The Band Was Fast Asleep; the ‘Roadie’ Was Dreamin’

Sometimes I get depressed at what has happened to the Internet over its 25-or-so-year history. At its outset it had the potential to be the greatest dispeller of ignorance in human history. Unfortunately, for a lot of people, it has come to serve as a megaphone for their ignorance.

Take, for example, Clay Djubal’s website have gravity will threaten. This is a pretty good and, from my fading memory, fairly accurate account of the Armidale popular-music scene from the 1960s to the 1990s. (I can vouch for some of it, at least. I was a medium-sized cog in the Armidale cover-band machine of the mid-to-late 1970s, and knew most of the people from that era who are mentioned on the site.)

Unfortunately, someone had to come along and lay a turd in the punch bowl:

fast asleep

Groan. Let’s go through this slowly…

(ca. 1979)

That’s the first hurdle, successfully stumbled over. The band existed from November 1977 to March 1978.

Personnel: John Dodd ; Paul Dushlack (guitar) ;

Nope. His name was Phil ‘Dishrack’ Dutchak.

John Iser ; Mick Porter ; Jenny [*] (vocals), Sue [*] (vocals)

Does “[*]” mean “I’m guessing here”? Because, we had one full-time singer. Her name was Helen Crapp, though she used the stage name ‘Helen Archer’.

(If you ever wondered why people whose parents have burdened with names like Henry John Deutschendorf Jr. or Charles Michael Kittridge Thompson IV choose to use stage names… But I digress:)

Fast Asleep formed in the late 1970s as a country rock-style band, influenced by such US West Coast acts as Little Feat, The Amazing Rhythm Aces, The Grateful Dead and Canadian legend, Neil Young. Although based in Armidale the band mostly played throughout the Northern Tablelands and other nearby regions – touring as far to the north-west as Lightning Ridge and Moree

Umm, no. We never got further west than Uralla.

and to Northern NSW coastal centres such as Bellingen and Coffs Harbour. Glen Michell, who was employed as its roadie,

Glen was more of an intern than “employed as [a] roadie”. We didn’t actually pay him – not because we were exploitative slave-drivers, but because we didn’t make that much money.

remembers that fast Asleep’s few hometown gigs included the UNE Bistro, the Grand and St. Kilda hotels and several benefit shows.

The Bistro, yes (one-and-a-half shows); the Grand and St. Kilda, no. Maybe Glen has confused the St. Kilda with the Manchester Unity Hall on the other side of the St. Kilda carpark, where we used to rehearse.

We didn’t play any benefit shows, either. Again: not because we were hard-hearted money-grubbers or whatever, but simply because none came up during the band’s five-month career.

The band’s personnel comprised New Zealander John Dodd (who had connections with Mother Goose in Dunedin),

John Dodd’s “connections with Mother Goose” consisted of playing with Craig Johnston, who later formed Mother Goose, in a pre-Goose band. I’m pretty sure that he (John) never appeared on stage in a tutu or a bee costume. (Not that there’s anything wrong with that…)

Canadian Paul Dushlack plus Armidale musicians John Iser and Mick Porter (who were also both in Sweathogs).

At that point I had lived in Armidale for less than four of my twenty-three years and Mick for a total of about two of his twenty-four. It’s gilding the lily somewhat to call us “Armidale musicians”.

The two female vocalists, Jenny and Sue are believed to have been from Armidale, too.

Helen (for that was indeed her name) was originally from Sydney, if memory serves. She came to Armidale as a student at UNE.

In correspondence with HGWT, Mitchell further recalls that Fast Asleep was much in demand throughout the region for B&S Balls (Bachelors’ and Spinsters).

Didn’t happen. The 1978 version of the Sweathogs played one B&S down near Walcha in October of that year. Maybe Glen was thinking of that.

Although these were typically well-paid gigs (most often set up in barns or sheds on rural properties with limited security), bands also typically had to watch out for themselves as the alcohol consumption (for both males and females) would rise exponentially as the evenings progressed. At one ball, held in a woolshed out of Moree, for example, an audience member requested Fast Asleep play “Running Bear,” which the band obligingly did.

Again: wrong band, wrong time, wrong location. The Sweathogs, I’m ashamed to admit, did play Running Bear on occasion – but not Fast Asleep.

The trouble was that the rum-soaked mob wanted the band to keep on playing it and set up a chant of “We want ‘Running Bear’!” In such moments diplomacy and/or a well-conceived exit strategy were generally well-advised in case of mayhem.

Nice bit of creative writing there, but yet again: didn’t happen.

Source: Glen Michell (correspondence, Mar. 2010).

To say that I’m annoyed with Glen for writing this drivel is like the number 143: a gross understatement. I had cut off contact with Glen a few years before he wrote this, over the issue of my being bullshitted to (surprise!). But that was a case of not going for catch-ups/drinkypoos with him, not “I nevah want to talk with you, evah!” Maybe I sent the wrong signals…

Whatever; as of 2010 we lived about four blocks apart. I could have corrected some of his errors, and not just by relying on my failing memory.

The thing is, I’m a bit of a record-keeper. Buried at the back of a concertina folder I found this:

fast asleep001 edited

fast asleep002 edited

So there you have it. Eighteen shows over five months. There aren’t any surviving photos or sound recordings that I’m aware of.

As for “where are they now?” Mick runs a business in Victor Harbor and plays in a band called The Executives. John Dodd is a music teacher in Dunedin and still playing, apparently. Good on him!

I lost track of Helen and Phil not long after the band broke up. Google doesn’t have any useful suggestions regarding where their lives may have led.

And, saddest of all, the Manchester Unity Hall where we rehearsed and presented our “Buck-a-Head” shows has long since been “re-purposed”:

fast asleep - MU Hall

Barnaby Joyce says: get out of Denver, or Sydney, or something…

There’s an old saying that “it is better to keep your mouth shut and be thought a fool, than to open it and remove all doubt”. That doesn’t seem to bother our local Federal MP Barnaby Joyce, whose advice to people who can’t afford a house in Sydney is to head to the sticks where property is cheaper.

I know that it’s more than thirty years since Mr Joyce commenced his Bachelor of Financial Administration degree at UNE. But part of that course was Introductory Microeconomics – literally, Economics 101 – where the first thing the lecturers explain to the newly -arrived freshers is the concept of supply and demand.

(Disclaimer: I did that course as an external, mature-age student in 1992. Result? A Distinction; thanks for asking.)

It isn’t rocket science. In a country town there are fewer jobs, they pay less, and therefore the demand for real estate, reflected in the prices, is lower. Mr Joyce appears to grasp this in the article linked to earlier, but he seems to have missed the point that the real estate bubble has inflated everywhere. It’s worse in the cities than the country, but only relatively.

This quotation from the article called out for some empirical investigation:

“Little old bush accountant, a very simple rule of thumb for me was that you add up all the income in your household and you multiply it by three and that’s about the value of the house you should be looking at,” he said.

Restricting myself to the devil I know… the first stop was to find the median household income for Armidale, which this page tells us was $986 per week at the Census-before-last in 2011. Next came a side trip to the Australian Bureau of Statistics for the most recent inflation data, which was 10.2% between the September 2011 and December 2016 quarters. (Yes, this is guessometrics. I have to work with what I’ve got.)

Inflate and annualise, and we get a median annual household income of (approximately) $56500. Multiply this figure by three as per the “bush accountant’s rule of thumb”, and “the value of the house you should be looking at” is $169,500.

Say, $170,000. That should get you a house in Armidale somewhere around the median value, right?

Wrong.  The last stop was realestate.com.au’s current listing of houses for sale in Armidale. As of 25/1/2017 when this article was written there were 249 properties listed, and the median price was $395,000. That’s more than double what the “bush accountant’s rule of thumb” would advise. And, worse still, there were exactly three properties under $200,000. (That’s the “bottom percentile”, in sadistics-speak.)

But interest rates are lower than they used to be, right? True, but the LocalStats page linked to earlier states that the median monthly mortgage repayment for Armidale in 2011 was $1,470. Again, inflate this by 10.2% and the 2016 figure is $1,620 per month. This is 34.4% of median household income, and it’s a “rule of thumb” that repayments over 30% of income amount to mortgage stress.

Mr Joyce’s “rule of thumb” is obviously out of date. It’s a fair point that he hasn’t been a “bush accountant” since 2004. But if you’re going to dish out lifestyle advice of life-changing magnitude, it might be a good idea to keep yourself abreast of current information.

 

The Disappearance Of Richard Torbay

(Nothing to do with the matter at hand, just keeping with the play-on-a song-title theme. I’m a big fan of Mr Vlautin and his merry bunch of troubadors.)

Someone once told me that the problem with sitting on the fence was that you get hit by the rocks that get thrown from both sides. Substitute ‘crossbenches’ for ‘fence’ and ‘major political parties’ for ‘sides’, and this appears to be what has happened with our suddenly ex-State MP Richard Torbay.

Firstly, Labor. According to this article, in 1998 he was advised by Labor strategist Shane Easson to “tear up his party membership to run as an independent as he stood a better chance of winning”.

Coming from a Sydney resident, this probably seemed like good advice to someone who wanted to run in an electorate where the four-legged sheep outnumber the two-legged ones. It’s true, Northern Tablelands is usually a safe National Party seat. However, it’s also the case that if Labor can find a good-enough candidate to run here, they’ll win. Did the name of the late Bill McCarthy come up in their discussions?

By 1998 Torbay had a well-established reputation in this town as someone who listened and who got things done. Most people (other than diehard Nats supporters) would have weighed up that fact on the one hand, and his membership of the Labor Party on the other, and come to the obvious conclusion.

In other words, he got some crap advice from Labor over fourteen years ago. Now he’s payng the price.

Secondly, the Nationals. According to this article, Torbay contacted Ben Franklin – the NSW state director of the Nationals, not the 18th-century American politician (though it might as well have been, for all the good it did him) – to notify him about the soon-to-be-leaked information regarding his past Labor connections.

Franklin’s thoughtful, considered response? “Resign! And we’re dobbing you in to ICAC!” (Paraphrased.)

Great. That’s like contacting a lawyer when you’re accused of, say, a fatal hit-and-run when you were drunk-driving. You ask for advice on what you should do, and the lawyer replies: “kill yourself!”.

As far as can be determined from outside the ‘on legal advice’ wall of silence, the allegations about Torbay centre around non-disclosure of donations and pecuniary interests. These are serious, but normally they wouldn’t be career-ending. They are usually sorted out with a ‘whoops!’ and a hasty updating of the relevant registers.

So there are two possibilities, as I see it. Firstly, that something more serious has been alleged. That is pure speculation at this point, and no more should be said about it for now.

Secondly, that he has been set up for a fall. This is also speculation, but the fact that within hours of his resigning from his various positions we saw Barnaby Joyce jump up like a demented jack-in-the-box volunteering to stand for preselection… Hmmm – verrry suspicious.

It will be months, at least, before Torbay has his day at ICAC. So, watch that space. Meanwhile, I’d like to thank him for his hard work in his various roles over the years and wish him and his family all the best for the future.

Update 27/3/13. It might be months before Torbay appears at ICAC, but it took ICAC a week to appear at his doorstep. They turned up at a civilised hour (just before 10AM) and Mrs T. let them in. So, reading between the lines, my guess is that ICAC aren’t about to bust their guts over this one.

Winter’s here, and the time is right for morons in the street

(…with apologies to Martha & The Vandellas.)

One (or more) of the local avant-garde intellectuals decided last night that the time was right to pull my mailbox and its supporting post out of the ground. Presumably they were inspired to do this after spending their dole cheques on some cheap booze, which is always a great source of inspiration for ad hoc performance art. As is witnessed by the number of vomit splots that appear around the footpaths of the town centre after every Friday and Saturday night.

I was alerted to this by a knock on my door about 8AM. A quick glance out my window revealed that it was the police. By the time I had put some pants on – it’s probably not a good idea to front the cops naked from the waist down – they were gone, after thoughtfully depositing the mailbox on my front porch. I guess the ‘performance artistes’ had strewn it across the footpath, so the cops were just doing their bit for public safety.

Why do people do this? My best guesses are:

  • because they’re morons
  • because they’re morons who drink, thereby reducing their already limited cognitive abilities

Perhaps they were ‘inspired’ by a spate of mailbox trashings that occurred on the other side of town earlier this year. Alcohol-based empowerment: “someone else did something brainless when they were drunk, so that makes it okay for me to do it too”. I guess it’s asking too much of these people to think, let alone to think for themselves.

What to do? Nothing, except plant my mailbox back where it was before Monday. So, they’ll do it again, and I’ll put it back again, and… they’ll eventually give up when they realise they’re being laughed at.

Given their apparent level of intellectual impairment, especially after gurzling down a few litres of cheap cask wine or whatever, this could take a while.

Update 16/7/12. The mailbox has been restored to its former glory:

Took me all of about two minutes. Over to you, alcohol-sodden losers.

Update (much later): checking around my neighbourhood over the subsequent few weeks I noticed that two other mailboxes had also been removed from their moorings and the one across the street had been the recipient of a punch worthy of Anthony Mundine (assuming it wasn’t a kick).

The common theme seemed to be that they were all easy targets – the ones that were bolted to metal fences or attached to buried concrete bases were untouched. The one across the road must have come as a painful surprise to the perpetrator. Wear boxing gloves next time, clown.

Trust Jesus, ‘cos I don’t.

Hot on the heels of the latest (alleged) Catholic priest kiddy-fiddling scandal (this one a bit closer to home than usual), I found this in my mailbox yesterday.

Now it’s not every day that I get a communication from the figurehead of one of the world’s major religions, so I thought I should reply to at least some of it.

My beloved,

How are you?

I’ve been better – and worse. Sometimes at the same time. Thanks for asking.

[…] I saw you yesterday as you were talking with your friends.

If there’s one thing that loners like me hate, it’s being busted talking to ourselves.

I waited all day hoping you would want to talk with me, too.

Sorry; my Aramaic is a bit rusty.

[…] As evening drew near, I gave you a sunset to close your day and a cool breeze to rest you – and I waited, but you never came.

The sunset was nice but the “cool breeze” was frigid, it being winter and all. That’s why I was sitting inside.

I saw you fall asleep last night and I longed to touch your brow…

If I had been awake, you would’ve been charged with break-and-enter. Touching my brow’s OK; just don’t go any lower.

…so I spilled moonlight on your pillow and face.

Yes, it was a full moon last night – but I had my curtains drawn. Sure it was me?

[…] Then you awakened and rushed off to work.

“Don’t have a job, man!” (To paraphrase Bart Simpson.) More like “crawled out of bed about 9 and made a cup of coffee” in my case. Again – sure it was me?

Today you look so sad – so all alone.

I call it “leading an idiot-free lifestyle”. If I want idiots, there’s always the supermarket. I think they’re on special there – every day.

It makes my heart ache because I understand how you feel: My friends let me down and hurt me many times too, but I love you!

Yeah, that thrice-denying Peter – fuck him! And as for Judas Iscariot – what an arsehole! With Pontius Pilate, at least you knew where you stood.

Oh! If only you would listen to me! I love you!

Fine, but keep your hands above my eyebrows.

[blah blah blah] I clothe you with warm sunshine and perfume the air with nature scents.

Could you ease up on the dog plop? It’s rank.

[blah blah blah] We could spend an eternity together in heaven.

Watching boofheads play Rugby and listening to the angels babbling in Arabic? (Wrong religion, I know.) Pass.

I know how hard it is on this earth.

That’s why they call it “terra firma”.

[…] I want you to meet my father, too. He wants to help you just as much as I do. My father is that way, you know.

He’s gay too? Let me guess – your ‘mother’ is a bloke. (It’s OK, I support gay marriage.)

[…] I have already chosen you. And because of this, I will wait – because I love you!

Your friend, Jesus

Restraining order in 3, 2, 1…

——————-

Reading the above communication I was reminded of a certain apposite song: Slobberbone – Trust Jesus.
The song and the photo are from their exemplary album Everything You Thought Was Right Was Wrong Today.

Hello world! (Or my little corner of it.)

In late middle age my memory is starting to fade. Short-term is going first. Whether this is the early stages of Alzheimer’s or just the normal wear-and-tear from nearly six decades of brain use (and abuse), time alone will tell.

So, my purpose with this blog is mainly to record the things that amuse, confuse or amaze me about the town where I live, for future reference by me. If anyone else gets some entertainment or information value from it, that’s great too.