Intrepid music adventurer and rock and roll connoisseur, Lee Kindler, hits the streets of Melbourne in search of some high voltage tunes.
It’s Friday night. My housemate is playing East 17 again. If I hear ‘Everybody in the House of Love’ again, I will go insane. I have to escape and find some decent music. Something raw and primal with grinding power chords, killer bass lines, and thumping drum fills. I want feedback. I want gratuitous guitar solos. I want dirty, high voltage rock and roll.
Melbourne has the biggest live music scene in Australia and there are a multitude of venues to choose from, but as I slip on my Ramones t-shirt, lace up my Converse All Stars, and grunge up my hair, I know that there is only one place to start- ACDC lane.
Thirty years ago, AC/DC made their famous film clip for It's a Long Way to the Top on a flatbed truck travelling down Swanston Street. In commemoration of the success of the Melbourne based band, in 2004, the Melbourne City Council renamed Corporation Lane, ACDC Lane. At the back of ACDC lane is the Cherry Bar, dedicated exclusively to Rock and Roll.
Nine o’clock, it’s still early and the Cherry bar is fairly empty. It’s a mix of the lingering after work crowd, punks and alternative types, and teenyboppers. The DJ plays a mix of Tarantinoesque 60s pop and soul. ‘These boots are made for walking,’ ‘Son of a Preacher Man.’ I expect that the full-blown rock and roll will be unleashed later in the evening. Rock posters adorn the walls- Neil Young, The Ramones, AC/DC, Elvis. Chrysanthemums in vases hanging from the roof add an air of sophistication to the grungy ambience. I walk into the backroom where I discover the jukebox. It’s an antique 1960s contraption, which plays vinyl singles. I am accosted by an English guy. “Have you got a dollar coin?” he says thrusting two fifties at me. I dig one out of my pocket and give it to him. “You pick the song,” he says, “but don’t pick rubbish.” People take their rock and roll seriously here. I scan through the singles. They range from bad 80s metal- Motley Crue and Poison, to the essential AC/DC, to Elvis and Chuck Berry. I’m under pressure so I go with something safe… and English- ‘Paint it Black’ by The Rolling Stones. The guy seems satisfied. I hear the song out and decide it’s time to move on.
Next stop, Pony, on Little Collins Street whose motto is ‘shout 'til you're a little horse’. The bar is easy to miss. It’s almost swallowed up by Bridey O’Reilly’s on the corner, though the two places could not be any more different. Naturally, the downstairs area is decorated with pictures of Ponies. A board says that a band called The True Miracles of the Infected Flesh are playing at 10:30. It’s 10:15 so I pay $5 entry and walk up the stairs to the band section. The room is dingy and cave-like. Assorted, mismatched couches fill the small space. I avoid a particularly sad looking red one for fear of what might crawl out from beneath the cushions.
I elect for a raised carpeted area attached to the far wall. More ponies are painted on the dirty brick walls behind me, and a large plastic pony is mounted behind the bar. The place has more of a bohemian feel than Cherry. Two people behind me talk about travelling in South East Asia. A couple brave the red couch and the woman flicks through an art book. A guy next to me explains that (surprise surprise) The True Miracles of the Infected Flesh are a hardcore metal band. One band member adjusts her drum kit on stage and the other band members fiddle with wires leading to guitars and amps. This goes on for a while. I have an argument with the guy next to me about which is the greatest Sonic Youth album. I insist that it is ‘Goo’. “No, dude. It’s Daydream Nation,” he says, “it changed my life man.” It’s 11:30 and still nobody seems to be in a hurry to start. More rock and roll awaits so I leave Pony and head for Market Lane in Chinatown, home of the Ding Dong Lounge.
The Ding Dong Lounge was opened following the success of Cherry to provide another larger venue for live rock and roll in the CBD. It is the sister bar to a venue of the same name in New York City. The New York owners thought Melbourne was driven by the same sense of rock appreciation that NYC is renowned for.
I enter the Ding Dong Lounge only to hear the band announce “This will be our last song.” It seems that I’ve had no luck with live music tonight. When the band finishes, I order a pot, poured from beer taps made out of guitar parts, and ‘Fire’ by Jimmy Hendrix blares through the speakers. A guy beside me starts dancing wildly and playing air guitar. When the guitar solo begins, he jumps up on the bar beside me, teetering precariously on the wooden edge. With great balance and poise, he closes his eyes, arches his back, and launches into a stirring air guitar performance. Security men gather around him urging him to get down, but he’s too involved with his playing. The security men don’t want to touch him because one slip and he will plummet into the bottles and glasses on the other side of the bar. He sinks to his knees for one final lick and the song ends. He jumps down from the bar unscathed.
After a quick foray on the dance floor to Whole Lotta Love by Led Zeppelin, I move on in search of some more live music. Next stop, The Arthouse, at the top of Elizabeth Street. The Arthouse is the home of punk music in Melbourne. I’m in luck, a band called The Daylight Curse are about to start. The heavily tattooed, shirtless singer with a red mohawk is trading insults with the audience. The bass player walks up to him and blows a lung full of smoke in his face. He gets mad and spits at the drummer. With this gesture, as if on cue, the band starts up a brutal assault of sound. A ring clears in front of the stage and guys with baseball hats career through, their arms and legs thrashing violently through the air. Behind the ring, muscular guys with shaved heads and girls with multiple piercings nod their heads to the music. Despite the aggressive nature of the music and the dancing, there is a strong feeling of good will and community in the venue. A guy who has just been slamming, pushes past me towards the back of the room. “Sorry mate,” he apologises patting me on the shoulder.
My ears have been pulverised enough for one night so I head for the last venue on my rock and roll itinerary, The Tote on Johnston Street in Collingwood. The Tote was named after The Totaliser, an illegal betting shop that operated on Johnston Street in the late 1800s. Legend has it that tunnels were built from the Tote under Johnston and Wellington Streets to nearby shops as an escape route for bookies. The other legend surrounding the pub is the ghost of The Tote. He is often seen on the landing of the stairs underneath the ‘Cobra Woman’ banner. As I walk into the pub, I notice that Spencer P. Jones is on the bill for tonight. If the ghost has any musical taste, he will make an appearance tonight. Jones is a rock and roll legend. He founded the notorious band Beasts of Bourbon and has played with musicians such as Paul Kelly and Renee Geyer.
Inside, leathery faced punters mill about smoking and drinking, waiting for Spencer P to begin. He sneaks onto the stage in his understated way, denim clad with his trademark fag dangling out the side of his mouth. He launches into his first song, catching people by surprise. His muddy, visceral songs, and his powerful, rasping voice are electrifying. I grin through the whole set, marveling at my luck. Only in Melbourne could I walk into a pub on Friday night and stumble upon a performance by such a talented musician.
It’s 3am and I’m rocked out. This will get me through another week of East 17. But I can’t help wondering whether my roommate knows what he is missing, living in one of the greatest music cities in the world.
Comments