I think this yarn starts Friday night some time after seven in the evening, where I’m sitting with a bunch of old biking friends making a nuisance of ourselves making raucous conversation and re-telling stories involving sudden encounters with native fauna and contact with the constabulary. A few hours go by and a bit after ten, we decide to hike off and I check my phone on the way out the door. 1 Message Received.
This requires a little clarification. Firstly, Katy (my flatmate) is a bartender at a bar called The Flying Scotsman. Also, Garbage are most certainly in town as I have tickets to the show the following night. With knowledge of this, and being the incredibly articulate soul that I am, I responded in kind with a message:
What the hell?
At least three seconds passed as I was standing outside in the rain before I decided she wasn’t going to message me back if she was working, and I should get me to the scotsman. So, at speeds somewhere between ‘Go To Jail’ and ‘Make The News’, I tore up the streets to pull up outside the bar and see that the line to get in is longer than my…. well… it’s pretty long. Waddling up to the back end, two ladies get up from a table and stand behind me when one asks the other “Do you think we’ll get back in?“. I start to wonder how much cash I have in my wallet and how underpaid the security staff might be when a strange man who looks like George Lucas appears behind me.
“Are you Katy’s roommate?“.
“Come this way.“.
I follow George Lucas out of line and past some security folks and through a guarded set of doors. “Short cut“, he says, before showing me into the bar and telling me to ‘go for it’. It turns out he owns the bar. After elbow-wrestling myself a bog lap of the floor, I found Katy in the back bar and find out some of Garbage is up the back and there will in fact be music played.
A little while later and Butch Vig, Duke Erikson, Steve Marker and a couple of roadies take the small stage in strange wigs and after introducing themselves as The Dickle Brothers, start cranking out Jimi Hendrix and I spend the next hour listening to these guys getting well lubricated and playing Elvis, The Doors, Aerosmith, The Beastie Boys, Lynrd Skynrd and other old rock covers. I was three feet from Butch Vig going mental with a drumstick and a cowbell. You get funny little graces sometimes.
The next night we went along to the actual Garbage show at the Burswood Theatre, and after they had Red Jezebel open, and piping some eclectic interval music over the P.A. finishing with cranking the volume and Johnny Cash doing Hurt, Garbage came on.
Suffice to say that the gig was bloody excellent. I saw Garbage once before at the Big Day Out, but a festival isn’t that conducive to getting a really personal performance from a band. This on the other hand, most certainly was. And I loved it.
So it was an extraordinary weekend, and when I stop blaring music through my ears I can still hear them ringing, but I expect the high to well outlast the tinnitus.