Posts
Trusting my memory of events which took place 30 years ago, this is my story of my “discovery” of Australian Crawl before they were known by the general populace of this country.
I was in the audience at the taping of Countdown, not in itself an unusual occurrence, when Australian Crawl first performed “Beautiful People” on the show. I can’t remember now whether I was there for the specific purpose of seeing a particular band, or whether it was one of those occasions when I actually had a ticket. I do remember turning away from one stage to see this really tall guy entering the studio, and then another guy with casts on both wrists.
I know I enjoyed the song, and was amused by the front man’s style and slightly concerned for the guitarists who seemed to be in danger of connecting with those massive casts.
A week or so later, I was out with my two best friends at an expo of some sort in the southern suburbs of Melbourne. There were bands playing in some huge circus tent, which would have been the attraction for us. In a vaguely dejavu way, I looked up at some point and saw the really tall guy from that band I’d seen on Countdown, entering the tent, carrying a bass drum.
To be honest, there’s a gap in my memory at this point. I don’t remember seeing them onstage or how many songs they played. I do remember seeking the tall guy out afterwards and telling him how much I loved the band. That’s when I discovered his name was Brad Robinson, and the singer with the casts was James Reyne.
I had a tendency in those days to talk without my brain being fully engaged. Controlling that tendency is a recent achievement. I was chatting to Brad, and I blurted out a question.
“Can I run a fan club for you?”
His answer, word for word, was “Well, what can I say? Yes!”
I can admit now to being somewhat gobsmacked. If I’d thought at all about what I was asking, I would have expected him to say no. He didn’t know me from a bar of soap, and I was young and excitable and very uncool, compared to these young men from Mt Martha. Anyway, he told me where they would be playing in the next week or so and I said I’d probably turn up for the Prospect Hill Hotel gig four or five days later, since Kew was close to home.
I was 17 at the time, I think, but I’d always looked older than my age (conversely, I’m always being told I look younger my age now, which makes me as happy as it did then.) I’d been attending pub gigs with my friends, who were a year or so older, for more than a year.
So I got to the Prospect earlyish and waited for the band to arrive. When I saw Brad, I asked if he remembered me and he said of course he did, how could he not remember the person who was going to run their fan club. He introduced me to the rest of the band and their manager. Can’t remember her name but she worked for Mushroom Records. Despite the band all being happy for me to start a fan club, she told me it was actually her decision, and she gave me her phone number so I could make an appointment to visit her in her office.
So I got to go and visit the headquarters of Mushroom Records. I was slightly over-awed and way out of my comfort zone. Not that we knew about Comfort Zones in those pre-psycho-babble-touchy-feely days. I half expected Michael Gudinski to descend in a beam of white light.
Anyway, I received the needed permission and went away happy.
These days, I really appreciate the ease that technology gives to do things, such as keeping a group of like-minded people informed about subjects of mutual interest. Without mobile phones, the internet, personal computers and printers, I’m pretty sure most of us would give up such a venture, if we were fool enough to try the “old-fashioned way.”
I didn’t even have a typewriter. I was unemployed. I didn’t have a car or even a driver’s licence. I travelled all over Melbourne to attend Aussie Crawl gigs. I lived with my mother and at some point early in my tenure as fan club president, we moved from Camberwell to South Yarra. I hand-wrote the first newsletter and went to my mother’s workplace to get it copied. The very primitive, even by those days’ standards, copier would not do back-to-back copies so I copied both pages and glued them together. I think by that time we had 25 members.
Co-incidentally, one of our earliest members was James’ father. It turned out that my mother was acquainted with Michael Reyne and she gave me his phone number, at his request. I called him, signed him up with membership and made a friend. I remember having reason to call him on a few more occasions, and he was always friendly and willing to chat for a few minutes. I don’t remember actually meeting him, but it is possible that I did. I also met David at a gig once or twice.
“Boys Light Up” was released, the fan club address was advertised and membership increased so dramatically that one day I found myself begging James for financial assistance, my fortnightly dole check and membership subscriptions quite inadequate to cover all the costs. There was a new record company now and I made friends with the secretary/personal assistant of the person who represented the band. She let me use her typewriter and photocopier on a monthly basis to get the newsletters out and the record company paid the postage costs.
I was still seeing the band on a regular basis, even celebrating my 18th birthday at a gig at Bombay Rock. My name was on the list at the door as a matter of course, and I sometimes travelled to country areas to see them too.
When the album “Boys Light Up” was released, I was massively disappointed not to even merit a thank you in the list on the back of the album cover. I was beginning by that time to realise that the band was outgrowing me. I was similarly deflated when I saw them for the 100th time and was all but blown off by certain people within and surrounding the band. There was a new road crew too and for some reason, they all took an instant dislike to me, which made it hard for me to get into gigs if my name wasn’t left at the door, which with new management and crew, it wasn’t, unless I informed them that I would be attending.
There were the Countdown awards, held at a theatre in Exhibition Street; the name eludes my battered brain right now. I waited at the side door afterwards and then outside the hotel down the road where an after party was in progress. Band members spoke to me when they came out, but I wasn’t invited to join the party. Some of the other girls waiting didn’t believe I ran the fanclub and the fact that I was out on the street and not in at the party didn’t help my case.
Glen Wheatley came onto the scene somewhere along the line and things changed again. It took some time for me to let go but eventually, I had to admit that I couldn’t keep up with them. Brad had married Kerry Armstrong, who was then and still is one of my favourite actresses. She was in the bandroom when I told them of my decision and I remember her consoling me with suggestions for my future. I was left feeling as though certain people were relieved when I told them of my decision. Like they wouldn’t have wanted to make me leave, but they were glad I’d finally let go. I maybe wrong; I have always been a tad paranoid about what people think of me.
I didn’t let go completely, however. They were still my favourite band and I continued to see them, not as often but now and then as the mood dictated. There was a grieving process as with anything lost that meant anything at all. Sometimes I hated the band, but I always loved them.
I remember a gig at the Palais Theatre. I can’t remember the timing in relation to my departure from the inner circle; let’s say between six and ten months. I went with my flatmate and really enjoyed the concert, refreshed as I was due to getting some distance from them. After the concert, we went to the side door, hoping to just say hi, since I hadn’t seen them to speak to in a long time. There was a small crowd waiting and I remember Brad being slightly mobbed when he made an appearance.
He seemed pleased to see me, and when I had introduced my flatmate, he invited us both in back stage. Sometimes it’s the little things that heal the wounds. Walking through that door and knowing all those girls were staring daggers at my back, walking into the backstage area and being greeted like a long lost friend, even being invited to the after party at the Wheatley’s South Yarra home, was all balm to my troubled soul.
Brad even invited himself to our flat for coffee. Seriously. Coffee was what he needed to get himself home safely. We dosed him up on caffeine and sent him on his way, praying he wouldn’t be in the morning papers for drink-driving, or worse. Of course, they were immortal and untouchable. Weren’t they?
There was the huge gig at the Myer Music Bowl. I was a mother by then. It must have been a while since I’d seen them, because I saw James on Chapel Street one day (that is a funny story in itself but I’ll tell that in another note.) when my daughter was a few months old and he hadn’t known I was even pregnant.
A good friend and I went to the concert with our kids in their pushers. I’m not even sure we had tickets; we set up for a picnic on the grassy area behind the Bowl, between the driveways. I can’t even remember if we went round to see the band onstage. What I do remember is that before they went on, Bill came to the back door. Now if you know the Myer Music Bowl, you will be able to picture this. If not, a short description of the area behind the Bowl may be helpful.
There are a lot of gently sloping hills in the parks in and around the Bowl, in the area known as the Kings Domain. The Bowl is nestled in a valley between a couple of those hills. At the back, there are two driveways which slope down to the back doors. Therefore the grassy area between the driveways is quite a way up from the bottom of the drive.
OK, so I heard a bit of kerfuffle from the girls lining the fences which ran along the edges but well above the driveway, and I went to the fence at the highest part to investigate. Spying Bill at the door talking, I watched until he noticed me, hoping for a wave. He saw me and said hello, quite loudly.
You know that moment when a whole crowd falls silent? It’s quite eerie, and sometimes awkward, to be the centre of that kind of attention. They all seemed to be listening intently as Bill and I conducted a short conversation. We asked after each other’s health and well-being, he asked if I was going round to see them perform and invited me to come down to the door after they had finished.
“Come down here when we come off stage and I’ll come back and let you in.” And he did. My friend and I dutifully went down the sloping driveway with our pushers threatening to drag us down faster. The security guy at the door had been warned we would be there and allowed us to wait right by the door until Bill had cleaned up and recovered enough to come back and let us in.
I can only remember snippets of conversation but the gem that stuck in my mind ever since was Bill telling me that I had discovered the band and was therefore an important part of the band's history. There was no wiping the smile off my face that day.
I, along with every other Aussie Crawl fan and every person associated with the band, was devastated by the death of Guy. My boss would only allow me a few hours off work to attend his funeral, because he wasn’t a family member or even a close friend. In fact, when she discovered that this man was a musician and fairly well known, I think she suspected me of star stalking and treated me to a few choice threats if I didn’t return to work at a reasonable hour.
Still unlicensed and carless, I travelled from the edge of the city (around where the Crown casino is situated now) by tram to Toorak, stopping in South Yarra to meet up with a roadie named Mark at Troy House of Music. My partner worked there at the time and Mark was a good friend and workmate from various bands including The Models. I knew his surname then but we usually referred to him as Mark2, since the Road Manager for the Models was Mark1. Wish I could remember surnames; I’d love to touch base with these people and see what’s happening in their lives now.
As Mark and I stood outside the Fun Factory waiting for the tram to take us a few more blocks down Toorak Road, a car passed us and I caught sight of the band members. James was by the window and our eyes met briefly. He was so sad, I almost cried for him.
I’d never attended a funeral before. I’m glad Mark was with me because I could not have handled it alone. We went for a drink afterwards before heading back to work and I learned that it was ok to laugh after a funeral. I didn’t even apologise to my boss for being an hour late.
I attended what I think now was the band’s last Melbourne performance, upstairs at The Venue on St Kilda Esplanade. (I’m willing to stand corrected if this was not their last Melbourne performance) By 1986, I was a single parent, and overwhelmed by responsibility and disillusioned with life in general. I’m not sure I even shed a tear over the demise of my favourite band.
Jump to Dec 1994, when I married and left my old life behind, moving to Darwin where my husband lived and worked. I had my second child, 13 years after the first, at the end of ’95. So it must have been some time in ’96 when James was touring and he played in Darwin. It was a time when my past re-visited me in a big way, since my favourite NBL team, Melbourne Magic played two games in Darwin that same weekend. Having been a season ticket holder for the Magic from the start, I knew them well and was in attendance when they arrived at the airport, eldest daughter (also a fan) and baby son in tow. We turned up early for the game, and hung out with them for a while afterwards. Next morning we headed off to a meet and greet with the team and their opponents, the Perth Wildcats, at the casino, where they were staying. But when we wished them well for the match that night, and they said, “But you’ll be there, won’t you?” I said that James Reyne was playing downstairs at the casino that night and there was No Way I was missing him!
I not only saw him onstage, I wangled my way backstage afterwards to surprise him! It’s helpful when you know the right people. He was about to become involved in a “discussion” with his sound engineer about the sound quality but took a moment to give me a hug, check out pictures of my son and tell me he was happy to see me.
Just as a neat fun way to end the night, as I left the nightclub, the basketball teams had just returned and were getting off their buses. I asked my team members if they’d won and they said “Not telling. You couldn’t be bothered turning up to the match, so you don’t need to know.” Tongue in cheek of course.
My response to that? “Mate, I just saw James Reyne. I can’t help it if my past jumps up and slaps me so that I have to share myself around. You watch, nothing else will happen here for months now.” And I was right.
I was still in Darwin when Brad passed away, so I was unable to attend his memorial service. James visited twice more while I lived there. The next time he came, in 1998, I was close to giving birth and since he played at the Ski Club, where seating was limited, certain other people with a vested interest in the health and welfare of my baby wouldn’t let me go. The time after that, he played at Discovery. My husband and I went along and enjoyed the concert but my time of spending nights in dingy nightclubs with smoke and drunken people were long behind me and I was glad to get out of there. Plus there was no way of getting to chat backstage this time.
I hope this wasn’t too much of a whinge fest. I wanted to tell my story, the way I saw it. It’s only looking back that we can really realise when we were part of something big and important. Apparently, our music industry these days is in a pretty bad way. Bands aren’t getting the opportunities to hone their talent the way day did “back in our day.” The pub scene, I’m told, is nothing like it was back then. From a fan’s perspective, that’s really tragic. We were able to see a different band every night of the week. Sometimes we saw the same band every night for a week. Often we saw three or four bands in the one night and not always at the same venue. Of the bands that I followed in those days, many went on to bigger and better things. INXS, The Models, Kids in the Kitchen, Uncanny X-men, so many that my kids think I’d be better off telling them who I didn’t see back then.
For me, though, there was no one quite like Australian Crawl. They were MY band, the one I’d discovered on my own, without the help of my friends, and their success was like a wave that I caught and surfed for a while until I fell off and they rolled onto the beach without me. I have a few photos, but my vinyl records went missing somewhere, even my copy of My Place. I’ve replaced some of them with CD’s and will continue to do so as finances permit.
What I do have are my memories and I treasure them.
