I wanted to win the competition so bad. Seven straight shows at The Annandale, drinks tab each night, dinner, CDs, a recovery pack. Then I won it and all I could think was, “God I’m so tired.”
To celebrate five years since reopening as band venue The Annandale put on a weeks worth of killer bands from around the country. Feeling match fit from a weekend that had involved You Am I and a bottle of Irish whiskey, there was certain spring in my step as I headed into the venue on Tuesday night for the opening party, although that could have had a bit to do with free drinks. The joint next door has been knocked through and is now the entrance which gives extra room for perusing merch and escaping the maddening crowd.
The Dolly Rocker Movement were playing their sixties psychedelic garage sounds in the back bar, looking every bit like they’d stepped out of swinging London. Their raw, cool and very groovy sounds had the packed room feeling all loved up and euphoric. Again, that may have been due to the free drinks but the band were enjoyable. I spot David Reyne through the river of sideburns and denim walking past and can’t help asking him if it’s The Chantoozies or The Takeaways who are playing tonight. He doesn’t respond. I play a lot of the “I recognise them, who the hell are they again?” with myself. I stop when I get some looks returned that suggest there might be an AVO coming my way. There’re plenty of Stevie Wonders in the crowd, those people who move their head from side to side while talking, looking over shoulders to see who else is here.
The Holy Soul wear guitar noise like a loose fitting pair of jeans that are just snug enough where it counts. The funny thing about free beer is how fast you can drink it. I realise I’ve been here for a bit over an hour and I’ve been to the bar four times. Or is it five. Who cares right? This is rock and roll. Although it is a school night and I have work in the morning not mention I’m driving home. Maybe I should think about heading off… oooh look, it’s my FL editor and others from FasterLouder with my recovery pack. Wow, a hangover cure. Might as well give it a spin. Good thing too, I need a beer at least to make it through Pinky Tuscadero. They do this kitsch, gaudy rock pop that the B52s nailed twenty years ago and really, unless you’ve got something new to say comes off as dull. Maybe that was their goal, if so they pulled it off successfully. Painful.
78 Saab are a much better as a rock band than the sensitive acoustic strummers that played the Dome stage at Homebake last year. They prove that they are the good rock band I remember when they let themselves go, although it’s weird they’ve become more known for their version of Neil Young’s Rockin’ In the Free World than for their own songs. They play the cover as an encore and the crowd love it, until they realise the free beer has finally been turned off. I must be having fun because I’m happily buying beers, but then the bitter taste of responsibility rises in my throat and I head home.
I pull up a little dusty, but that’s nothing that few beers won’t fix. My old lady, the handbrake, the cheese and kisses, my better half, the trouble and strife, the ball and chain… ”Oh God here she comes, hello darling” has come down for Wednesday night’s show. Bit of dinner, catch up with some friends, shit my editor and other FLers are still here. The Annandale has continued it’s penchant for bad puns by renaming the Nosh Pit, the Wok and Roll. The Thai food is fresh and tasty, although I made a serious error in not ordering spring rolls (I consider myself something of a connoisseur of the spring roll you see).
Note to self. When I finally get my band started, which will be after I’ve learnt how to play and sing, don’t get Six Ft Hick to support. Hard, hard act to follow. Violence, nudity, self flagellation, masochism, and a two singers. Their buzzsaw rock is fun, but lacks hips and ultimately it’s the entertainment value of the brothers that makes the show. Walking down the bar, getting in the crowd, setting shaving foam on fire, it’s all part of the show. If they’re anything, it’s yelly. Dallas Crane on the other hand, such a great live band. Really great, not a next big thing great, but great like the best bands you’ve ever seen are great. Dave himself said, six hundred people jammed into a pub on a Wednesday night, incredible. The first seven or eight songs scorched. They finished with Dirty Heart, No Through Road and Ladybird. My ears were ringing the next day.
I realise I can’t communicate with the people at my real job. I haven’t told them about my busy week in case I need to pull an unrostered day off. It’s all about priorities. People are noticing the expanding rings under my eyes, but I fob them off with a sick three year old story. I sneak to the pub for a quiet one at lunch to lift my sprits.
Arriving late Thursday I’ve got that beer taste in the back of my throat and the only known way to lose it is to get back on the horse. I’m way match fit now. That drinks tab just dissolves without even making a dent in my sobriety. Cog must be popular because it’s packed. I’m obviously well out of the loop. I’ve never been a metal fan, in any of it’s forms, but these guys have hips. All music needs hips, especially metal. The crowd go nuts from the first song, which nicely coincides with me moving waaaaay back in the crowd. Just too damn old for moshing.
Friday’s usually see me like a coiled spring from a weeks worth of nasty paper cuts and staple sticks, ready to explode in an avalanche of schooner sized fury. This week, I’m happy to just ease on in. I nod to the security guy (it’s that guy from The Metro!), I sidle past the door chick flashing my pass and smile like I own the shop, I wink at the girls on the merch stand, basking in my smoothness. I trip up the new ramp, falling over in an ungraceful flurry of arms and legs and lay on the ground like a flipped turtle. Finally, I get up and limp off pretending like I don’t care. Jed from The Mess Hall is far to good looking than anyone has the right to be. Now there’s a man who can wear a t-shirt. The drummer is great too, big hair and immensely watchable. They play a great set from both albums. That Shake Shake song is a cracker. Gerling are weird, not eclectic or diverse, just unpleasantly weird. They pull a crowd of kids who love the funky, electro stuff and seem a bit bemused by the thrashy guitar gear, but they enjoy it fine. I snobbishly play pick the first time at The Annandale, however the irony of me here on my own critiquing people who are having fun with their friends over takes me. I’m old and just want to be able to get to the toilet when I need to. Death to the Apple Girl is great, but the gimmickery is annoying. I angrily finish my drink tab and storm out, then come back and pay for a few before leaving again.
Finally, a no work day. I’d bask in my hangover except the ability to get drunk has left me. I can’t get the cigarette and beer smell out of my gig clothes. My plan to not change them for the duration of the week seems dumb now. I pledge to get a early start so I can do the job properly for Birdman tonight. Now I’m as big a fan of the Annandale as anyone, but when it’s all bulging doors from the vast numbers inside it’s frightening. I try to communicate that I have a bar tab, but I can’t get it across. I try to find a spot to stand but the river of old rockers filing past seems to follow me everywhere. The Specimens are loud. The bass vibrates my ear drums, chest and loins to point of deafness, cardiac arrest and sterility. They’re brash and irresistible, the perfect fit for Radio Birdman. These craggy old legends may not evoke the same violence at their shows, but the music remains as menacing as ever. It’s impossible to imagine the front row not cut and bleeding from Deniz Tek’s sharp, pointy guitar stabs. Rusty Hopkinson looks at home on drums and Rob Younger pulls out those crazy Ian Curtis dance bits. It’s hot, urgent and claustrophobic, and those old rockers shake of their shackles for New Race and Aloha and the second cover of The Stooges’ Search and Destroy I’ve heard in a week (You Am I played a scorching version the Saturday night prior as well).
Absolutely cactus, the Sunday program eluded me. I have no doubt Spurs for Jesus and Decoder Ring were both great, they always have been, but my stamina was tested and found to be lacking. Thank you to Matt and Dan for getting the Annandale out of the hands of poker machines and back into the grubby paws of rock and roll. After this week long stint, fuck this, I’m going home.
