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Harry | 24th November 2006

Disclaimer: Even though a “blog” is supposed to be a ‘Personal web Log” I have wondered whether I should post the stuff in this blog because it is maybe too personal. But then again, my blog started off addressing friends and I have never really felt like it has changed much as I have written it. Sure, I have gained quite a few more readers, who I don’t know over the year I have been doing it, and have had some links from Russell’s HARD NEWS which have increased the traffic, but that hasn’t fundamentally changed my view of it.
I still feel like it is for my friends, and if anyone else wants to read it, so be it.

And this blog is about Harry, who a few people, who are strangers, have kind of adopted online anyway.

I was concerned also because the blog is often just so trivial and flippant and this is blog is so NOT like that.
But then again, the stuff I write about Harry, even if it is funny, has a serious heart or at least a true heart and is always to some extent very serious too..

So reader beware: this blog is a very personal weblog that has a seriously true heart and low level flippancy (if you want to read something flippant check my blogs on politics or something that really doesn’t matter)

If you dont know Harry, links to blogs about him are below:

Pre-birth:
Fatherhood
Antenatal Class
Naming the baby
The birth:
A nice man Cometh / it's Alive!!
Harry
Harry's Smile
Harry Crawls

...................THE TROUBLE WITH HARRY

Harry is crawling like maniac now, not a mad maniac, but kind of a mincing one.
Gay, kind of mincing. Not that I am homophobic, it is just that while I am at work I hear from Mrs K, how he loves going to Smith and Caughey’s and how he enjoyed it at the hairdressers with Mummy, and I fret a little.
”Where the balance!” I say. imagining a night with my friends watching boxing.
Mind you I was encouraged by his delight recently, at the portable drill.

A few weeks ago as Harry crawled with his superbly mincing gait towards me, in the dim light of the corridor and I saw something funny in his eye. I had glimpsed it before, a phantom whispy thing, but now I could see it clearly.
A white thing.
I didn’t like it.
I told the wife and she said she had seen it too.
”Take him to the doctor.” Said his Dad.
”Don’t worry about it.” Said Mum.
”It will be nothing..”
But he had a fairly deep cough so a couple of days later he went to the doctor anyway.
The doctor didn’t like what she saw in his eye either and we were soon scheduled an appointment at an eye specialist.

I was on the motorway when my wife called me after the check up.
She offered up a superficial report on the examination and then there was a silence, I knew from experience, the pause was a sign she was upset.
I would have to prompt her to speak;
”What is it? What’s the matter?”
“the specialist said…… it could be a tumor.”
That final word hit my as solidly as a block of stone, my head reeled and I pulled over to the side of the road.
”A Tumor?”
”The eye specialist said that the worst case scenario is that it could be a tumor and she wants to take him into the hospital for a closer examination.”

And so it began..
The trouble is with ‘worse case scenarios’ is that, as a parent, somehow that is all you can think about.
It doesn’t matter how many times someone will say;
“Don’t worry mate. I’ll be nothing.”
You can’t help but imagine what will happen if things turn out badly.

The examination was on the following Monday morning at Greenlane Hospital.
Even the fact that Harry had to go under a general anaestetic was a worry, but the nurses and everyone were uniformly excellent, so we were sufficiently reassured when they took him away.
Then the wait. Or what would be the first of several such waits as this thing panned out.
Waiting for news of this sort is terrible. Nothing can distract your mind from pondering the worst. Womans Day articles that are usually wonderfully distracting at the traditional time-dragging zones, like the doctors room or at the airport, provided nothing.
The combined lives of Katie, Tom, Nicole, Karl or even Brad and Angelina, that are either; fabulously exciting or self-absorbed and vaccous, received barely a fleeting glance…
Flipped through and discarded in seconds..

The eye specialist said she would come and tell us as soon as it was over but the time dragged on well past the estimate she had given us, and I knew the news wasn’t good when she told us we should “go downstairs and get comfortable before we have a chat.”
Never had ‘getting comfortable’ sounded so frightening.

She confirmed our worst fears.
Harry had a tumor in his right eye.
The tumor is called a Retinoblastoma that only occurs in children before the age of three and the most likely treatment option was to remove the eye.
But, the more terrifying thing, the thing that seemed almost inconcievable, was the chance it had spread somewhere else in his body, and because the eye is connected directly into the brain through the optic nerve, the most likely thing was it had spread to his brain.
We reeled, again.
A lifetime without it and now suddenly, we seemed to reel every couple of days.

The specialist explained (very well.very professionally) the options/scenarios/likely outcomes and treatments. And still, we reeled.

Harry had cancer. How could that be? He is only ten months old and his body seems as pure and healthy as a body could be.
It just didn't seem right.

The next stage was a range of tests including an MRI scan, but because of a misunderstanding, they were finally scheduled almost a week away.
So we were left with cancer in Harry’s eye, the possibility it was somewhere else and a wait for what seemed like forever, until the next stage.

I don’t think anything can really prepare you for this sort of thing and we have gone though every sort of emotion and thought process imaginable, trying to fathom it all out, to make sense of it, to quantify it and work through the situation..

As someone who vaguely believes in the concept of karma, I have to wonder exactly what we have done wrong deserve this..
I mean I have had what I guess could be called a ‘colourful life’ but I have never really done anything too awful.. The occasional hapless drunken attempt to convert a car to drive home in, when I was younger but nothing harmful..
I don’t think I’m too bad a bloke.
As for Mrs K, her life is almost completely blameless.
If you had a party for people SHE had offended in her life you could host it in a toilet, and even then it would be a fizzer.
and what exactly has Harry been up to receive a bung eye.. His nappies can smell awful but …..

But no one ever really deserves somehthing like this, it is just fate or the lottery that the whole mess of things we call life is. You just have to try and cope and get on with it, roll with the punches and do your best.. (and, other cliches).
We have been forced to go some pretty dark places and to contemplate the unthinkable; Harry dying. Or maybe something even worse; Harry forced to endure something painful and horrible - then dying.
But you can’t dwell on that all the time, because it’s too awful.
You develop a kind of survival denial. Erect barriers around the truth because if you dwell on it and sink into that kind of thought pattern, it will just consume you.
Not that you ever really forget about it, and I guess, in a sense, denial is the wrong word, because you are always processing the facts or THE FACT on some level, it is just not always on the surface.

Sometimes, a lot of the time, you even feel completely normal, sometimes even happy. It’s weird.

Occasionally you forget about the obvious for a long while so that when it comes into your mind again, it is like you have found it anew and it just seems completely surreal.
A friend organized a makeover for Mrs K to make her feel better, afterwards we went to a movie and then had some wine and seafood antipasto at a restaurant.
It was like our old life again pre-Harry.
On the way back it just suddenly struck me again, between the eyes.
Our son has cancer.
If it has gone into his brain, he will probably die.
Wow. I felt sick.

And one of the ways our friends were called on to help us out was to distract us, even if it was only for a while.
One night Mark, Rachel and Steve came to visit. Steve did what he can do best and cooked up a storm. He also brought three examples of what Withnail would call “The finest wine known to humanity”(Pinot Noir). Which was pretty bloody distracting, believe me. We argued about music and for a brief while, edged thoughts about Harry back a little. Not entirely of course and a toast to him was hearty, heartfelt and full of love.

The stadium debate helped too. I could not ignore the ludicrous antics of a council which, when given two options to choose from, picked another one. (Carlaw Park). So thanks due there, you completely dysfunctional nutters. Also special mention to George Wood, who said the stadium process has to be SLOWED DOWN.

It is said that this sort of thing demonstrates what you are made of, well I seem to be made of water, judging from the amount of crying I have been doing.
But crying is good.
Crying is essential.
Like most things designed by nature, it serves it’s function perfectly. When emotions overwhelm you, something has to give and you cry, and I feel very sorry for people who can’t cry, because all that stuff, all that tension, those powerful emotions have to go somewhere, and as they say – ‘better out than in’.
So I cried with family and friends, cried alone in the car and cried late at night when I couldn’t sleep.

Colin Meads would have been appalled.

Once, just before bedtime I was set off by the sight of Harry’s toys strewn on the floor.
They suddenly took on so much “Harryness” and emotion, and looked so desolate and sorry.
Anyone who has watched ‘Toy Story’ will know how lonely they would be, without their little buddy.
Harry’s current favourite, is the perennial kiwi classic - the buzzy bee. It’s noisy clacking brings squeals of delight when parading past on the floor. But without Harry it would swiftly become an iconic annoyance whose distinctive infernal racket would see it thrown on the toy scrapheap forever. Destined to clack no more.
No wonder I cried, how bloody sad.

People all over the place have been praying for us. My mother in law is a Headmistress at a primary school, so we even have the catholic church on our side.
Even I have been praying.
Not to the big guy with the white beard, who lives in the clouds in Monty Python skits. That would just be too hypocritical.
Ignore him for years and suddenly tap him on the back and say;
”Excuse my bro…Sorry I haven’t been in touch..but I need a bit of a favour..”
No. My prayers have been more like a fathers anguished scream to the cosmos. Like the Edvard Munch painting, but with crying too.
and, a plea to the universe’s sense of fair play.
Come on man, Give us a break!
And in our darkest hour, when things just seemed too impossibly ugly and deparate we have simply mumbled to each other that timeless mantra of the disgruntled child;
”It’s not fair..”
as though someone can come along and sort the whole mess out..

And meantime, in the middle of this maelstrom of emotion, love and anguish Harry has been... well, just Harry.
Completely normal. The gorgeous, happy, sweet little kid he has always been.
If anything, if it is possible, he has become even cuter than before. He is babbling more than ever and he is now reacting more to you.
When I come home he scrambles, straight away, up to me, raises his arms and bounces on his haunches for dad.
And he must wonder what all the fuss is about. The extra hard cuddles. Waking up at night to find mummy staring into his cot....

The day of the various tests to see if the cancer had spread, my emotional defences came tumbling down. All that being strong stuff takes so much energy and even if you are practicing a form of survival denial, it’s pretty hard to deny an MRI scan.
So Mrs K and I were fairly wrought by the time we got to take him into hospital.
My wife’s parents, who have offered amazing support during all of this, accompanied us.

Firstly, we had to go to the oncology ward at The Starship hospital and I can tell you, visiting that place can be fairly humbling. If you are under any illusion that you are the only ones going through this sort of crap, go there. There were kids there with all sorts of problems. A three month old with a tumor on her arm and various bald kids who had obviously had chemotherapy, but played and carried on as though everything was completely normal. and of course many parents. Parents just like us who looked incredibly fraught but put on a brave face for the kids, even though they may have been facing far worse scenarios than we were..

I think the wait during the MRI scan was possibly the worst time during this whole thing for me. It took an hour longer than they first said so I naturally assumed they had found something large and ghastly.
Then after the long walk back to the oncology ward we had to wait for a meeting with the oncologist.
When a nurse arrived to tell us we would talk to a geneticist as well, my heart sank.
Why would we have to speak to one of them if it was good news?
Then, when we walked into the meeting, the social worker we had met earlier was there as well.
I felt sick. Why was he there? I hated that guy. Not personally, but what he represented which I assumed was bad news, terrifying news.
My head was swimming, and we reeled (as usual). The oncologist started the meeting by introducing herself, giving us her history blah blah blah. Then she asked who everyone was, what we did etc.. etc..
You know chit chat..
In the meantime, I was going crazy.
Why didn’t she tell us if Harry had cancer anywhere else? For gods sake..
I thought she was even going to ask us which sort of car we preferred.. Ford or Holden?
or which stadium option we liked….(Who here is circumcised?)etc etc...

Eventually, she told us we would have to wait till the next Tuesday for the results, because she wouldn’t want to speculate until a radiologist studied them..
It was hideous.

Another wait. 5 days, and yet another weekend where we had to try and distract our thoughts from the obvious.

On the Tuesday we got the results in a way that was almost an anticlimax. The eye surgeon talked to us about the eye removal procedure and then at the finish simply said;
”I hope you understand everything. Are there any questions?”
The ungrateful, witheringly sarcastic side of me (horribly unused lately) felt like saying;
“Yes. I’ve got one. It a pretty good one too.. Is our son going to die a horribly premature death because his body is riddled with cancer?”
but I maintained some composure and asked if anymore meetings were scheduled for us that day.
”Ah No. You can go if you like.”
I pressed on;
”It’s just that we were told that today is the day we would find out the results of the MRI scan on his body and we would really, REALLY like to find that out.”

“Oh Ok. I suppose I could have a look. See if it’s come through..”
"Oh. Go on. "
He fiddled about on his computer.
”ah Here it is. Ahh looks ok. I think. Ahh yeah it is ok. Clear. That is..”
And so, even though the result was what we wanted , it was just strange to recieve the news in that way..
I had been so focussed on this moment. The moment of truth you might say... and to have it delivered in such an offhand manner was weird. It was one of the most important moments in our life. I expected at least some importance placed on it by the health system....
A meeting, some esteemed doctor (an entourage even, sweeping in majestically) saying;
”We are please to inform you that your MRI scan is clear and your son will live.”
We would drop to our knees and look to the heavens. There would be general applause, someone would open some champagne, there will streamers, Paul Holmes will shove his way in with a microphone..…

…At least that’s the way it played out in my head the countless times I had been through the moment.
As it was we just felt numb, and tired. Sure we were relieved but the way it happened was unexpected.
Much like our life lately really. Unexpected, too bloody unexpected.

Exactly three weeks ago all that concerned me was not having enough money to pay some bill and the registration on the car.
Then I received THAT phone call from Mrs K on the motorway and now I am in a situation where THE GOOD NEWS is that Harry is having his eye removed in the morning.
It’s insane.
and when we first received the news of the possibility of the tumor I stood with Mrs K’s father, who is a GP, in the definitive kiwi male environment – a beer in hand around the Barbie, and he broke the news that Harry could lose an eye and I my eyes watered, showing what a sook I am.
A few weeks later and I am saying;
”I couldn’t care less about that eye. I’m over that eye. It’s been nothing but trouble.”
So that is an indication of how far things have gone. How quickly the stakes were raised, so that we were eventually worried about the whole of Harry, not just his eye.

But now that we know Harry is safe and we are facing the removal of the eye, I understand how stupid the offhand stuff about the eye is as well.
It’s been a great eye. It’s watched me come in to check him at night and gazed upon my lovely wife as she gives him a feed.
It’s a beautiful eye.
The weird thing is you can see the cancer in it. It is clearly visible there. Nature's most diabolical perversion. The devil incarnate, that awful mutation.

The last day of Harry’s right eye was, of course hard. Another set of emotions I would hopefully never encounter again. Fear about the operation. Grief about the eye, but thankfully, no reeling. At least we knew what we were here for.

Of course picking him up from the surgical ward after the operation was awful; our child who had often seemed such a big boy recently. looked so small on the big hospital bed, a bandage on his eye, or rather where his eye used to be..
But, we had him back, he was still ours.

He slept most of the day, for hours and hours, and we, together with my father and mother-in-law kept a quiet vigil by the bed. When he did wake up he would cry and then suckle on his mums breast and then go back to sleep.
With him wrapped tightly to avoid him ripping the eye bandages off, it was like when he was just born again.

But around 5 in the afternoon he stayed awake for a while longer and had a feed of some solids.
Then I got a precious little smile. A smile straight into his dads funny face that showed me Harry was ok, that he was back..
Soon, he was crawling down the corridor like a crazy kid and giggling wildly, the nurses fell one by one to his considerable charms and we felt an amazing sense of joy and relief.

In terms of cockle warming moments, that one was probably as good as when he was born.
He was going to be ok.
The truth is harry probably won't be slowed down by this at all. It may have screwed with our lives but he'll be just fine. He has so much spunk, fun and life in him it's probably just as well he has some sort of handicap, just to give those other kids a chance.

We would like to thank everyone who has offered support and love and prayers to us during all this ( the love TXT rules OK). Family, friends, people have been amazingly kind. And believe me when I say that it has all helped. Just to know someone has our back, and that people are there for us, has been wonderful. Friends have sent us cards, flowers, toys; they have cooked food and offered to clean our house. One friend simply sent us an email and asked for our bank account number to deposit some ‘koha’. Which absolutely blew us away, being – kind, generous AND practical (The Trifecta!). Mostly people just sent their love and that was enough because it meant we knew we weren’t alone in this, that help was at hand.
My wife's Mum and Dad were at our side at all times through this and absolutely there to do anything. Incredible.
But really, no one could face the truth FOR us and it was Mrs K and I that, in the end, had to go through this.
A tribute then, to my wonderful wife. What an incredible, remarkable woman she is.
and to think. . . when I met her that night at the Kings Arms I just thought she was just a hot, interesting babe, who for some reason liked to talk to me..
Shows what I know....
As for me, I just feel very, very lucky. Some people go through this stuff and don't have a good result. They lose their kids. And I was shown what a blessing that damn kid is and given a glimpse of my world, without Harry (A miserable empty affair it looked like too). Nothing makes you appreciate or realise how much you love your kids, what they represent to you or how much meaning they give to your life more than the thought of losing them.
and I have realised that everything in my life has brought me to this point and that nothing in my life comes close to being a dad.
I love being a dad.
I love being Harry’s dad.
It’s the coolest job in 'our whole weird world'
..and,
.. it’s still mine.
Yay!

(Below: The last known photo of the Poo Poo Boy before he became a swashbuckling pirate)

"Arrrgh ...Good Times ahead Daddy!"
said Poo Poo the Pirate Boy.

"As far as the eye can see m'boy!"
Said Captain Kumara.

(ps. Check out the title of my last blog. Bizzare coincidence or what?!)

guy fawkes | 1st November 2006

....."It's all good fun till someone loses an eye"


........................


There is a poster, on disused walls around town at the moment for a concert by a selection of bands and one of them is called “Shithawkes”
I wonder cynically, whether the name refers to the dull, safety obsessed, timerous wee festival that Guy Fawkes has devolved into.
...and I lament the celebrations of old because, when I was a kid it was a gloriously exciting time of the year.

The night itself was a great family time as cousins, aunties and nanas congregated to celebrate with things that go bang in the night.
Mostly I remember a lot of waiting until we could start.
”When dad, when.” Said kids everywhere, with the frustrated stamping of feet.

But the real fun for naughty, adventure seeking boys like I was, occurred in the weeks preceding the actual festive night, in exploding pockets of danger throughout the land.
If you have watched Andrew Moore’s excellent Documentary on skateboarding "No More Heroes" you will know the scene at that time.
Skivvies, flared trousers, daggy hair.
Otherwise the feel of the seventies is captured in another great movie Richard Linklaters “Dazed and Confused” (also special mention to Rob Reiners “Stand by Me” which has the definitive portrayal of kids growing up and having adventures)

In those days, at a certain time of the day, after school and before dinner, as you cycled through the suburbs, the smell of gunpowder hung around every corner, underneath every poorly built tree hut and down the banks by the creek, at every park.
Meanwhile, the hills would be alive, not with the ‘Sound of Music’, but with the sound of explosions.
Bang..bang… Bang …bang ..bang bang …BANG
(Just in case you don’t know what I mean)
and every once and a while a - BANG!….as some lucky bastard detonates a “Mighty Cannon” or a “Thunder Cracker”.

Most boys around my age were experts on the various fireworks. Impassioned debate raged throughout the playgrounds of West Auckland about which cracker was the mightiest, the most powerful.
My friends and I finally conducted tests to establish the truth for once and for all. We threw the firework contestant into a steel pipe and placed a can on the top.
Which ever cracker made the can go highest was the best.
Mighty Cannon vs Thunder Cracker!

It was eventually determined that the large thunder cracker that you could buy almost anywhere was not as powerful as the one which was slightly smaller, that could be purchased at the far dairy at the Roberts Road shops.
This theory was placed under further scrutiny when further rigorous tests were carried out at our testing range, on the clay bank at the rear of the school grounds. Each cracker was embedded level with the ground and carefully detonated. The size of the crater was then measured.
This confirmed our suspicions, and our results were published before the early morning “Bullrush” game at our school and spread by ‘bike telegraph’ through the playgrounds at schools in West Auckland.

News of our findings eventually reached one Jimmy McNiff (Real name not included).
Mc Niff was a troubled kid who I suspect may have been abused in some way at home, he was definitely abused everywhere else.
I say his home environment was a bit ropey because I once went around there after school and there was stew on the wall from a fight his parents had the night before.
and it stayed there forever.

Maybe I was being judgemental but I was fairly sure the stew on the wall wasn’t a great sign.

McNiff was one of those people who are compulsive liars.
If you said you had been up in a helicopter, he would say he had flown one.
Years later at a High School PE lesson someone asked him how he got some scratches on his arse and he said he was screwing a girl at a school disco when the strobe lights blew up and shards scarred his rear.
Yeah, he may have been told tales but at least they were good ones.

Anyway, we saw him one afternoon and he approached us full of crap as usual.
“Hey Kumara!”
“What?”
“I heard about ya crackers test thing.”
“yeah.. and?”
“I can get a better one than those ones. My uncle works at the fireworks factory..”
It was true that the Universal Fireworks factory that made most of New Zealand’s fireworks was in McCleod Rd, in the hood..
“It’s like an experimental one… and if you lend me your bike I can go and get it..”
“No way man.”
My bike was a glorious thing that had a banana seat and ape hangers. It was my pride and joy and there was no way I would let him have it…
“Come on man..”
But…. McNiff was persuasive..
“I’ll be back in ten minutes. It will blow your can to bits.”
“Only ten minutes you say..”
“Yeah. Just down the road.
“well….”
I was always gullible and the thought of the mightiest Thunder Cracker in the land was intoxicating, so I let him have the bike.

Bloody McNiff. I didn’t see my bike for days, and then Tony Roberts told me he was telling everyone he had brought it off me for all this money. I went round to his house but his Dad told me it was Henry’s bike.
I didn’t want to have stew thrown at me, so I left.
Eventually I had to steal my own bike back off him from the bike shed at school.

But then later, a strange thing happened. He turned up at my mates place, where we used to hang out, with a weird thunder cracker. A cursory examination by our team of fireworks experts confirmed it was of foreign origin.

We took it to the test site.

Once there, we stuck it in the clay bank and prepared to light it.
“You’ll have to stand further back than that.”
Said the lying bounder, which added to the tension.
And the bloody thing blew the biggest hole we had ever seen.

Once we calmed back down, we realized we wanted more.
“I’ll get you some more if I can have your bike again.”
Said Mc Niff.
While I was gullible, I wasn’t a complete moron so I refused and, he never got us another, single one of his Super Thunder Crackers.
The season finished and as you can imagine Mc Niff’s cracker entered into the fantasy world of playground legend and became something bigger than it probably was, and of course when ever McNiff lied about something you weren’t too sure if it was true.
Even now as I retell the story I wonder where the hell he got it from..

SO .. all these years later I can finally write down the results..

The Official Jimi Kumara Fire Cracker Hierachy :-

Tom Thumb > Double Happy > Mighty Cannon > Thunder Cracker A > Roberts Road Thunder Cracker > Henry Mc Niff the lying bastards Mysterious Wonder Thunder.

Not all of the kids play with fireworks was of an experimental or scientific nature, most of the time, there were just random acts of silliness OR, extremely focused acts of silliness, like those that occurred around local boy, Johnny “Skyrocket” Smith.

His parents called him John But I think he insisted on Johnny because he thought it sounded more interesting ( IN the same way that writer Ronald Dahl changed his first name to Roald)
Frankly, Johnny was an idiot, but then he came from a family of idiots.

When the Smith’s arrived in the neighbourhood from England we were in the grip of trolley fever and his dad wanted to ingratiate him with our group of friends so he built him a trolley too.
Unfortunately he used castors for all four wheels.
So it was completely unsteerable. It was like trying to race downhill on an office chair.
I remember crying with laughter.

Anyway Johnny was the kid who wanted to take the ‘Sky’ out of Skyrocket,
His thing, was to aim them much more horizontally than they were intended, at stuff like ‘houses’ and ‘cars’.
It was always great fun to briefly hang out with Johnny during the Guy Fawkes season because you always knew something would happen and go horribly wrong.

You know that thing that happens when you light the fireworks and you are not sure if it’s going to go off or not?
Where you aren’t certain whether to go forward and check it out or not.

Well that always happened to John Smith, and he always went forward, and the bl**dy thing would always go off, when he went to pick it up.
In fact, I think that’s probably how he discovered that the common skyrocket was criminally wasted aimed vertically, as is prescribed, to shoot upwards to fade to a small point in the sky and explode with the distant ‘pop’.
Smith had discovered it was much more interesting if it snaked off wildly, to hurtle towards the living room window of the scary family next door or towards a stand of tinder dry bushland.

The best time I witnessed ‘Smiths Folly’ first hand was when we accompanied him, at dusk, to the top of the big Waikumete hill.
He brazenly lit two skyrockets in the gutter and aimed them down the wide road towards the approaching traffic.
They snaked off in a superbly, out of control, unhinged way. Cars veered, and we did what kids do best in that sort of situation…
- Took off in the other direction on our bikes, fast.
God knows what happened to that guy, but you would hope he got a job as a gunner in the navy, because he would have been excellent at it.

My own favourite cracker game involved one person from our gang of three building a small bridge over a little clay precipice with Ice Block sticks, twigs, string etc while the other two had to make it collapse with the least ‘Double Happies’ crackers.
If I was playing it now I would call it the “Bridge On The River Kwai” game.
My bridge was always the easiest to destroy because all I really cared about was blowing them up, While the others spent an age constructing theirs;
Focused, inscrutable, careful, patient and Alex Guiness or Obi Wan Kenobi like….

I look back on that stuff and compare it with a kids life today. Of a modern environment where the government are even considering legislating against the incredible danger that lies latent in a cream donut and am amazed with what we were allowed to do. Modern children are raised in such a cotton wool environment it is hard to imagine lobbing a Double Happy in there or even a Tom Thumb.
And I know it may seem absurd, but it is with a genuine sense of melancholy and sadness that I realize that my son will never grow up to be allowed to use fireworks irresponsibly like we did.

Yesterday a guy on radio warned about the incredible danger posed by a Bl**dy sparkler.
Imagine how lame it would have been in my day turning up at our test range wielding one of them;
”Stand back! I have a sparkler.”
Tragic.

The Don | 5th October 2006

...................................The Don

Events in the political arena plus the sudden appearance of modern art in the media has inspired me to produce an art work of my own. It has always appealed, being an artist; all that mooning about in the studio in Barcelona, hanging out with poets and behaving appallingly with wives and long suffering companions…
I could throw grandiose tantrums and brood which Byronic intensity, while seeking inspiration.
The art itself would be a mere formality.
I will be a modern artist because as long as I had an explanation for it I could get away with anything, or nothing. All that older stuff, like the works from the High Rennaissance just look like hard work. I would have to learn to actually paint to do that, rather than just being able to crap on, something I am excellent at.
My first piece is below. My perfectly pitched representation of the leader of the opposition. Strong, erect, and yet slightly overdone and vaguely absurd.

..........
............................... "Don Brash", 2006.
...........Toast on Toast. 5” x 4" (273 x 212 cm). Kumara Art Center, .......,,,,,,,,,,....Auckland. 2006. ©2006 Jimi Kumara

The depiction is obviously middle class. The bread employed is of course Freya’s, where as a working class subject like, someone from the progressive picket line, would be one of those loaves of "Mighty Whitey" that are always $1 from the local dairy.
Don is, of course, resolutely main stream. In fact if someone hasn’t invented the phrase:
“He’s as mainstream as a piece of toast.” Well they have now.
As soon as someone more ruthless and single minded feels like it, he will be devoured, with little in the way of a struggle (John Key, sharpen your knife).

I can scarcely be bothered exhibiting it in New Zealand. The primitive souls will lack the sophistication required to appraise such a work. Once the f*ckers on talkback find out how much it was going to cost Te Papa to buy, their will be an outrage.
I’ll call it an “Installation” which will piss them off even more, and raise the price tag.
”It’s just a bit of toast!”
“I could have done that.”
“Gainsborough. That’s what I call art.”
”Modern rubbish …”
etc…
Yes. I will take it straight to MOMA in New York. As soon as they find out I’m a Maori I should have no problem getting it in.
Mind you I have a small problem. My son Harry, has demonstrated a brutal appreciation of fine art and has eaten the piece.

Still, as long as they have a toaster in New York, I can just make a new one.
”Fresh art makes me feel like shitting.” I can say squatting.
“He’s a true primitive..” They will whisper in hushed tones, blinking through the New Zealand wool descending over their eyes…

But Don Brash is toast now isn’t he? It is just a matter, of the National Party waiting a length of time, which accords him the right degree of respect.
The fact that Labour are goading them to replace him further complicates matters. If they do get rid of him it could seem like they are doing what Labour want. God knows what Labour’s game is?
I can't beleive Labour are clever enough to be playing some kind of double feint trick. But if I was them I would absolutely want Brash there as leader of the opposition. Just when Labour seems on the ropes he comes along and stuffs it all up.
His latest blunder; that reliable old fall back for him that has worked so well in the past “The Orewa Speech (Slight return)”
Voicing that old red neck standard;
“How many REAL maori’s are there anyway?”
“There’s no full blooded Maoris left.. bla bla..”
Which managed to offend almost everyone, except for the people who would vote for him regardless (waiting dutifully at the urinal at the RSA).
Does he have any advisors? It’s ridiculous. They should at least have a permanent "foot minder", at the ready when he moves to shove the thing in his mouth. Mind you, they would have to be bloody fast becasue he's brilliant at it. Mostly they can be there to pull it out again, as quickly as possible.

As for the Exclusive Brethren has there ever been a group that want to “Keep to themselves” and remain “private” that are worse at it?
They are in the news EVERY DAY. Every outlet, everywhere.
Mind you, they kind of gave up their right to privacy when they went all “Scary Christian Puppetmasters” on us…
It all seems to be slowly unraveling for them, certainly if they are supporting Mr Brash.
The really good news though is the way the Bush Adminstration are being exposed. If there is any justice in the world, that had to happen eventually.
I think history will possibly regard Bush’s administration as the worst one ever, I know I do..
Anyway, must go .. Art for arts sake and all that.. The toasters just popped up.. (What to create now? hmmm ..
Maybe an ensemble piece for Laila Harre:3 pieces of Vogels Toast with savoury yeast on them in a circle around a single bean sprout. I'll call it -
"Collective Agreement")

Flying Nun | 20th September 2006

................................Cleaning Up
......................
.......................................... 003

I read with interest, on Russell Brown’s blog that a group will be picking a list of the best releases to come from the Flying Nun label to coincide with the labels 25th Anniversary.
As I have had an association with the label over the years, I have some ideas of my own about such a list.
I compulsively make lists with little prompting anyway (I even have a list of who will be making the list), call it the nerdy,‘High Fidelity’, music lover in me. So making a Flying Nun Top 5 list of my own is irresistible, and bloody good fun.

I have always half joked that Flying Nun bands always release their best stuff first and then go slowly downhill until they eventually break up with a ‘whimper rather than a bang’ years later.
In my half joke, the break will inevitably occur while on a half-arsed tour in some godforsaken town (I’m thinking Russia), when a gig is cancelled, tempers fray and then break.
Harsh words will be spoken;
“My temper’s broken you bastard!”
There’s an argument, and finally a band member will leave forever, storming out to trudge wearily in the snow, imagining they are in a short story by Chekhov or worse, a novel by Dostoevsky.

I say ‘half-joked’ but in many cases I do think the bands released the best stuff first.
For instance;

- Has any Verlaines release ever been better than “10 o’clock in the Afternoon” their first EP?
- Is the Straight Jacket Fits first EP the most complete and everlasting thing they have recorded or what?
- Who would send Sneaky Feelings later efforts (with that bloody song about the square) up to bat against their “Send You” release?
- As for the Chills; give me “Rolling Moon” over their later stuff any day.

Therefore, unless I was trying to balance things up and give the later Nun releases some representation, my selections will be all from the label’s early “Golden Era.”
In fact, because it’s my friggin blog and because I can, I’m just gonna pick what I like.

I expect the official selections won’t be allowed that luxury. They will be asked to consider historical aspects and WILL be required to have some balance. They will probably, for example, consider someone like the Headless Chickens because they represent another face of the label (the token Aucklanders), whereas I can just fail to include them, simply because I don’t like them as much as many other outfits, especially when limited to a top 5.

Firstly, it is obvious that there must be release from The Clean. The label was started because of the band, and besides that, The Clean stuff still stands up as the best thing the label has ever done; The most influential, the music that will best stand the artistic test of time - simply the best. The incredible thing about The Clean is that, as good as the records are, they still don’t get near to the experience a great Clean gig is. Wow. The Clean, what a band.

I think it comes down to a choice between the single that started it all “Tally Ho.” And the EP “Boodle Boodle Boodle.”
Although, I could mount an argument that they both belong in the top 5..
.. but I won’t.
I’ll go for “Boodle Boodle Boodle.” Simply because I think it is a better record. So there.

Poor old Martin Phillips, he seems to have gone through so much crap in his eternal quest to see his band The Chills succeed.
My personal Martin low point came a few years ago when someone (Roy Colbert?) wrote an article in the Listener, in which he described how Phillips was ‘seeking a patron’.
i.e “Give me some money!”
I was at a barbeque at Piha at that time and the lone Chill received many, many hours of slagging. Bloody tragic, but then again he always seemed to shuffle wearily through life, as though he had to carry the burden of the whole of Flying Nun on his frail shoulders.
BUT, there was a time when he almost was, and there was a time when The Chills were a very cool, superb band.

I was on tour with the Chills in the mid 80’s and even though they played almost every night I still turned up to watch The Chills every time they played. No hanging out the back drinking their rider while they were stuck on stage. . . No, they were such a great band I wanted to see them every chance I could.

It was what I would call their last classic lineup: Alan Haig on Drums, Peter Allison on Keyboards and the great Terry Moore on Bass.
I always felt the band hinged on Terry Moore, if he had a great night, the band had a great night and once he left, they were never as good again.

Many of the great songs they played at that time like “Night of Chilled Blue”, “Dan Destiny”, “Look for the good in others” were shamefully butchered on the dreadful “Brave Words” record, which I consider a more heinous music crime than even the much-maligned Toy Love album.
Sure, if you struggle, you can hear that they are good songs, but if you had heard them live you just knew so much was missing.
I remember Robbie Yeats from the Verlaines had an advance copy of the album and we listened to it first at Picton, waiting for the ferry, supping ales.
I wanted to cry.

Luckily, The Chills did reach their potential in some recordings and none was better than the strange and haunting single “Pink Frost” which is my Chills choice.
I think it was the last time I hounded a record store to find out when a record was going to arrive, I may be wrong, but I think the first pressing had sold out, unexpectedly.
It is such a weird, unique song; The structure! The pulsing drumbeat! The eerie Atmosphere!
It is genuinely psychedelic (Whatever that means) and .. . .well, chilling.

My next choice was going to be The Gordons Album but then someone told me it wasn’t a Flying Nun release. Bugger! Why not? It’s a perfect choice. Noisy as opposed to jangly, rockin AND it is sonically huge, as opposed to some of the other Nun stuff at the time, which sounded like it was recorded in someone’s toilet with a four track owned by a punk or a hippie.

How inconvenient, that makes things difficult. I am tempted to include the aforementioned Sneaky Feelings EP/LP “Send You” but what about my old mates The 3d’s?!! If I don’t include them it may impact on me in a very real, negative way.
I could be excluded from barbeques or even group dinners at the cheapest Indian restaurant in the city.
But while the 3d’s have some great songs I am not sure they have one uniformly consistent recording. Hmmmmmm.

Then there’s the need for something from the Shayne Carter catalogue.
I have to include something by him, don’t I?
The smart money (well my smart money) would be on the First EP “ Life in One Chord.”or the single he did with Peter Jeffries “Randolf’s Going Home”
But because it’s my friggin list, I’m gonna pick something more obscure, something which I love.

I saw the last gig the Double Happy’s ever did. I didn’t know it was going to be the last gig they ever did, because no one could have known that Wayne Elsey was going to die, tragically, in an accident on the train journey home.

Their reputation for brattish, belligerent behaviour at live performances had preceded them and they were known as much for their liberal audience abuse, as for their precocious musical talent.
I had gone outside with some individuals and, as could often happen in those days, found myself accidentally, horrendously stoned. On my way back in, somehow I became hopelessly isolated from my brigade. I was disorientated and confused, and eventually arrived alone, at a table right in the middle of the pub, in front of the stage.
I was a sitting duck. They would surely pick me off from the stage with their savage, witty attacks.

“Look at that Auckland wanker!”They would say, the clever southern wags.

Normally I would have been able to reply with a pithy retort but I was stoned, dull minded and vulnerable, besides, I left all my pith at home.
I abandoned my strategically exposed position and fell back to a safe haven next to the bar.
Once I was bunkered in I ordered a whisky and soon, emboldened by the liquor, I advanced to my initial position, determined to hold my line.

The Double Happys kind of yelled abuse, but I don’t think their hearts were in it. They had come to play music, and, they were magnificent. They had no bass player but Wayne had some new guitar that was a semi-something and it “made” bass as well as guitar.
If we had the internet in those days and if I had been writing a blog, my post would have been along the lines of a Springsteen-esque “I have seen the future of Rock and Roll and it is The Double Happy’s “
So many good songs, so little time.
I had no doubt they would be one of the greatest Flying Nun bands ever, but fate was to intervene and prove me wrong.
The Double Happy’s EP never GOT the poppiness and invention I heard at the gig that night but the double B side single “The Others Way” did, and it is my next selection.
I know this choice comes out of left field, but hey, I love that field so it’s my chance to move something from relative retirement in that pasture, to the other ‘nowhere’ that is the cyberspace wasteland of my blog.
What a lucky song.
Also a cool one. (I just wish I had my copy of it still!)
- brash punky pop.
The only double something side single I can think of that is better than it is Toy Love’s Rebel/Squeeze, but then, I think that is the best single released in New Zealand EVER, so that’s ok.

The final two choices are very tricky. What about someone from the dark side of the force like The Skeptics? Can I possibly exclude a Chris Knox contribution? (well yes. I can).
What about the Dunedin Double EP. Another record I used to own that currently resides in the “Where are they now” department.
Is there a chance for a complete bolter like the Snapper record or The Pin Group thing, release 001. What about The Bats???! Nasal jangling has never had more worthy ambassadors.

No. if there is another band that I have to consider an essential part of Flying Nun it must be The Verlaines.
The playoff is again a battle between a single (Death and the Maiden) and that reliable old Nun stalwart the 1st EP.
and I’m afraid the EP wins again!
It’s 10 o’clock in the Afternoon …. please step forward and accept the number four position.

And my number five has to be the 3D’s. No sign of the hoary old Dunedin sound here and a nice convergence of Dunedin and Auckland mates that occured directly under my bleary, watchful eye. And while songs like “Sunken Treasure” off "Hellapoppin" can still bring a tear to this swarthy old sea dogs eye…
I going to have to pick the "Outer Space" single because.. Well I don't have to say why...
Argghhh..

So heres my list
1. Boodle Boodle Boodle – The Clean.
2. Pink Frost - The Chills.
3. The Others Way – The Double Happy’s.
4. 10 o’clock in the Afternoon – The Verlaines.
5. Outer Space – The 3D’s

Some fabulous things that will be overlooked: The Goblin Mix EP, The Terminals, Look Blue Go Purple EP and The Alpaca Brothers EP, perhaps the most under rated Nun thing ever...

And I cannot help myself from anticipating the eventual judges list.
The first two on my list are contenders, but after that, anything could happen. But here goes:
Their list
1. Tally Ho – The Clean.
2. Pink Frost - The Chills.
3. 10 o’clock in the Afternoon – The Verlaines.
4. Randolph’s Going Home – Shayne Carter and Peter Jefferies.
5. Cruise Control – Headless Chickens.

Wallace, stingray | 14th September 2006

.........The Return of the Arctic Space Monkey
.........................
............................... Coffee, Tea or Me?

Well, Mikey Havok is back on the BFM Breakfast show and the world is still turning.
At one stage, the highly vexed and controversial decision to replace Wallace was touted as cataclysmic.
But it is interesting how motivated and agitated it made people and goes to show how much those who listen to BFM care about it.
Someone created a “Bring Back Wallace” website, with it’s own dot com domain, and an email petition circulated, which I seemed to receive, several times a day.

Is Havok that much of a pain in the arse?

Damian Christie wrote about his shortcomings in his blog, but it seemed to centre principally on his tardiness which doesn’t seem like a very BFM-ish complaint.
“But, he’s always late.”
Sounds like something my dad would bang on about.

Meanwhile, whenever I have had a beer in my hand the topic never seems to be too far away and, out in the semi-real pub netherworld, BFM consumers seem to be free to express what they really feel about Mikey.
Behold! a typical beer addled dialogue;

A - ”F*ck. Havoks back in the mornings. It’s hideous! He has an ego the size of Alaska. I’ve even been listening to Paul Holmes to get away.”
B - ”What, and his small ego?!!”
C – “I don’t even listen to the radio anymore. I’m appalled.”
A – “Mikey and all that pointless yelling. He reminds me of the Crocodile Hunter.”
B –“Yes!”
C – “Except, he wasn’t killed by one of the worlds most mellow animals.”
B – “ Maybe if the Crocodile Hunter had pulled up at a nightclub in a hummer and never left for 8 years he would be like Havok.”
A – “Does he still wear long skater shorts and have long hair?”
B – “We can’t tell. It’s the radio.

At some point during this sort of dialogue a friend, who is herself a marine biologist (I know, that has no relevance), expressed her disgust at so many people devoting their energies to the subject of the BFM breakfast host. I think she felt that with all the poverty, pestilence and Dick Cheney in the world, people could find something more worthwhile to do with their time (A Sandwich for Bangladesh!). Mind you this is a person who has been known to devote hours to the dissection of Coronation Street characters, so in the long run, the moral high road may prove a tricky one for her to negotiate.

I have listened to BFM since Mikey has returned and must say when you hear him do things like interview our Prime Minister, you realize he is a good broadcaster, BUT it does feel like a step backwards. He has had his day in the sun. Although, in his case, that day seemed to last for years, so maybe it was one of those exceptionally long arctic ones.
I would like to gratuitously labour some sort of space metaphor theme and say that while his meteor once streaked brightly through our southerly heavens it has now descended and it would seem retrogressive for BFM to pick up the remaining steaming black rock and make it breakfast host again.

Crock of….

Some of the activities and declarations post-Steve Irwin have lacked balance also.
For instance this statement;
”I remember what I was doing the day Lady Diana died and now I will remember what I was doing the day that Steve Irwin died too.”

Which is fair enough, as it is a personal statement of fact. The day of Steve Irwin’s death may have been as important this person as any important day, such as the day they discovered someone who knew the kiwi guy who had split the atom.

Fair suck of the sav.

However, after that statement was utterly uttered, talkback callers apparently saw this as a cue to launch an assault on poor old Lady Di along the ‘She’s not worthy to clean his boots.’ line. Which is :- not right, unbalanced, and frankly, out of all proportion.

The latest absurdity: a report that people are murdering Stingrays in ‘revenge’ attacks.

”Take that ya bastard! That’s the last time you and your kind will harm the worlds greatest animal lover!”
It is insane. Don’t these people understand what Steve Irwin stood and yelled “Crikey!” for?

BASTARD!

And, on the radio today, a review of a new book about Neil Armstrong, the astronaut (as opposed to all those oterh famous Neil Armstrongs eh? - ed).

In it, it is revealed that while Armstrong was happy to travel to the moon and land on it, he didn’t believe it was necessary to get out and WALK ON IT.
He apparently felt that the mission was accomplished with the landing only.
That’s insane too.

He must come from the family that invented the drive-in movie.
”I can’t be bothered getting out of the car for the movies. Let’s bring the movies to us.”

Imagine traveling all the way to the moon, 385,000 kilometres, and not wanting to get out and have a look around.
Buzz Aldrin: “Were here. The moon wow!”
Armstrong: “yes.”
Buzz: “Let’s go.”
Armstrong: “Where?”
Buzz: “ahhhh Duh! Out there, on the moon.”
Armstrong: “ I don’t fancy it.”
Buzz: “What do you mean?”
Armstrong: “I’d just as soon as stay in. Thanks.”
Buzz: “Suit yourself.”
Armstrong: “might check out what’s on the radio.”
… I think Havok’s back on BFM. ”
Buzz: “Come outside. Were bound to be able to hear him from here.”

The Buzzcocks |7th September 2006

........................DONT DANCE, POGO
...................
........................... Welcome in my kitchen....

On Sunday I am going to see one of my favourite bands of all time, The Buzzcocks, so I am pretty damn excited about the prospect.

I can remember the day, many years ago, when someone arrived at our flat with the first album they made “Another Music in a Different Kitchen.”
The flat was the first I lived in after moving away from home. The place was an amazing old Kauri and Rimu, 12 foot stud villa, with an enormous lounge, garages, outhouses - which was set in an orchard, overlooking the city.
God knows why the real estate agents rented the thing to a bunch of pimply, dodgy westies like us.
Although I do remember some sort of campaign involving references which we manufactured for the purpose of painting ourselves as pillars of the community.
Lord help the community if we were holding it up.

My mother had made the usual noises when I moved out;
’You’ll be back. Once you have to cook your self dinner. You’ll see…’

The first night in our new house, just because I could; I drank beer and slept in the lounge where Stephen (I’ve forgotten his name) had set up his amazing stereo and I went to sleep listening to Hendrix’s “Axis as Bold Love.”

I was never going home again.

I can't remember food being a high priority when I lived and I don’t remember cooking anything, apart from omelettes and cheese on Vogel’s bread.

I didn’t care about food, I had music.

When I was growing up I had always loved music and I remembered regretting missing the sixties - The Beatles, The Stones, The Supremes… all that stuff.
But I then punk came along and suddenly, I had an era all of my own.

Before that I had liked the usual things plus - Led Zepellin and some awful Prog rock stuff like Mahavishnu Orchestra.
I used to argue with a guy I worked with all day about music. One day he let the music do the talking, and made me the compilation tape that would change my life.
It had the Sex Pistols on it, but also, amongst other stuff - ‘Oh Bondage up yours” by X Ray Specs, Elvis Costello, The Damned, and ‘Science Friction’ XTC’s first single.
It was a revelation to me and all of my friends, and almost overnight most of my record collection became redundant.
I had long hair down to my waist and that had to go too.
Mind you, the first time I visited Auckland’s Punk venue “Zwines.” I still had the hair.
I was drunk and yelled abuse at a band for playing a crap version of a Bowie song and even now I wonder how I survived that unscathed, surrounded as I was by skinhead and punks.

At our new house, without the distraction of things like ‘parents’ or even ‘jobs’, we lived and breathed music.
We would talk about it from the time we woke up till the moment we went to sleep.
We devoured the New Music Express, and I liked some of the writers almost as much as the music. People like; Nick Kent, Paul Morley, Ian Penman and Paul Rambaldi - filled in the gaps and wrote the script to go with the musical soundtrack..

We had ordered The Buzzcocks album at a local store and waited for it to arrive with baited breath and also an irritating persistence.

I think we rang the record store almost everyday;

’Is the Buzzcocks album here yet.’
’No.’
Click.
….Twenty minutes later..

’Is the Buzzcocks album here yet.’
’No. you’ve only just called, it’s not here.’
’Are you sure? Go and check.’
’No!’
’K. Will it be here tomorrow?’
’I don’t know..’ (irate tone)
‘I’ll ring back then..
What time do you open?…’
Click.

God we must have been annoying.

When we finally got our hands on it I remember being initially disappointed.
’The songs all sound the same.’ I said, making a snap, grossly incorrect judgement.
I have a shaky recollection of sitting there listening to one side and then the other, while drinking a Kahlua imitation from the local vineyard.
Eventually someone arrived with some pot and I listened to it again, with fresh ears and an altered attitude.
I realized I had made a big mistake.
’It’s one of the greatest albums of all time.’ I would say dramatically, balancing the musical universe.
And it was..

The measure of greatness in any art form, is the test of time, and that album hasn’t aged at all. You can still recognise the style and sound that announced the arrival of a unique and distinctive musical entity.
Glorious pop songs with power and attitude.
Unfortunately, for Pete Shelley’s bank balance, the general public hasn’t exactly caught on to the bandin the way that countless musicians and true music affectionados have, and it is doomed to join albums like Velvet Underground’s ‘Banana Album’ (superb company of course), as one of the greatest records you never heard.
Not so much YOU but, you know, the average guy…Joe Bloggs.
Of course Joe has always had dodgy taste, so bugger that guy.

I am Joe's Crap Music

I know conventional wisdom suggests that ‘Singles Going Steady’ is the better record but I disagree. Another Music in a Different Kitchen is a real album, rather than a collection of great songs and it flows, it makes sense.
Every song on it is brilliant and with some songs barely two minutes long - short.
But short and brilliant was a breath of fresh air after the ponderous 'long and boring' music era that had preceded punk. Some of the guitar solo's by the bands that came before punk, were longer than a whole album side.

I was just beginning to play drum’s at that time and I decided to use this album as my drum training record.
Bad idea buddy!
It is just too hard and too fast (not heavy though).
No wonder I eventually changed to guitar.
When I did learn guitar, (punk rock 101) I simply learnt how to do a bar chord.
’Now I can play anything!’ I thought with the sort of foolish bravado that is the essence of punk.
I couldn’t, of course, but once I could play fast enough, I could play the Buzzcock songs and that was enough.
I was off..

I think I saw almost all of the punk rock or New Wave bands that came through in those days.
The first to arrive were The Members who were relatively lightweight but, because they were the first ones to finally get here, the punks wanted to make a statement.
They played an infamous concert at Mainstreet where the hardcore punks set their leather jackets alight, only to realize later, that they now;
a. Had no leather jacket anymore
b. Had to walk home in the cold.
But. . .
they could imagine they were REAL punk rockers now. Just like the guys they had seen or heard of in London.
The Members also performed their hit(ish) “Stand Up and Spit.”
Who would write such as song? Given the nasty flu virus’s about then.
At Mainstreet, when they performed the song the air was alive with phlegm, the floor awash.

Ahhh those were the days.


The Clash came too and played at Logan Campbell Centre. I had liked The Clash but never really GOT THEM until I saw them live.
I went both nights. Amazing.
The memory of it can still cause goosebumps, especially if I listen to songs like "Guns of Brixton"

The best concert I saw though, and it is probably the best concert I have ever been to, was Siouxsie and Banshees.
It was an oppressively hot night and just before they started to play I thought I was going to pass out due to the heat and lack of oxygen.
But, after they started all that was forgotten.
What a band! Tribal, sex beat, magic!

The drummer Budgie(the best ever!) was so excellent I barely even noticed Siouxsie.

Not noticed. Siouxsie who?iouxsie who?

There was a surprise there as well, because emerging from the fog as they started to play was Robert Smith of The Cure on guitar.
The bands real guitarist, another hero of mine, John McGeogh, had fallen ill at the last minute and Robert Smith was supporting them in Sydney. The freak apparently learnt all the Banshee songs on the way over on the plane.
He slotted in seamlessly and played a blinder AND he actually moved his legs in an unheard of rejection of his preferred alien shuffle.

Wow.
I went the second night to see them as well.

Also emerging from the fog Howard Devoto’s great band, Magazine who played at Mainstreet as well. Unfortunately in a terrible substance abuse blunder, I took some pills I was offered by a person at the bar.
Later, when I couldn’t walk, I went back and asked them (slurring) what the hell they were?
’Moggies.’
uh oh.
Bizzarely, I couldn’t walk but I could dance or pogo. So that’s what I did, pogo groggily out of the permafrost...

However….
one of my favourite bands, the Buzzcocks, never came here at that time..
and now they are…
So there is a frisson, an excitement, an expectation, I haven’t had in a while.
A long while..
So I’ll be there, up the front like I used to be and I will know every beat, plus most of the bar chords.
Just don’t expect me to pogo.