The sound of one man clapping XI

•May 17, 2016 • Leave a Comment


How do you know when your band is breaking up?

Sometimes you can see it happening, like when the bassist brings his new girlfriend to a rehearsal, but things are usually clearer by the time you are deciding who gets to keep that microphone stand you bought with band money and what to do with the seven boxes of shrink-wrapped CDs.

In our case, things started to come unglued when we were invited to play third on the bill at a Gothic nightclub.

The problem wasn’t the punters or the promoter. It was the porn.

One member of our band had booked a nearby hotel room with some friends and they were planning to get drunk and watch a whole bunch of R-rated films.

That was weird. It was even weirder that he had negotiated for us to play first so he could get back to his night in.

The rest of us spent our gig money at the bar, surrounded by a thousand kinds of black.

That was definitely the end of something.

The sound of one man clapping X

•November 22, 2015 • Leave a Comment

THE PACE 09Having produced our first CD, we could now book gigs with even greater idealism. We had made a record, and that reason alone was enough to convince us the offer of a show at the museum seemed like a good idea.

The concert series was called “Out of the Glass Case, Onto the Show Case” and it was to be held on a massive stage out the front of the museum in the city. A lighting rig, a sound guy and a sheltered backstage area. We three punks had never played a show like it.

We were booked for a Sunday morning performance, out the front of the museum. (You might like to read that sentence again. It’s a beauty.)

Even our girlfriends didn’t turn up to that one.

When we finished our set the sound guy told us, through the multiple high powered fold-back speakers, that we still had five minutes left. We told him, through the giant stack of front-of-house speakers, that we had already played all of our songs. He told us to play the first one again.

Sunday morning at the museum.

We packed up in sabbath silence and were home in time for lunch.

The sound of one man clapping IX

•November 15, 2015 • 1 Comment

Scratched CDWe couldn’t give those things away.

We’d even had band meetings about titles, track listings and cover art. We figured democracy would make us great, but it just made us dumber. Insanity in groups is the norm, you know.

After democratically downing a carton and giggling with the tired sillies, we decided to give the EP two names so that if you looked at the front, it was called Prologue, but if you held the CD upside-down it was called Slightly Miffed at Technology, an in-joke reference to a similarly named rap-metal band.

We did the cover art ourselves and enlisted the help of a friend-of-a-friend, who worked at a printing press, to turn our dreams into shiny papered reality. We printed the lot under cover of night, loudly promising to pay him in beer. He kept telling us to be quiet and told us we would have to cut and fold everything ourselves. He seemed kind of nervous.

We burned our six masterpieces onto Princo blanks.

In keeping with everything else we had done to that point, people were underwhelmed by our debut. Good thing we put the lyrics in the cover, so that our genius could finally be seen for what it was: Whelming.

Also, we misspelled one of the song names on the back.

The sound of one man clapping VIII

•June 28, 2015 • 1 Comment

Pop Filter

They say you get what you pay for, so when we saw an ad in the street press for a studio with cheap recording rates we should have known what was coming.

We called up and asked to book eight hours to record, mix and master our debut EP. The engineer said this would be fine. We practiced wholeheartedly, deluding ourselves into believing this would improve the outcome.

The pop filter on the vocal mic was taken from a reused stocking which had belonged to the engineer’s ex-girlfriend. So, for the better part of that day, Danny was singing through a section of the nylon which had once warmed the leg of an unnamed 40-something woman.

We left that studio with a new CD in our hands and granny leg DNA on Danny’s lips. In retrospect, we probably got more than what we paid for.

The sound of one man clapping VII

•June 13, 2015 • Leave a Comment

Bass Guitar

Everyone knew that a band’s busyness was evidence of their credibility. That’s why street press journalists always said such-and-such “took time out from their busy touring schedule” to talk to them.

Nowadays, everyone checks a band’s number of Likes for the same reason. It’s all bollocks, but nobody much seems to mind.

So, pre-Millennium Bug, we booked ourselves heaps of gigs.

Once we had two on the same night. One was an early evening support slot at a southern footy club and the second was a post-midnight set in a city pub.

Drive, set up, sound check, play, feedback in the foldback, play, break sticks, play, pack up, drive.

We even took time out of our busy schedule to loiter near the street press guy who would later include our band name in his gig review. Misspelled, but phonetically very close.


The organisers of the second show paid the bands by asking each punter, as they arrived, to state which of the twenty bands they were coming to see. The guy on the door had a list and would then put a little tick next to your band’s misspelled name and the punter’s money would end up in your pocket at the end of the night.

If you said you were coming to see more than one band, or all the bands, the guy on the door had no idea what to do.

When we split the cash at dawn there was money enough for each of us to buy a kebab with coins left over for our ash tray (cash tray).

The sound of one man clapping VI

•May 29, 2015 • Leave a Comment

Punk Band

Someone organised a party at the footy club. (Was it an 18th?) We were to be paid in beer and, equally exciting, would be opening for a local big-name band.

These guys were massive. They had a CD out and even had their own stickers, which you would see on P-plated rear windows all over southern Adelaide, as wells on guitar cases and school books. Massive. They lived a few blocks away from Mike’s and were musical veterans, averaging at least 23 years of age.

One time, their guitarist jammed with us when we were looking for a second guitarist. His strumming hand moved so quickly it just became a pinkish smear in the air. We couldn’t believe he’d given up his afternoon to hang with us. In reality he’d probably had nothing else to do.

So, we were to open for those guys and be paid in beer. I wore a skin-tight op shop shirt which, it turned out, had once belonged to Danny’s girlfriend. He was very cuddly that night.

With five band members, we polished off our free carton of Southwark effortlessly, playing and drinking as if we were invincible.

And the audience! Heads bobbed and nodded, voices shouted post-song, beer was spilled and cigarettes greyed the air of that footy club front bar. I played in my boxer shorts, broke two sticks, cracked a borrowed crash cymbal and busted my finger open on the edge of my floor tom, leaving a beautiful red firework stain on the Remo skin.

Later, between songs in the headliners’ set, their drummer pointed to me and told the full room to give me a big clap. Said I played like a motherfucker.

My All Stars walked on that smoky air for days.

The sound of one man clapping V

•May 24, 2015 • Leave a Comment

Gr8 Sk8We played skater punk. We didn’t skate, but we figured if The Beach Boys could play surf rock without being able to surf then we could do skate rock.

So, when we were asked to play at the local indoor skate park we were certain our wannabe status would be blown before we said a word.

We said yes anyway. For the exposure.

Entry to the indoor skate park was five dollars.

The bloke on the door didn’t believe we were in a band. We were lugging various parts of a drum kit at the time so perhaps he couldn’t hear us properly over the clanging of the open hi-hats. Fortunately I knew the name of the woman who had invited us to play, so this was proof enough that we were indeed musicians. (It’s who you know, you know?)

He told us it would be twenty-five bucks for us to get in.

We laughed. There was a slight pause. He reiterated, backing up his maths ability.

“Five dudes, five times five. That’s twenty five bucks, fellas.”

He blinked at the five half-smiles beaming at him. Mike broke the silence.

“We’re… not skaters.”

The bloke nodded knowingly.

Danny added, “We wouldn’t normally come to a place like this.”

The bloke nodded just as a kid with a septum piercing pushed past us, flashing the admission stamp on the inside of his wrist.

I shouted to the back of his beanie: “Hey dude!” I sounded like a librarian. He turned around. “Can you get the manager to let us in, please?”

He nodded and wheeled his effortless way towards the woman with the clipboard on the other side of the park.

We didn’t have to pay.

Nobody clapped for us the entire night, even though we could tell they were totally into it.

But we didn’t have to pay. It’s who you know, you know? And it was good exposure.