St Kilda’s Esplanade Hotel is riddled with rock’n’roll history – something that’s mentioned regularly whenever some greedy developer suggests either bulldozing the pub itself, or putting an enormous plywood strength high density apartment block next to the dear ol’ Espy.  Unfortunately the Espy is a bloody long way from my house – a solid 45 minutes on public transport – and the tyranny of distance tends to dissuade me from venturing there on a regular basis.

But Saturday night was an occasion sufficiently notable to drag us across town.  I’m not sure if The Sand Pebbles or Black Cab have played in any other Australian capital city – both have an enigmatic quality about them (particularly Black Cab), yet each are brilliant for similar and different reasons.

We arrived at the Espy around 10pm, after a very functional trip on the tram.  St Kilda is not the den of iniquity that is once was (and that some older rockers remember romantically) – Fitzroy Street is dominated by lights, al fresco dining and smart casual attire, and there’s no sign – superficially at least – of sex workers, intravenous drug use or other manifestations of life’s rich tapestry.  The Espy itself has just be refurbished – but the main public bar still retains that aggregation of beer, sweat and rock’n’roll.

The first beer was the obligatory opening a Cooper’s Sparkling Ale – too many of these 6% gems and things can get very, very nasty, but a few choice indulgences can make a good night even better.  We stood at the rear of the room to hear The Dust, a band I’d heard of, but never heard in person before.  The sound – as far as we could discern it above the din of noise – was dreamier than we’d prefer, but still tight.   There were two keyboards on show, something that can mess with a band’s performance, without proper attention and management.

Next up were The Zillions, apparently heralding from the UK (I did wonder if their published geographic origin was to disguise the fact they were actually English backpackers conscripted from a local youth hostel).  My fellow punter muttered “these guys are probably quite good, if we can be bothered getting close”, but we never mustered the enthusiasm to shift ourselves closer to the action. 

The Sand Pebbles arrived on stage sometime after 11pm.  In an industry dominated by bands trying to carve out a small niche of commercial success in an environment permeated by coke-fuelled hyperbole, aging A&R dicks with ponytails and receding hairlines and air kisses and fake love, The Sand Pebbles stand apart.  They know their stuff, they play for the love of the music, and they don’t need to sell records to live.  The music is referred to cryptically as ‘flower punk’ – what Iggy Pop, Lou Reed, Johnny Thunders, John Lydon or even Jello Biafra would think of the juxtaposition of floral tributes and anti-establishment attitude, I don’t know.  But it’s an apt description of the band’s music – it’s flowery ‘cause it’s comforting, but it’s punk because it doesn’t conform. 

Tonight was the band’s last performance for some months, due to keyboardist Murray Ono’s impending departure to Norway for 6 months.  Chris Hollows (former St Kilda FC utility, and sometime Neighbours scriptwriter) said the band would be playing its recorded but unreleased new album – for which a title hadn’t been settled but suggestions were welcome.  Some of the songs we’d heard before – 1000 Flowers has been a staple of the band’s live set for almost twelve months, a classic Pebbles wig-out with superb Won’t Get Fooled Again-like keyboard moments (every time I hear it I expect Roger Daltrey to burst from the shadows with an ear piercing scream). 

On stage left Ben Michael – head script writer with Neighbours, and a man whose music knowledge puts most of us to absolute shame – stands back to audience, interacting with his amplifier in an ongoing quest to find the strange effects with which to ice his flowerpunking riffs.  Andrew Tanner’s voice is perfectly suited to the Pebbles’ music – a slight falsetto to match Ono’s keyboards, and a contrast to Ben Michael’s dirty guitar. 

The end of the set came with the 12 minute Black Sun Ensemble, a superb wigging end to a perfectly wigged show.  This version departed from previous versions I’d seen and heard – some rockier moments, but still possessing the same fluctuations in tempo, amplitude and attitude that much it such a great song.

Black Cab came on after the clock metaphorically struck midnight (in fact, it was way after midnight, but I was almost scared to ask anyone the time – as I contemplated my duties the next morning).  Tonight saw Ash Naylor (recently cropped) on guitar, and the absolutely brilliant Richard Andrew on drums (any band that has Andrew is worthy of seeing – just for his drumming alone).  Despite the suggestion that they’d done their last performance of their Altamont Diary concept album (if you ever see this album, buy it – they don’t come much better than this), tonight’s set featured much of the album.  Black Cab is about creating a transfixing mood – if you ever needed a soundtrack to the tension between optimism, tragedy and despair that is – or was – the Death of the American Dream in the late 1960s (epitomised by Altamont) it’s Black Cab.  Some have compared them (favourably) to Primal Scream, and that’s a very fair call.   Tonight we get some Altamont Diary songs, and some new songs – all of which are just as engaging.

Like so many great bands, Black Cab put on a performance, not a selection of songs.  This is indulgence as a virtue – no solos as such, but everybody featuring.  The singer hold the microphone stand, Jim Morrison-like, only deciding to open his mouth when the need arises – yet he’s never superfluous, part of the broader aesthetic of the show.  The set finishes with a cover – I think it was The Grateful Dead’s New Speedway Boogie, but I’m happy to be corrected – and we are all left perfectly content. 

Finally we dare to look at the time 2.45am.  Ouch.  I do some quick sums and realise I’ll have a maximum of 5 hours (but more like 4) sleep before I’ll have to be up making breakfast for my children – but I’m used to that now (one day someone will start a FL thread about mixing responsible parenting with live rock’n’roll moments).   But absolutely nothing could detract from the enjoyment of this gig.  Quality, unsurpassable quality.