Newspaper Page Text
March 18, 1992
Flagpole Magazine
Page 21
Sydney on a Whirlwind - Part Two
Saturday, I piled into a 1973 yellow and
black Ford Panel Van with four others, a
drum kit, amplifiers, guitars, tents, sleep
ing bags, food, a new copy of Maximum
Rock'n'Roll and an old copy of Noise for
Heroes (Music for Zeroes) and proceeded
to drive 40 minutes to a somewhat rural
suburb just south of Sydney. Casulty, a
three-piece puns band that's been playing
in Sydney for about two years, was playing
at a surprise bi rthday party for that eveni ng.
Casulty has independently released an
eight song mini LP, a single on Sydney-
based Phantom Records and is currently
working on a six-song EP with Kent
Steadman on production. Steadman is
guitarist of the Celibate Rifles, arguably
Australia’s most enduring and favorite in
dependent band (11 years, eight albums).
While the host home of the party
bordered on a large open field where
we camped, it was actually classic
suburbia. The party was for two neigh
borhood boys who turned 30 within a
week of each other, and mothers and
fathers and best friend’s parents, and
children and grandparents were all
represented along with the birthday
boys’ friends. Probably 150 people in
all. Plenty of food and cake and drink
and lights and birthday caps and birth
day noise-makers and streamers. It
was right out of Leave it to Beaver,
though the beer was going down
quicker. Australians do, generally,
drink more than Americans.
Vince, the 53-year old next door
neighbor, was sipping on a green can
of Victoria Bitter as we arrived Saturday
early evening when the party was being set
up, sipping on straight bourbon at 3:30
a.m. when only a dozen people still stood,
and was one of the first picking up trash the
next morning. Victoria Bitter again in hand.
Vince and his wife, Alice, were a jovial
couple. They liked to talk of their trips to
America.
The party was indeed a surprise and
thus a success, all involved seemed to
agree. One of the birthday boys was hosed
down at 3 a.m. after passing out face down
in the front yard. Casulty played two hour
sets, breaking in between for a time so a bit
more accessible band, featuring a talented
saxophone player, could entertain for an
hour.
After waking in too warm tents, the next
morning was hop in the pool, clean up,
pack up, consume leftovers, several cups
of tea and juice, read through the Sunday
paper at poolside, hop in the pool again,
say thank you, good bye and head back
downtown. A brief stop at Clyde's Road
side Sunday Snake Show, where we raced
to consume ice cream bars before the
scorching sun melted them in our hands,
provided a nice break in the trip back to
Glebe, the downtown Sydney borough
where Chris and Mike of Casulty and Mick
th8 Record, their chief roadie, live.
After a brief rest in Glebe, several pieces
of toast and a rejuvenating listen to New
Zealand band Sticky Filth, the Jesus Lizard,
Celibate Rifles, and Kiss My Poodle’s Don
key, several of us made our way to the
Hopetoun Hotel, where the Poopin’
Mommas and Mr. Floppy were playing a
free Sunday late afternoon show. The
Hopetoun, similar to the Lansdowne but a
bit better set-up, with a back patio and
downstairs area to catch overflow custom
ers, drew a large crowd to see the two
popular bands from Melbourne, which is
approximately a 10-hour drive southeast of
Sydney.
The conversation was good while wait
ing for the bands to start. Greg, who plays
drums in two bands and lives with the guys
in Casulty, is starting up an underground
rock and roll magazine that will serve as a
mail-order catalog. “The record stores rip
you off here,’ he said, adding that through
his catalog you’ll be able to purchase a CD
for $15 that usually costs $23 in the record
store.
Mick the Record is a goldmine of inde
pendent music information and doesn’t
hesitate to share it, usually quite interest
ingly. Mick often keeps American indepen
dent music zines up-to-date on Australian
music, by sending them letters and re
leases. One of his favorite magazines is the
quarterly-released, San Diego-based Mu
sic for Heroes, which stays on top of what’s
happening in Australian independent mu
sic and, in fact, featured Australian music in
a recent issue.
A^er much taik about Australian music,
I quite suddenly found myself discussing
Athens. Matt, a Sydneysider who spent a
week of October in Athens, was over
whelmed by the Georgia town. He talked
excitedly about the aura created by the
culture and lifestyle in Athens, its down
town shops, the University, its architectural
character and the hospitable and easy
going manner of most its people. He men
tioned pleasant conversations with Mark at
Period, Mark C. from Love Tractor, John
and Dave at the 40 Watt, Chief and Ort. He
said he had good times at the Downstairs
Caf6. Matt, who runs a record stores in the
Sydney suburbs, said he did something
interesting everyday and usually caught
three or four bands a night.
His only unenjoyable time in Athens, he
said, came as he was arriving into town on
the Greyhound, passing several miles of
strip commercial development and shop
ping malls on the Atlanta Highway. He
cringed, and for a moment, his image of
Athens was shattered. As the bus arrived
downtown at the bus station, however, he
said he and his mate felt assured they
wouldn’t be disappointed. He even spoke
positively of the Classic Inn, where he
stayed.
A burst of sound then bellowed from the
stage and the Pcppin’ Mommas were be
ginning their set. I glanced up and thought
to myself that I recognized the guy singing.
No, can’t be. After a few seconds, though,
it was obvious. The back of his head gave
him away. Ox. And he was gyrating back
and forth like a jack hammer, racing
through 45-second songs with his
three band mates. Certainly, he be
longed more behind a mike yelling
lyrics to punk songs than reciting
poetry, even if it was violent.
Dressed in a Rollins t-shirt and
Ramones red, white and blue "He,
Ho, Let’s Go’ shorts, I got the im
pression Ox was likely a beer drink
ing, alley brawling, footballer type
who, perhaps, discovered punk and
playing in a band within the past few
years. Actually, though short of sing
ing, he articulated well enough his
lyrics were mostly intelligible. As the
set progressed, the band removed,
in unison, their shirts, then their shorts,
and then their out layer of under
pants, leaving each clad in tight-hugging,
bikini-type underwear.
Mr. Floppy is one of the bands causing
a buzz down here lately, mostly because
of their song “What Shall We Do When
10,000 Morriseys Come Marching Over
the Hill?’ The song is quite humorous, and
the band has an overall rather clever and
funny side, though, perhaps, goofy. It’s
only two of them, a guitarist and bass
player, who take turns singing. A drum
machine provides the beat and recorded
voices and cackles are heard periodically.
It did bother me when a recorded voice
came over the sound system when it ap
peared one of the band members could
have sung the line into the mike but, all in
all, the set up didn’t offend me.
The bass player wore a Big Black t-shirt
while setting up and the influences were
obvious. “I Hate Nirvana’ was a chorus to
another song, which also drew applause
from a good portion of the crowd, many of
which, evidently, are throwing up Nirvana,
following the band’s atomic-like explosion
here which has made the Seattle band
hard to avoid, and rather painful to con
stantly digest, whether it’s t-shirts, poster-
ads or "Smells Like Teen Spirit’ on the
radio.
The show ended just after the sun set,
not much past 9 p.m. Heavy feet dragged
my ringing ears 15 blocks home.
C. Service Decherd
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