“From St Kilda to Kings Cross is thirteen hours on a bus” A simple declarative sentence that begins a journey. Yet beggars the question: a journey to what reward and when will the destination be reached? Fleeing from what folly? To adventurous new beginnings, or a simple retreat from the mundane? For the songs writer Paul Kelly, that journey began years ago in and around Adelaide, Australia, eventually winding its way to Melbourne in the late 1970’s. In those days Victorian Melbourne was blooming. It was rocking out seven days a week at venues like Martinis, the Kingston Hotel, The Station on Greville Street, Dan O’Connell’s in Carlton. Music was seeping out into the browned out suburban pubs like the South Side Six and the Village Green. In those days there was not much competition for the young folks entertainment buck. No internet and Video games were still just an idea locked in a San Jose garage. There were looser drinking and driving restrictions for the one eyed drive home to Mum’s place. TV knocked it on the head at11.30 PM and showed the test pattern until 7 AM, and going to the movies meant, more often than not, loading up an Esky in Muzza’s panel van and sneaking a couple of extra bodies into the drive in.
It is hard to believe in the days of casino gambling, 24/7 trading, strippers and E dealing “Doormen” at the local pub, that there was a time when a publicans ability to trade, IE: sell grog, was severely restricted. In the grey post WW2 era of ration books, it was segregated lounges, you certainly couldn’t have women imbibing in the manly province of the public bar: they had the “Ladies Lounge,” and never was the twain to meet. Up until 1966 trading was restricted to the “Six O’clock Swill” An unsightly assemblage of piss pots tossing back last drinks at 6 PM before promptly vomiting them back up while praying to the Godless porcelain throne. Eventually it evolved to last drinks @ 10 pm and then the late license of 11.30 PM: Provided the pub served a free “supper” meal, usually some cold chips and a slim strip of degraded veal parmijama, or worse. Just enough to soak up the beer and keep the pots and jugs of beer flowing.
Australia embraced rock and roll straight out of the gate. The emerging prosperity and common language shared with America ordained that the Aussies would not become France. We would nourish our young on the teats of rock n roll music, yet in a peculiar way early on, via the back door of Mother England. With records and fashion trends exported to the former colony via the immigrant ships that brought the Likes of George, Malcolm and Angus Young. Harry Vanda and Stevie Wright, and a legion of Scottish hooligans with big loud voices, Bon Scott, Jimmy and John Swan. Liverpool’s Steve Prestwich ( RIP) brought a harder hitting Mersey beat to Adelaide. Malta even got in on the deal and sent along a peculiar chimpish ball of energy with a saxophone named Joe Cameleri. Gracious for this bounty as we were, for a long time, all that was exported back was Rolf Harris and his wobble board: but that would change.
For many years the common practice was to, as it had worked in England, take a local act and have them retread the boards with cover songs from American and British artists: Col Joye and J.O.K early pioneers of the concept. Partly because of trade barriers, quotas and tariffs, but also for lack of an independent stand alone music industry. To this day I think of “Poison Ivy” as a Billy Thorpe song. “Western union Man” as Max Merrit and the Meteors epic R & B rave up. (Yes, I know Max is a Kiwi.) The Zoot , with the still infuriatingly youthful and then young, Rick Springfield, rocking the shit out of genteel Eleanor Rigby, then new and unknown in any other arrangement to my emerging ears. That was the early music rocking my life, spilling from transistor radios, and the mono record player I had bought on “hire purchase” at Walton’s, Chadstone store.
Most of these musicians would trot their unoriginal, yet accomplished acts, out and about on the suburban dance circuit, cabaret’s and school halls. Or tag along as happy mascots on the tours of the international stars of the day. All the time eager students busy taking notes, scribbling arrangements on napkins, ever evolving and yearning for a bigger stage. Banging there heads against the wall for respect and any opportunity, which was usually the annual Hoadley’s battle of the bands. Where the last ones standing would, with much hyperbole from Stan the man Rolfe, Molly Meldrum and even Brian Henderson, be packed off on the “Fairstar” singing for there supper at every Port of call en route to England.
The cold, grey, fading seat of Empire where their dreams would be dashed and scornfully returned to sender, love letters left unopened. The list is legion, and these rock n roll soldiers are more than deserving of their own memorial to mark the doomed campaigns of bygone days. The Groop, Valentines, Master Aprentices, Fraternity (RIP Bon Scott), The twighlights Sherbet, Radio Birdman too. Some hardy souls swam upstream to America’s gilded shores, in a vain attempt to sell ice to the Eskimos. Axiom, Dingoes, Daddy Cool, Skyhooks, the Sports, Hunters and Collectors. (This is a random snapshot and in no way pretends to be a complete list of those with the pluck and nous too follow their dream, wherever it chose too lead them.) A few hardy souls even managed to break through the ice floes and leave a nugget or two behind on the shores to which they had journeyed. “Friday on my mind, Georgy Girl, Howzat, Are you gonna be my girl?.” Beacons of hope on the cold tundra for Australian musicians not yet born, at that time, not even an itch in their old man’s underwear.
Most of the returning veterans bought home to the antipodes a heightened awareness of what was required to crack the international nut and go global. Some like Glen Wheatley shrewdly morphed into management for their next crack at international success. It would be fair to say some of these already locally established stars could be forgiven for giving up the ship, rather than saddle up another aggregation of wannabes for yet another try, but try and try again they did. More often than not with hungry eyes outbound, ever vulnerable and aware of the possible lopping of the tall poppies head should it become too engorged with glory.
Like apprentices toiling on building sites, year after year, Australian musicians worked at the trenches of the blueprint the Americans had erected locally twenty plus years before. Eventually with dues paid hard, their own architecture blossomed. Strong virile tradesmen, freed from indentures, sought their own destiny, and it flowered, in of all places, a pub. Publicans are a crafty, greedy lot. With the relaxation of the draconian licensing laws I touched on earlier, they went looking for a revenue stream and found they could hop into bed with rock n roll as often as it pleased them, and then whore it around for the punters pleasure. Ripping its knickers off and parading it around and about.
A marriage made in heaven and consummated in Hell. Before too long a touring circuit of pubs evolved, and a talented act could find itself in demand from a mining pub in the Pilbara, then load out and roll on to a Sydney RSL, VIA a dozen other pubs. It was hard work, if you could get it, and for strong hearts. Slowly a sense of place took root. It probably was kick started on the campus circuit and then put out on its bum for pub swill. But it took hold, and talented songwriters emerged. Within the blink of an eye, it seemed that Axioms “Laying on Arkansas grass” and Russell Morris’ Mr. America” were pitched into the dustbin. Greg Quill and Broderick Smith were singing about Australia. Greg Mcainish, Don Walker, and Dave Warner too. Their successes making it possible for others to follow. Somewhere along the way it got billeted as Pub Rock: immediately tying it to its pasty English cousin.
Australian musicians are hard men and women. They have to be, just to survive and keep working. (I would not want to ever get on Renee Geyer’s bad side.) As Paul Kelly once wrote for her: “I’m in love with a difficult woman” It’s been really sad that a lot of local musicians have gone to their graves recently, most too early, when they were still vital and still had so much to give. Today I am thinking of Andy Durant, a young songwriter, dead of cancer at 26. I’m missing Maurice Frawley and Steve Connolly, Pete Wells, Tim Hemensley, Grant McLennan, Ian Rillen and Rowland Howard too. Lobby Lloyd and Thorpie. (Suck more piss, indeed) My friend Danny Castro out of Oakland California remembers playing with him in Japan and knew him as a unique performer of the blues. I told him the legendary story about how “Thorpie” killed the fish” at the Bondi lifesaver. He laughed his arse off and just said. “Yeah Dude, Billy was loud as all fuck”
Through the wonder of social networking I was just “tweeted” and told that iconic Australian singer songwriter Paul Kelly, an artist born and baptized in the beer and blood of pub rock, will once again show Bob Dylan how we do it, as they tour together. Truly, I think of Paul Kelly’s journey “from St Kilda to Kings cross” and the small ambitious miles he hoped too travel and I am reminded that a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. If I had a dollar for each of those step taken by all of the musicians who have sallied forth from Australia’s shores I would be a wealthy man. I would have riches beyond Bill Gates imagining and the taxman’s collection. Walk tall old friend. Australian icon Paul Kelly, you had the heart to put in the hard yards and go those long miles year in and year out. You younger punters reading this, you can find the old travelers too if you care to dig a bit. Here’s a good place to start. It’s not nostalgia, its history, your history. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_GJkjRo5jkg
