _We Don't talk Anymore_ drill its way into my brain so deeply that it takes a week of listening to Slayer to erase. I want the bass of _Devil Woman_ to churn the contents of my lower intestines. I liken the feeling to what I imagine goes through one's head when deciding to make an appointment with a dominatrix. I'm only assuming this of course, being a meat and potatoes man myself. If you find yourself tied up in the lair, you expect to suffer and won't accept anything less. If you've paid to be summarily flogged with a cat-o-nine tails, being gently whipped with a limp length of jute twine just won't do. When it comes time to be kicked in the testicles with a ten inch stiletto shoe, you don't want a grazing blow to the side of the scrotum at half pace. No sir, you want a cut lunch, right up the middle at a force that will make the boys regret that they ever dared to descend in the first place.

And so it is when Cliff returns to finish the second half of the show. There it goes, BAM!, the intro to _We Don't talk Anymore_ , and I wince in pain from the first stinging blow from the cat-o-nine.. the dominatrix wrings out the carnage from frayed strands on the knotted ends and hits me again when Cliff and his band make the ascending key change. You have to love early 80's pop structure. Yeah, feeling it now. _Wired for Sound_ starts up with Cliff professing his love for both short and tall speakers alike, and I receive my first kick to the nuts. 'Please sir, may I have another?' I yelp in Dickensian delight. The Cliff Richard juggernaut is more than happy to oblige, and he winds up the set with _Do you Wanna Dance?_ and _The Young Ones_ , creating a geriatric frenzy in South Brisbane.

Both my mother and the lady next to me are thrilled despite _Devil Woman_ not making an appearance. I'd put on my best Johnny Rotten sneer to ask them if they've ever got the feeling they've been cheated, but that would just be rude and it's clearly not the case. I know that my mother is not going to grasp any reference to the Sex Pistols anyway, and I think I'm safe in assuming that my friend next to me probably won't either.

I'd read _A Fortunate Life_ back in high school (one of the few who opened the cover. And why would you, when you could be randomly killing native birds? If there's ever a memoir every Australian should read, this should be it) and I remember one of the passages where A.B. Facey reasons there is no such thing as God, because there IS such a thing as a bayonette charge. While my knowledge of Australian pioneering history should be regarded as scant at best, from what I have read it seemed not an uncommon occurrence for men of his era and circumstance to reject the notion of higher powers and organized religion. I don't know what it's like to participate in a bayonette charge on a Turkish beachhead, and I'm grateful for the fact. Instead, I can only reason there is no God because there is Cliff Richard.

# Gig 20

# Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds, February 2013

I purchased the new Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds record a few weeks ago and hastily flipped through the liner notes hoping, praying, Ed Kuepper's name would be absent from the credits, and to my joy it was. I had thought his brief foray as a Bad Seed had mercifully come to an end, only to have my illusions shattered at Nick's Riverstage show where Ed emerged on stage, rarin' to go. I figured though that as the new record has very little guitar on it, he won't have much to do for at least half the gig.

And I'm right – there's a small orchestra assembled in addition to a primary school children's choir. I wonder whether I should be putting in a call to the department of child services & protection – one has to question the decision to allow one's seven or eight year old to be on stage with the mind of Nick Cave. Probably a good thing I'm not a father. Sounds exactly like something I'd do.

As expected, most of the material from _Push the Sky Away_ features prominently in the first half hour, the highlight being _Jubilee Street_. It's my favourite tune from the record, and I was worried that the subtleties of it would be lost in the live open air environment – and they are – but instead those elements are replaced with a sheer volume & power that transforms the song, and I'm totally mesmerized. Highlight of the year.

The plan seems to be to play all of the new record and then send the kids home, but Nick can't leave it at that. Halfway through he decides to delve into the back catalogue and brings out _From Her to Eternity_ which has a vastly different flavour to what the kids have been singing. He turns around to face them screaming the chorus. It's all too much for one seven year old girl I see escorted from the stage in tears shortly after. Child psychologists are raising glasses to Twisted Nick all over Brisbane for keeping them gainfully employed.

Unfortunately he also plays Love Letters from _No more shall we Part_ (worst Bad Seeds record ever in my opinion), and I can't say I really wanted to hear _The Ship Song_ either which proves to be a cue for every couple in a ten meter radius of me to start engaging in some sickening public displays of affection. I've had enough of this so I make my way down the front demanding that either _Jack the Ripper_ or _Papa won't leave you Henry_ is played.

As if by telepathy, he plays both right away. I obviously leave my hand in the air for a fraction too long during _Papa won't leave you Henry_ as it seems to be a cue for Twisted Nick to grab my wrist and not let go. Always wondered what that would be like. Ok Nick, we've had our fun.. ..and now release.. come on Nick, now you're scaring me I'm thinking as he's spitting great volumes of words to me about nasty mission houses and warm arterial sprays from a distance of approximately 50cm away from my face. It must only be about twenty seconds maximum, but seems a lot longer. He lets me go so he can prod the guy next to me in the shoulder to reassure him that Papa indeed won't be leaving Henry. Last time tonight I'll be putting my hands in the air like I just don't care. All the best performers manage to blur the line between showmanship & reality and Nick does it extremely well – from half a metre he appears substantially unhinged to me.

_The Mercy Seat_ closes the set played with all the intensity it deserves. I drift back to the last time I saw him play this in London. It was just as intense, but _The Lost Girl_ suggested it was crap and wanted to leave. 'Are you shitting me?' I said, 'how can this not be the greatest thing you've ever seen?' She left me in no doubt that it wasn't the greatest thing she'd ever seen, suggesting that at some point in my life I had been afflicted with a degree of cerebral damage to even pose the question. Or to phrase it in medical terminology, was I fucked in the head?

I'd seen her outside the train station at the shopping centre a couple of days before tonight's show. She was wearing a leg cast she didn't have when I saw her a few weeks ago. On her way to the physio. She'd always had chronic problems with her ankles. The other leg this time. 'You've got yourself a defective girl' she'd often say. I thought of her as anything else but. While I was with her she made me a better individual in every aspect. I don't think I ever told her that, how lucky I thought I was. Just for a short while, I thought I may have cheated the destiny I'd assumed for myself for the longest time.

Maybe if I had the ability to time travel in _Doctor Who's_ Tardis I'd go back to that moment and tell her so. Just once, for all the times I should have but didn't. Though I doubt it would make any difference, and furthermore, I'm not sure I'm the person you'd want to entrust with time travel in any event.

I could pretend my first point of call would be to perhaps reason with a young Adolf Hitler and persuade him his philosophies were horribly misguided, and failing to persuade him with reason, resort to other more direct measures. But let's face it, if I'm honest, I'm at Birmingham University 1980 for the final Joy Division show. The one that every Joy Division fan of appropriate age lies about attending. But no, it'd never be good enough for me to stand quietly at the back of the gig admiring from afar. I'd be hijacking the good Doctor's Tardis straight back to Manchester 1976 to the Sex Pistols show at the Lesser Free Trade Hall, presenting my advance knowledge of the structures of _Unknown Pleasures_ to the soon to be members of Joy Division and thus usurping Ian Curtis. I'd probably punch Mick Hucknall at that gig too as a bonus. I've always hated Simply Red. In fairness to Mick though, there'd be a heap of Rasta's that probably wouldn't have been paid their due if not for him.

The other thing I noticed _The Lost Girl_ was wearing beside the cast was the new engagement ring on her finger. I hadn't seen this when I saw her at the Metallica show previously. Maybe it was only recent, or more than likely I just didn't pick it up then. I knew this was inevitably coming at some point so I wasn't terribly surprised, but nonetheless I was still gutted. She was never coming back. Not this time. I probably share some of the same attributes as the professional boxer. There's always the thought that you've still got one good fight left in you. Despite everything else suggesting the contrary, this thought remains. The only thing that trumps it is a physical demonstration that removes all doubt. None that have ever stepped inside the ring were immune to it. Not even the greats. There's something sad about watching later era Ali fights just before the end of his career. It wasn't like he'd suddenly forgotten how to box, because he clearly still could; he'd just lost the spark that defined him as Ali. And he didn't see this until he suffered at the hands of opponents who wouldn't have caused him the slightest of trouble in his prime.

I suppose that ring was my demonstration.

The dull ache I'd had for three years just became that fraction more acute. Very rarely did anything happen for me in one sweeping movement. Always incrementally. The familiar sting that Mr Reznor describes so well in _Hurt_. I tried to put on my best poker face and give her my congratulations. And I meant it. After all, this was what I wanted for her.

Outside the station we made some semi-awkward small talk while the Thursday night queue at a popular all-you-can-eat restaurant franchise steadily built up out the door near us. Families having finished their shopping, now lining up ready to gorge themselves at the communal trough for a fixed price. The Australian way. All class down the line. Maybe I am a snob after all. A bogan but not a bogan. A man of no tribe, not a good thing to be in this country. I told _The Lost Girl_ that The Bad Seeds were playing in a couple of days time. 'Would you like to come?. It'll be good, I promise' I say half- jokingly, then of course extoling the virtues of Mr Cave & co. I couldn't help myself. 'Yeah, I don't think so' she replied with a sad smile that spoke volumes.

I could see it then, the reasons why I'd lost her. She'd wanted me to change and I hadn't. She'd wanted me to set some concrete goals, so I'd be happier with myself, to get my eyes off the rear view mirror and look forward. To stop drifting from weekend to weekend. To find something with meaning past the next gig and fulfil the potential I had. Just to have a red-hot proper go for once. I couldn't see this when she first left me. She couldn't tell me, it was something I had to work out for myself. I'd wanted a hard and fast answer from her as to what I should fix, but there wasn't one. She'd even given me a second chance and more than enough time and I was oblivious. I couldn't have expected her to wait around indefinitely. There's few things in the world besides AC/DC that can remain a constant and prosper. And I'm not one of these things. And that being said, maybe even Angus Young realises that even he's going to have to hang up that schoolboy uniform at some point. I remember seeing him interviewed where he was asked when, or if, he ever planned on retiring it. He'd replied that he didn't want to appear like he was a 'dirty old man or anythin'.

'So Angus, do you think at 54 years of age that you might already be there?' Came the immediate follow up question. There was no response to this, but given that he consumes most of the cigarette he's smoking in one quiet drag (who still smokes in TV interviews?), it was obvious that the cogs were turning in his brain. Time had gotten away from him too.

Evolve or perish. Three years to realise this. Hardly an exploding lightbulb of epiphany.

I leave _The Lost Girl_ to make it to her physio appointment. 'It wasn't your fault you know' she says after me. 'You didn't do anything wrong.'

I can only smile weakly back at her. She's seen what I was thinking. I was always hopeless at poker. It's nice of her to say, even if it's not true. It doesn't make me feel any better though. Once again, I wondered who it really was that's _Lost_ as she disappeared from view down the stairs.

'I bet it was his fault' says a sullen teenage girl of about fifteen from the restaurant queue who's been listening in. She's quickly admonished by her mother. 'It's okay' I say as I pass them. 'I think she might be right.'

In the dying echoes of _The Mercy Seat_ I tell myself that maybe it's a timely reminder next time I look backwards maybe I need to look harder. Given that I don't intend to stop listening to my Bad Seeds records, I just hope there will come a day where that tune no longer reminds me of my own ignorance.

Now if this were some Hollywood fare, right at this moment a quiet, librarian-type young lady, whose calm and measured demeanour belies an insatiable thirst for Mogwai and Godspeed! You Black Emperor at ear-splitting volume would magically appear as if to validate the subtle mental shift I've just had.

Said young lady would also likely have an acute understanding of why _Rocky III_ is one of the greatest films ever committed to celluloid (or at least an understanding of why I believe it to be), and want to be with me because of my eccentricities and not in spite of them. All would be well in the world forever and a day after. And next time I'd do things better. But of course, it's not Hollywood, it's the Brisbane CBD and this mythical creature does not suddenly present herself. In fact, I've got severe doubts such a female exists within a very large radius of where I'm standing. It occurs to me there may not be a next time. If it's possible to compress the total window of opportunity you're allotted into an eighty minute rugby league match, I'd say I'm South Sydney at about seventy minutes in and about eighteen points behind on the scoreboard, without a clue as to how I can come back from here. Fucking Souths.

But then I see the band returning for an encore and I optimistically tell myself the music hasn't stopped just yet as the rumblings of _We Real Cool_ fill the air, with Nick reminding me Sirius is eight point seven light years away from here, Arcturus even further at thirty-seven. I interpret the tune to be about information staying around forever on the internet, our ease of accessing and believing it (irrespective of its accuracy), and finally our subsequent detachment under information overload. I think Arcturus is a little less than thirty-seven, but now what's a few fractions of a parsec between pals eh Nick? I looked it up on Wikipedia to find that out, I'm sure he'd appreciate the irony. Or maybe he wouldn't. Under Einstein's relativity theory an observer on Arcturus wouldn't see _The Lost Girl_ leave me for a period of more than my current lifespan again.

On Arcturus, I'm still an infant right now, and Ian Curtis is still alive. More than enough time to make a new start. Ah, the wheel still may be in spin, says Bob Dylan. I think of Boethius and _The Consolation of Philosophy_ and his _Fortuna Rota_..his wheel never stops.. ..mutability is our tragedy, but also our hope.. still, that didn't work out very well for him in the end if my reading of history is correct..

I hear a familiar bass line drifting in, and it wouldn't be a Nick Cave show without _Stagger Lee_ , such a treat as always to see this as the encore. Brilliant in every way, and I have to begrudgingly admit that Mr Keupper has been a big part of this. He can still piss off out of the Bad Seeds though.

# Epilogue

# October 2014

The South Sydney Rabbitohs play the Canterbury Bulldogs in the 2014 National Rugby League Grand Final. It's the first time they've been there for 43 years. The first time they'll be in a grand final where the red and green jersey can be seen on a colour television.

With the weight of history bearing down on their shoulders, they play with the all the desperation of the lost and the luckless.

And they win.

The masses of South Sydney supporters at the ground are overwhelmed with unadulterated joy, the years of heartbreak and frustration washed away. The lone figure of Russell Crowe in the stands, at peace at last, a quiet smile across his face as mayhem erupts around him. He may have detractors, but I doubt they'd be here today if it weren't for him.

Fucken' Souths no more, at least not until the next season. Now it's just Souths.

Boethius's wheel moves a fraction.

# ###

Thank you for reading my book. If you enjoyed it, won't you please take a moment to leave me a review at your favourite retailer?

Thanks!

Jez H

# About the Author

Jez Haldane is, and always has been, a music obsessive. When he's not working at his regular job, he can be found playing guitar very badly or tearing his hair out at South Sydney Rabbitohs games. Despite its faults, he still lives in Brisbane, Queensland Australia.
