The Summer of ’82 Page 14

  Noddy offered to be a roadie for our band, and we of course agreed. Captain Cocoa had been doing gigs, but not proper rock and roll gigs. We were typecast as the band that would play for free. Well, every band has their gimmick – the Bay City Rollers were those guys with the tartan, Devo were those guys who wore flowerpots on their heads, and we were the guys who played for free. We played at the Lady of Sion’s Year 12 social, where there were so many girls. Sure, they all brought partners, but none of them was a rock star on the stage. We played in a cafeteria at La Trobe University, at a fancy-dress party organised by the Overseas Students Association. And we played at the opening of the new Mitcham outdoor mall. All the big gigs.

  The closest we had come to a real gig was playing support to the new wave band Geisha at a roller-skating rink near Frankston called Skate World. Geisha was a big-hair band that went on to have hits with ‘Kabuki’ and ‘Part Time Love Affair’. Bands at roller-skating and ice-skating rinks were quite common. In the 1970s Ringwood Iceland featured such bands as Hush and AC/DC; the band would belt out numbers while the teenagers skated around and around. Occasionally some sharpies might turn up and run onto the ice in their moccasins and start punching on.

  My mates and I were veterans of the Nunawading Skate Ranch, where we had spent many an afternoon going around in circles while the DJ ruled the rink like a petty fascist. ‘Couples only on the rink,’ he would announce as he played Foreigner’s ‘Waiting for a Girl Like You’. Teenage couples rolled around, pashing and canoodling, rubbing it in to all us desperate young single males. Finally this rubbish would finish and we’d get back on the rink, and the old fascist DJ would announce, ‘Okay, backwards skating only,’ and play something a bit crazy like ‘The Time Warp’. Then he’d follow it up with, ‘Speed-skaters only on the rink!’ That was dangerous, as the serious skaters would zoom around to a fast song like The Swingers’ ‘Counting the Beat’. After that the DJ would get fired up and announce, ‘Okay, it’s the big one – it’s the heavy metal skate,’ and the rink would fill with long-haired young men pumping their fists to ‘The Number of the Beast’ by Iron Maiden.

  So we were very excited to be playing a roller-skating rink and supporting a big band like Geisha. We knew the audience couldn’t exactly dance to us – we were roller-skaters ourselves. What we didn’t expect was the power to go off when we were playing. Apparently, the members of Geisha all tried to use their hair dryers at the same time and the power system couldn’t handle it. I assume most of those guys are bald now.

  These gigs were good practice, but we wanted to play pubs and proper rock and roll venues. We had been going to a lot of gigs at night, seeing our heroes such as The Sunnyboys, No Nonsense, Mental As Anything, Machinations, The Divinyls, Strange Tenants, and Paul Kelly and the Dots. There were so many bands that we loved. We wanted to be playing with these types of bands, even though in reality we were far from ready.

  An offer for a pub gig came from an unexpected place: Trevor. My eldest brother had in fact been very nurturing when it came to Captain Cocoa. He got us some time at the famous Richmond Recorders, where Lobby Loyde had produced one of our all-time favourite albums, The Sunnyboys’ debut release. We only had time to record two songs, which we planned to put on cassette and sell to our ‘fans’. We were thinking very big.

  We had a vote about what to record, and we ended up choosing a fast track, ‘Goodbye Louise’, and a slower ballad, ‘Butterflies’. I had written the ballad and Terrence had written the more up-tempo number. Trev couldn’t get Lobby Loyde to produce so we had a guy who used to be in The Little River Band for about ten minutes. He sat there listening to us playing and held his head in his hands. Then he said, ‘I need to go upstairs and make some phone calls …’ He came back ten minutes later smelling of a herb-type substance, clapped his hands and said, ‘I’ve got some great ideas, guys – let’s do a key change!’

  It’s no surprise that a lot of bands break up while recording. Although we were only laying down two tracks (that’s muso talk, man), tensions were running high. Recording studios are places where time stands still: they are dark and damp and natural light isn’t encouraged. The irony is that time is of the essence as you’re paying an hourly rate. The studio was heavily booked, and pretty soon we had to make way for rising new wave stars The Orphans (‘Hop Skip Jump’). We argued a lot about playing style and the sound of the tracks. I wanted it more new wave, Glenn wanted it more twee and Wookey wanted it more rock. Trev basically just had to tell us how it was going to be. Probably the best way, as we couldn’t decide ourselves.

  Now that we had two tracks professionally recorded, we could play them to pub owners and bookers. We also got some professional photos done. Now, it’s hard to do good band photos that avoid clichés, so we had some taken of us standing on abandoned railway tracks … How original. Well, the tracks were supposed to be abandoned, but actually we took the photos in between trains at the Mitcham railway crossing. We hurriedly broke ranks whenever a train came, and the photo didn’t show Kev sitting in his car waiting for us to finish.

  Approaching the guys who ran all the rock gigs was difficult with no email or mobile phones. You had to send in your package, then follow up with a phone call. And of course rock promoters never kept normal office hours. When we did get through, most of the time they claimed not to have received our tape. It was also hard because we were a bright pop band and the current trend was swamp rock with a punk edge – bands like Intoxica and The Corpse Grinders, or experimental new wave bands like Beargarden or Tsk Tsk Tsk. We didn’t fit in with any of these bands – we were like a fresh strawberry sundae in a swamp. We were also stuck out in the ’burbs when ‘the scene’ was in the inner-city suburbs of St Kilda, Fitzroy and Richmond. We couldn’t have been any further from the action.

  Soon after our recording session Trev moved to Sydney with his new band, 21 Faces, and they got a regular spot at the legendary Lansdowne Hotel. One Friday night their normal support band pulled out of the gig, saying they’d become too big for little gigs like that. (Who the hell did this band called The Machinations think they were? Sure, they went on to have several Top 20 singles, but still!) So Trev offered the support spot to us: were we interested? Hell yes! Okay, there would only be $150 cash for the gig, and we’d have to help load in and load out all the PA equipment, but Trev could get us free accommodation at the pub and also try to organise another gig for us on the Saturday night.

  We made plans. Wookey would drive his dad’s station wagon to Sydney with all our equipment, and the rest of us would get the bus up. Then a big question came up: what about our girlfriends? Liz had made Captain Cocoa badges and everything, so there was no doubt our very own Yoko would be coming. Terrence’s girlfriend wanted to come, and so did Wookey’s. I asked Cindy but she thought our band was ‘a bit lame’. Things hadn’t really been the same since I nearly killed her in the Orange Rocket. She was definitely giving me the cold shoulder. Noddy and Drago also wanted to come along for the fun.

  Going to Sydney was a big deal. There were no cheap airfares so catching the bus or train were the only options. The bus was cheaper so we’d all catch the overnight Firefly, which would go straight up the Hume Highway, stopping only twice – at Albury and then at Goulburn, where a three-storey-high Merino sheep sits above a petrol station – before reaching Sydney’s Central Station at about six a.m.

  Thursday came around quickly, and we all caught the train to Spencer Street Station, where the bus left at seven p.m. It would be driven by a ‘coach captain’ – normally a man in his fifties who wore shorts, long socks and was called Doug or Stan. He took great pride in his bus and viewed our group sceptically. ‘No drinking on the bus, fellas,’ he said, presuming some of us had some alcohol on our persons, and some of us did.

  Doug (or Stan) was a big fan of the coach microphone, which he overused during the whole eleven hours of the trip. He started with a greeting as we pulled away from Spencer Street. ‘G’day, ladies and gentle
man, my name is Doug (or Stan), and I will be your coach captain on this trip to Sydney. Now, first a few rules.’

  Here we go.

  ‘The consuming of alcohol is strictly forbidden on this coach, and anyone found drinking alcohol will be thrown off the bus.’

  Yep, got it.

  ‘This is an overnight service, and a lot of people use the trip to catch up on some sleep, so I ask you to respect that. Anyone making too much noise or disrupting other passengers will be thrown off the bus.’

  There was a theme emerging here …

  ‘There’s a toilet at the back of the bus, but I would ask all passengers to consider their fellow travellers and only use this facility for number ones. We have several toilet stops along the way where you can do whatever you want. But if I find someone doing more than a number one in my toilet I will be forced to …’

  Guess what?

  ‘… throw you off the bus.’

  Doug (or Stan) also had an interest in the history of all the towns we passed through on our trip up the Hume. ‘On the right is Glenrowan, a name synonymous with the Ned Kelly gang. This, of course, is where Ned made his last stand, where five people were killed. Ned himself survived but he was hanged five months later.’

  And then came a bit of editorial.

  ‘Some people say Ned Kelly was a hero, but I would like to point out that he murdered three policemen at Stringybark Creek, so I would say he definitely falls into the category of criminal.’

  And, no doubt, if he was on this bus, he would have been thrown off.

  Our group sat right up the back of the bus. Everyone was pumped, as we’d heard from Trev that he had succeeded in organising us a second gig. On the Saturday night we were going to support the legendary Sydney ska band The Allniters at a place called Panthers in Penrith. Rock and roll!

  We talked and mucked around for a while, but eventually people started dropping off to sleep. Just when nearly everybody was asleep, the bus pulled up in Albury at a place called Vienna World, and the bus driver told us all to get off. He really did love throwing people off the bus. We stumbled off half-asleep into this Austrian-themed restaurant, where teenagers dressed in lederhosen greeted us with ‘Guten Abend, Damen und Herren’ with an Albury accent. German music – which is technically known as ‘ompah ompah’ – was playing in the background.

  We sat at trestle tables and were served Wiener schnitzel and sauerkraut. In our half-waking state we were sucked into a German vortex, and the next thing we knew we were drinking pilsner out of steins and singing ‘Wundebar’; if I remember correctly, this was a song by the British punk rock band Tenpole Tudor, but it was the closest thing we knew to a German beer hall song.

  Just as we were really enjoying ourselves, Doug (or Stan) yelled, ‘Everyone back on the bus!’ and we all marched out of Vienna World. It was like it was all some kind of dream. For a short time we were in Austria, via Albury-Wodonga.

  We arrived in Sydney around six o’clock, and hung around in Chippendale until the Lansdowne Hotel opened. When we got in we found that our accommodation was rudimentary at best: we all had to share rooms, and the bathrooms were at the end of the corridor. The other guests staying at this grand establishment appeared to be older alcoholic men.

  We decided to do a bit of sightseeing, so we headed for Oxford Street in Paddington, which in the 1980s was THE street. And it was indeed a bit of an eye-opener for us – there were blokes just walking along holding hands! We’d never seen that in Mitcham.

  The day passed and our gig came around quickly. We were the first of three bands so we had to go on at eight p.m., when there was hardly anyone there. We played mostly to our girlfriends and mates. People were slowly wandering in, but they would go and get drinks, talk to their friends and look towards the stage only occasionally. Still, we were playing the Landsdowne, a legendary rock venue, so we didn’t let it get us down. We knew you had to start at the bottom.

  After we played, we hung around and watched the other bands. Trev’s was great. They were all very good musicians; you could see the massive difference between a band like ours and a headline act like 21 Faces. Trev’s time in New Zealand had really improved his music; it was like how The Beatles had gone to Hamburg and played show after show, going from amateurs to pros. We needed our own Hamburg, and we realised the Scout and Guide halls of Melbourne just wouldn’t cut it.

  We were keen to check out the nightlife, so of course we headed to Kings Cross. And oh boy. We thought St Kilda was a bit dodgy but this was like St Kilda times ten. Kings Cross was in your face: spruikers would physically grab you and pull you into their strip joints.

  ‘Come on, guys, come into the Pink Panther,’ one guy said. ‘There’s nude girls onstage now!’

  I had what I thought was the ultimate comeback: ‘But we’ve got our girlfriends with us.’

  ‘No worries, boys, we cater for couples. No charge for the girls.’

  We walked around like stunned mullets until someone decided we should get something to eat. We wandered into a greasy spoon café, the kind they only have in sleazy areas like this. The bain-marie was chock-full of pre-cooked dim sims, potato cakes and pieces of flake. But why stop there? Next to them were piles of pizza slices, chicken rolls, pies, sausage rolls and pre-made souvlakis. So much choice if you wanted to pick up a bit of food poisoning.

  There was a very bored guy behind the counter. I knew the look on his face; after all, I was a fellow late-night takeaway food dispenser in a nightclub area. There was only one other customer, a man who was rocking back and forth as he stood and stared into space.

  Wookey approached me and whispered, ‘See who that is?’

  ‘Who, that guy?’ I asked, pointing at the food server.

  ‘No, the customer.’

  I looked at him more closely. He was tall and skinny, and was wearing tight jeans and a tracksuit top. He had long, curly hair and seemed unwell, possibly with the flu. He looked like a lot of the people wandering around Kings Cross; there must have been a flu epidemic in this part of Sydney. But there was no mistaking who this was – it was one of our heroes.

  ‘It’s Dave Mason!’ I whispered excitedly.

  ‘Who?’ said Noddy.

  ‘From The Reels,’ Wookey snapped.

  The Reels was one of our favourite bands. They were an alternative pop group from Dubbo, of all places, and one of the first new wave bands in Australia that had hits. Their biggest ones were ‘Love Will Find a Way’ and ‘Prefab Heart’. They were the antidote to hard-rocking bands like The Angels and Rose Tattoo, who were also great in their own right. But The Reels ran their own race. They put out an album called Beautiful on the daggiest record label around, K-tel, which was mainly covers of classics like ‘This Guy’s in Love with You’ and ‘(Last Night) I Didn’t Get to Sleep at All’. They did soft cover versions of Aussie rock classics like Chisel’s ‘Forever Now’. We had seen The Reels a few times and were big fans.

  ‘You should say something,’ Wookey said.

  ‘You reckon?’

  ‘Yeah, tell him we’re in a band too.’

  ‘And give him one of our cassettes,’ added Glenn.

  Okay, I was going to do it. I took a deep breath and approached the great Dave Mason from The Reels.

  ‘Excuse me … Are you Dave Mason?’

  He looked at me like I was a cop or something. ‘Ah, who wants to know?’

  ‘It’s just that we’re from Melbourne …’

  Pause. He kept staring straight ahead.

  ‘We’re big fans of your band, and we’re in a band ourselves. We just played a gig tonight at the Lansdowne Hotel, and we’re doing another one tomorrow night at Panthers in Penrith.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  He obviously knew the venue.

  ‘We’ve recorded a couple of songs, and I’d like to give you one of our cassettes … If you could listen to it, and if you ever need a support band, give us a call?’ I paused again. ‘Your first album was brilliant.’
>
  He nodded, looked at the cassette I was holding out, then he looked at us and smiled. We smiled back.

  ‘That’s great, guys,’ he mumbled. ‘Hey, you couldn’t lend me twenty dollars?’

  Wookey and I glanced at each other.

  ‘Sure,’ I said, getting out a ten-dollar note and motioning to the others to add the rest.

  ‘Thanks, guys.’ He took the money and reluctantly accepted the cassette. He left quite quickly … Must have needed the money for some flu medication.

  We were so excited to have talked to Dave Mason, even if he had fleeced us for some cash. Don’t worry, we said to each other. We can get it off him when we support The Reels on their next Melbourne tour.

  The next gig was going to be better. The Allniters were an awesome ska band. I had bought their single ‘You Shouldn’t Stay Out Late’ and played it all the time. We all loved ska music, which was like reggae but sped up. There had been a worldwide ska explosion in the late ’70s and early ’80s in England with The Specials, The Beat and Madness, and in Australia with No Nonsense, Strange Tenants, The Offbeats, Loonee Tunes and of course The Allniters.

  I don’t know why we loved ska music but we did. It was fast, bouncy and had good melodies. Most of the time the songs had political or social messages, which we also liked. I’m not sure why Captain Cocoa didn’t become a ska band – probably because we liked such a variety of music, so we ended up with a hybrid of indie pop, ska and Oz rock. And let’s be honest, if you wanted to play in a ska band, you had to be a proper musician! That ska stuff was hard to master.

  We had no idea where Penrith was, but Wookey headed out there in the station wagon with the gear and the rest of us got the train. Oh boy, it was a long way out west. We had barely been to the western suburbs of Melbourne, let alone the western suburbs of Sydney. As a kid I’d occasionally been to the Western Oval for a footy game, but we’d go straight to the train station after the game and get back to the outer east quick smart.