Learn to swim with Harold Holt

Well he took me down to Portsea in his government car
Said you shouldn’t go out in the water too far
Only go a-swimmin’ where the flags say Yeah!
And don’t get sandcrabs in your pubic hair.
- Flange Gasket, 1998

Jessica and I had been together for a couple of weeks now, and Marty had just about forgiven me for hooking up with one of his younger sister’s old school friends. Lord knows how he’d have reacted if I’d actually hooked up with his sister. Jessica was very cool. Cute, blonde and athletic, adventurous and up for pretty much anything, the life of this or any other party. The party in question had been our housewarming at Chateau Dodgy last month, the night after I’d first met her at Maggie Moore’s. Even in my clouded state, she looked seriously hot in tight black pants and a clingy black top, typical barmaid uniform, which she actually turned up to the housewarming in, straight from work. She also looked seriously hot getting out of them, as I discovered to my delight later in the evening. Yeah, Jessica was great. Even if she was from Bangalow.

Anyway, we’d basically decided to see where this took us, rather than letting things stand at a one-night deal, and to my surprise it was going rather well. Apparently, I crowd easily when it comes to relationships. I have a history of developing resistance to overexposure if I’m given too much time and not enough space with a new girl, which appears to have resulted in a litany of misbehaviours and prematurely terminated relationships, or so my therapist (oh OK Lena) tells me. But Jessica was cool. She gave me time and space, didn’t find it compulsory to be with me every waking moment; besides, she worked a lot of nights anyway, so I didn’t always get to see her whenever the mood arose, meaning the anticipation kept things interesting. Just to sweeten the deal, she knew the bar staff at most of Lismore’s other decent public houses and alcohol establishments of quality (all three of them), so we usually scored cheap drinks whenever we went out.

By now you’re thinking why is he marrying Bethany, this Jessica chick sounds awesome. We’ll get to that. It’s not just because she was from Bangalow, in case you’re wondering.

Another of Jessica’s better qualities was empathy. She seemed to understand the increasing despair her man was suffering, watching a perfectly healthy and rational human being tearing himself apart over a girl. Actually, it was two girls, if you included Talia (the chick from year 9) as well as Lena. Logically he shouldn’t have, but in McCarthy’s fevered, delusional mind, it all seemed to swirl together in some giant shitfight of betrayal, lost opportunity and spurned love. He was morose, snappy, and rather melancholic, particularly when the turps became involved. He’d seem to alternate between misery at his fate, frustration at his own missed opportunities, and fury at how he’d been thoroughly screwed over.

Yeah, you’re right, he was rather wallowing in it. But he did it so well.

Cue Jessica, girl of action. “We’ve gotta do something about Sam,” she observed. “He’s tying himself in knots over this girl.”

I was going to correct her and point out that ‘pretzel’ was the chosen imagery for the state of McCarthy’s insides ref. his treatment by Lena, but decided to let it slide.

“He’s our very own malignant thundercloud in a clear and brilliant skyscape,” I offered.

“Not bad,” she surmised. “Pretty close. But to really sound like Sam you need more than tortured three-unit-English diction, you’ll need to be sulking more.” She shook her head, smiled her megawatt smile. “We’re awful, aren’t we? I mean, you’re awful, you’re encouraging me.”

“Yeah sure, blame me for everything. But I mean, what can we do? I’ve been telling him for years what he needs to do - stop looking for his one and only true love, at the exclusion of all others. Or at least be prepared to interview more widely and audition more applicants.”

“And that’s what you’re doing then, is it?” She tried to read my expression in the mirror. My expression read that I was preoccupied watching her getting dressed for work.

“After a fashion,” I admitted with a grin.

She offered a grin. “So how am I doing?”

“Depends whether you really want the position or not,” I replied. “Personally, I’d like to extend the audition a bit longer, to see how you go…”

Jessica surveyed herself in the mirror, in black bra and panties. I presumed she was happy with what she saw. I was.

“Tell you what,” she said after some thought, “make sure he comes out tomorrow night. A few of the new bar staff are being taken out for first-week survival drinks, including Cassia. I might have a word in her ear.”

“We can’t set him up with one of your co-workers,” I laughed. “She’s not another mate of Gina's [Marty’s sister] is she? Marty’s barely forgiven me for hooking up with you as it is...”

“No, she’s not, you’re thinking of Lisa… Cassia’s from Sydney, she’s only moved up here recently to start uni. She’s only eighteen, doesn’t know many people here yet. Nice girl. Part-Brazilian or Spanish or something like that. Think she used to be a dancer or something.”

A devious grin split my featured. I tapped my fingertips together a la Monty Burns.

“Excellent.”

So against my better judgement, next evening we laboured to set McCarthy up with Cassia.

“How’s it going?” Jessica asked anxiously, across the beer taps, while she poured the next round. She was still due to be tending bar until nine.

“Fair to middling,” I reported. “He’s riding to instruction, I’m playing the straight man and he’s working the room well, but have to report my wingman’s recon is less than optimal.”

“Translation?”

“She ain’t interested,” I assessed. “She ain’t buyin’ what he be sellin’. He’s being witty and charming, he’s really on his best behaviour, I’m leading him in as best I can…”

“So you’re carrying on like a pair of trained monkeys doing a vaudeville act, that’s what you’re telling me?”

“Hey, we’re not picking lice off each others’ backs yet,” I protested. “But it could be going better, in all probability.”

With a well-practiced flourish, Jessica set three perfect golden schooners of New onto the Guinness-emblazoned beer towel, and shot me a winning smile. Now, thinking back, I’m struggling to figure out why I didn’t marry her. “Leave it to me,” she beamed. “I’m finishing soon, be with you in twenty minutes.”

True to her word she joined our group an hour later. Okay, so time management wasn’t her special topic on Mastermind. To her credit, though, she set about catching up to us on alcoholic intake with the subtlety and reserve of a demonic banshee.

So like all truly great and/or stupid ideas, it started as a half-arsed means of impressing a girl.

“Hey Cassia,” Jess began, “did Sam tell you about his band?”

You could almost see Cassia’s eyes light up like a pinball machine on Triple Bonus Multiplier.

“You’re in a band?” she asked (read demanded) of him.

McCarthy, without the script in front of him (largely because Jessica was making it up as she went along), played at modesty. “Yeah, I play a little.”

Jessica shot me a sly grin and a wink. Damn I wanted to take her out the back and Do Things to her. My lead.

“A little,” I began, “the lad’s being modest. Uncle Sam here is a kick-arse axeman. He can solo like the ghost of Eddie Van Halen. Even though Eddie isn’t dead. I think.” Cursing myself for saying Van Halen instead of someone her generation might have actually heard of…

“You’re overstating it,” McCarthy conceded humbly, “but yeah, like I say. I play a little.” Saying little and suggesting the rest. Textbook. Nice. Simple but solid technique under pressure. Getting in behind the ball, front elbow high, compact shape. Well played. Well left. Well well.

“So tell me about your band,” Cassia wanted to know, all eyes and ears and supremely sexy accent and whoa you have a girlfriend already, genius. “What’s it called?”

“Ah, we haven’t actually decided on a name,” McCarthy offered breezily. “We’re just starting out, really. Angus and I play guitar, Marty - don’t know if you know Marty, he’s on keyboards, plays a little bass too. And our other flatmate Phil is an awesome drummer.” He’d ad-libbed well, actually. Particularly the bit about Phil being ‘awesome’, or even a ‘drummer’. At best, the Duffer had an eclectic approach to keeping time, most noticeably after four or five cones. “We’re just jamming a lot at the moment, writing songs together over the past few months, seeing where the creative process takes us, without limiting ourselves by having to focus on generating a commercial reality from the project, with gigs and recordings and stuff.”

“Wow!” she said. “That’s soooo cool!”

I was trying, desperately, not to laugh. The boy had hidden talent yet. Go son! Shovel that shite!

“So what are your influences! What sort of music are you into?” Cassia asked breathlessly.

You could actually see him mentally filing through all the bands he listened to, carefully vetting them for credibility. AC/DC - uh, no; Gurus - maybe not; Motley Crue - hell no.

I couldn’t resist a shot. “Def Leppard,” I offered. “We’re all really into Def Leppard, Cassia.”

“I don’t think so,” McCarthy intervened. Reasonably well played, sir. Solid forward defence to Warney’s flipper. Had to see if he was paying attention, you see.

“Who’s Def Leppard?” Cassia wanted to know.

“Yeah, I’m into a lot of stuff,” he continued. “You Am I, Ben Harper, Oasis, Spiderbait, Veruca Salt, Grinspoon…” Couldn’t hurt to list the local boys, even if they were a little on the loud ‘n’ lairy side. “Plus of course, you’ve gotta respect the old stuff, the originators of the modern sound. We’re all huge fans of Hendrix, Led Zeppelin...”

“Jimi Hendrix?” Cassia said. “I totally love Jimi Hendrix! In my old dance troupe we used to do this upbeat piece to Foxy Lady. Used to almost give the old grandpas heart failure!”

“I could understand that,” McCarthy mused with a wry smile. I could almost see him letting the mental image wash over him of slender little Cassia shaking what the good Lord gave her to Foxy Lady, presumably in some kind of psychedelia-themed leotard which clung to every sweat-dampened curve of her lithe, toned, nubile little frame. In fact, despite the proximity of Jessica, I was savouring the same image. Nurse! The ice cubes! [Distant sounds of steam escaping] Judging by the way Jessica was looking at me, she knew exactly what I was thinking about. At which point I took that image, mentally Photoshopped Jessica’s head over Cassia’s, and carried on visualizing, folks.

Hmmm, that could be the reason why I didn’t marry Jessica. I met her at age 22; I met Bethany at age 32. I can actually behave myself properly in mixed company these days, apparently.

Anyway, now that McCarthy was an Actual Musician and not just Some Random Guy, Cassia began to take a real interest in affairs. They got to know each other a little better over the course of the evening, in pretty constant chatter from there on. I have no idea how things went after about half ten as Jessica and I jumped in a taxi home to deal with a problem she was having with this rather filthy fantasy she couldn’t seem to get out of her mind, and insisted on repeatedly whispering into my ear in deliberately tantalizing installments. However I have it on reasonable authority that McCarthy, nothing if not chivalrous, walked her home in the early hours, and was blessed with a rather sweet kiss goodnight on her front step as his reward. Hey, it was a school night, he’d done rather well considering. Given he hadn’t kissed a girl since Lena, the importance of this can’t be overstated. It gave him fresh evidence to obsess over, analyse the significance of, make plans, change plans, deliberate, agonise and finally talk himself out of…

But maybe he was going to surprise us all. A few mornings later McCarthy threw the following across the breakfast table.

“Guys, how’d you all like to record something as a band… maybe sometime soon?”

At which point the Duffer almost choked on his Frosties. He was about the only person I knew who actually ate Frosties. They looked way dodgy by my reckoning. You want some cereal with your sugar there mate?

“What've you got in mind, running a tape over one of our jam sessions?” I asked.

“That’d be a good start,” McCarthy offered.

The Duffer grinned. “Would this have anything to do with a certain Spanish dancer acquaintance of yours? One who seems to think you’re lead singer in a band?”

McCarthy pointed at me. “It was his idea.”

“Oh get fucked, it was Jessica’s. She was just trying to get you laid, for God’s sake.”

“World’s in a state when your girlfriend is more concerned about whether old mate here gets any than whether you do,” Phil observed through a mouthful of sugary detritus.

“Oh, don’t worry, she’s still looking after number one,” I grinned.

“Yeah, we know.” McCarthy banged his palm on the wall. “Fuckin’ thin walls around this place…”

“Look,” Phil said, indicating with his milky spoon to show emphasis, “I’m not about to stand in the way of Uncle Sam here getting it on with the Brazilian dancer…”

“Thought she was Spanish?” I asked.

“Argentinian, originally,” McCarthy corrected.

“Whatever,” Phil continued. “Feel free to invite her over for our jam sessions, but I ain’t pretending to be in some band of yours just so you can get off with her. I draw the line at matching spangly uniforms with Team Samboy emblazoned on them.”

“I wasn’t aware that had been suggested,” I laughed.

His carefully-evaluated plans swiftly turning to rapid-set shite, McCarthy went to the third umpire. “You’re very quiet, Monster,” McCarthy ventured. “What do you think?”

Marty was working his mastery upon the stovetop espresso maker, and had so far managed to stay out of the debate. He thought for a moment.

“This may actually work out,” Marty said, to our general surprise. “Phil, remember that audio engineering assignment which is due in week six?”

“Doubt it,” I laughed. The Duffer shot me a dirty look, which confirmed it.

Marty outlined that their assignment involved full recording and mixing of a live band. “We’d originally planned to just record Phil and I playing keys and drums,” he said, “but Chris Kurtin said it had to be more than two instruments playing live.”

“Yeah,” Phil recalled, “Chris was really strident it had to be a live recording of a multi-instrument band playing all at once, rather than a studio piece-together job, laying individual tracks over each other. As you’d actually be much more likely to be doing in a studio…”

“He sounds like a complete wanker,” I offered.

“That’d be because he is,” replied Marty.

From what McCarthy and I had heard from the boys over the past weeks, Chris Kurtin was the biggest pain in the arse in the entire SCU Music department. He was a brilliant ex-muso who’d ended up being a kingpin in the local music scene, as well as lecturing on various areas of his boundless expertise at SCU. Just ask him, he’d tell you. At great length, apparently. In one of life’s beautiful ironies, at five foot bugger-all, great length was what the Kretin appeared to lack, inversely proportional to his monumental Napoleon complex.

“The other thing we thought about,” Marty continued, “was recording Steve Bennett’s band, Razorslash, playing at Market Day next week. But that would be difficult because it’s an outdoor venue and the acoustics in the Union complex aren’t that great.”

“As well as the fact that Razorslash are completely fucking shithouse,” I suggested.

“There is that as well,” Marty nodded. Razorslash played appalling post-industrial thrash-metal, out of time and out of key. Marty and Phil could do the world’s greatest audio engineering job on their set and it would still sound like Jabba the Hutt having a bowel movement in a blender. Or Slipknot, if you prefer. However, Razorslash did manage to play more than the odd gig (a lot more than they deserved to play) around the North Coast area. Chris Kurtin, in his other role as Big Cheese of local talent management outfit Seek Discoveries (‘seek’, as in the phonetics of his initials, Cee-Kay, but dropping the ‘ay’ from the K, so as to be as tedious and pretentious as possible), seemed to be taking care of business on the bookings side for the ‘Slash.

“So what are you saying, Marty?” said Phil.

“I think we should try and book the mobile recording gear from the department,” he proposed, “and spend a bit of time putting some tracks down.” He began aliquoting out the silken black gold into mugs. I don’t care if that’s a mixed metaphor, you haven’t tasted Marty’s coffee. It’s fucking tops. “One other thing though,” he remembered, screwing up his face. “Another special CK twist.”

“What’s that?”

“Has to be original compositions, no covers or anything. Or only some small arbitrary percentage of covers. Supposedly so that we can’t use someone else’s ‘artistic concept’ in terms of how we record and mix the tracks.”

“Sounds more like he’s milking his audio engineering class to get hold of fresh material for the other side of the business,” the Duffer suggested. “We’ll have to be careful what songs we use, and make sure we still retain the copyright.”

“Since when did you turn into a copyright attorney?”

“Hey, so I stayed awake in one of the Kretin’s lectures on that shit,” Phil replied. “Sue me.”

“He may just do that,” I nodded. “Just on principle, for using his evil powers for good.”

It became pretty clear, as recording weekend approached, that Marty wasn’t comfortable with offering up his own songs for us to record. He said he didn’t feel that this was the right outlet for his songs, they weren’t properly finished, they weren’t ready for an audience yet.

McCarthy nodded in my direction. “Whereas our freshly extruded crap will be just perfect for the job.”

“I’m not saying that, Sam,” Marty said, apologetically.

“I am,” replied McCarthy with a grin. “If your man Kretin wants some new talent to rip off, we’ll give him something to think about.”

“By providing him with as little talent as possible?”

“Exactly.”

For our intended recording sessions on the Anzac long weekend, Marty had managed to borrow (OK, flog) a battered old cherry-red Stratocaster or cheap knockoff thereof, and a little Peavey amp from the departmental equipment pool at uni, for me to use in place of my old acoustic (a clear misnomer, as it had appalling acoustics by this late stage of its life.) I was familiar with dodgy Strat knockoffs, my own having recently packed it in - Matt had passed on to me his own cheap-and-nasty Korean-made Strat ripoff several years ago, originally remaindered from our high school music department; it was stuffed then, so you can imagine how rubbish it was by the time I’d finished with it.

The pseudo-Strat supplemented McCarthy’s contribution to our ‘wall of sound’, the aging matt-black Epiphone Les Paul copy which he’d bought from Theft Converters with his first Northern Star paycheck. He also had an old but genuine Marshall amp which he was appallingly proud of, even though the hallowed lettering had deteriorated and broken away to the point where the logo now read ‘Arshol’. Marty had his Roland MIDI keyboard and the Duffer was, as always, pounding the skins. And playing his drumkit during the short periods when he wasn’t masturbating, presumably.

McCarthy dialled up a big number on his amp, and pointed at me with his guitar pick.

“Sketchy,” he simply said with a conspiratorial grin.

I grinned, flicked him a thumbs-up, and he slashed his fingers down against the strings with a sound like corrugated iron being torn apart. To me, it sounded like the angels were singing. I chimed in with the borrowed Strat-or-likeness-thereof, and we wobbled away, blasting out the cobwebs as we churned through the old riff. I swear, out of the corner of my eye, that I saw Marty almost jump out of his seat when we cranked Sketchy up for the first time. It had a riff with teeth that would scare the family pet, and by Christ it sounded good when amped up and played on vaguely decent gear. Or even just the busted old shit we were using.

We’d written Sketchy At Best years ago in high school, on the dishevelled old gear we’d inherited from Matt and his mates. It was (yet) another 12-bar blues progression, thinly disguised by playing it loud and lairy, and singing about girls and the pursuit thereof. The tag line, “Sketchy at best”, was used as a call-and-response in the chorus, where McCarthy asks us how we think he’s getting on with his pursuit of this girl. The usual rubbish, as you’d expect. As such it ended up sounding like AC/DC getting in a punchup with the Stones circa 1966 behind the bike sheds after school. Dressed up with a little feedback-led distortion and McCarthy’s swaggering vocals, it had rather a kick to it. Took the emphasis away from how puerile and rubbish the lyrics were, anyway. However, because it was loud and lively, and could be played by any bastard with half a clue (i.e. Us), Phil and Marty gave it the thumbs up and figured on making it the opening track of our proto-setlist.

For weeks, seemingly, we’d been jamming on a couple of Zeppelin riffs which just appeared to leap out of the ether when any of us picked up an instrument after hours, largely because we were all Zep freaks at that stage of proceedings. The bassline from How Many More Times was one, the funkily syncopated hook from Out On The Tiles another. So we started overlaying one on the other, messed around with some other bits and pieces, and finally threw in the coolest Zeppelin lick of them all, the riff from Moby Dick - the awesome, if brief, full-band bit before the completely self-indulgent four minute John Bonham drum solo. (At which point Phil would correct me and say the riff was the boring melodic bit before the brilliant, conceptual, genre-changing, fundamentally-fully-tops four minute John Bonham drum solo. Because, like pretty much all drummers worldwide, Phil absolutely worshipped Bonzo.) As far as lyrics I pretty much ad-libbed a suitably dirty-sounding trail of blooze-style innuendo, in my best Robert Plant howl. I distinctly recall instructing someone or other, presumably nubile, feminine and borderline legal, to squeeze mah lemon til the juice runs down mah leg, like you just did last night baby. Pity she was at work and therefore wasn’t around to hear her riding instructions. So came into the world Git The Led Out, which was planned as the last song in our ‘set’. (Years later we dug this loose arrangement out of the archives, fiddled around with it a bit, and recorded it as It’s Not Technically Plagiarism If Led Zep Ripped It Off Someone Else Before We Ripped It Off Them.)

As I’ve said, as far as musical tastes went, Chateau Dodgy was a pretty broad church. Grunge, though, was thinly tolerated. The first generation of grunge, like Soundgarden, early Nirvana, Pearl Jam and Stone Temple Pilots (or parts thereof), absolutely. Second generation me-too merchants like Bush and Live, however, could fuck right off. Even though Nevermind was obviously a classic album, and Smells Like Teen Spirit a pivotal song which rung in the new decade of the ‘90s, for whatever reason Chateau Dodgy’s communal lounge-room stereo was more likely to be playing Weird Al’s Smells Like Nirvana; it was just the sort of wacky funsters we were. In that spirit, we put our heads together and devised a crackling, acidic, D-tuned grunge progression laced with distortion and self-loathing, and made up some lyrics about being desperately depressed and hating life and wanting to end it all, all because Noni Hazlehurst wasn’t on Play School anymore, and Monica Trapaga was a piss-poor substitute. We wrote it in twenty minutes, called our creation Nirvana in Pyjamas (naturally), slotted it straight into the setlist, and cracked another beer to celebrate.

There was one other song which we wrote as a collective effort for Marty and Phil’s audio engineering project. I’d wanted to write a Beach Boys style ‘60s surf-rock song, something like Surfin’ USA. Dad had The Best of the Beach Boys on vinyl at home when we were growing up, and it was one of my earliest musical memories; it was also as modern as the old man’s musical taste got, in truth. Anyway, I had developed this neat little Brian Wilson style melodic progression by tooling around on the quasi-Strat, and Marty had chipped in with some nicely layered harmonies which really set the whole thing off. It was almost Beach Boys meets Delltones doo-wop in places, particularly in the chorus, with great big licks of Chuck Berry-style guitar thrown in for good measure.

I admit I waited until we’d solved the song’s structure and were playing it through for the second or third time, before unveiling the lyrics I had in mind…

Well I’m a surfer dude and I’ve got the skills
I go out on my Malibu for thrills and spills
Got a cool surfer girlie and a panel van
When there’s motion in the ocean, baby I’m your man.
Love the surf, and the sand, and the sunshine too
When I get out in the water I know what to do
My aquatic technique, you just can’t fault
Cos I learned to swim with Harold Holt.

Learn to swim (learn to swim)…
Learn to swim (learn to swim)…
No need to go and do the bolt
I learned to swim with Harold Holt.

Well he took me down to Portsea in his government car
Said you shouldn’t go out in the water too far.
Only go a-swimmin’ where the flags say Yeah!
And don’t get sandcrabs in your pubic hair.
Then the waves came up and broke on down
And bugger me if Harry didn’t go and drown.
I couldn’t hear nothing but a distant blub-blub -
Hang on folks, ain’t that a Chinese sub?

Learn to swim (learn to swim)…
Learn to swim (learn to swim)…
No need to go and do the bolt
I learned to swim with Harold Holt
Not scared of water, fresh or salt
I learned to swim with Harold Holt.

We rehearsed our four-song setlist on the Friday night and again on Saturday morning - Sketchy At Best, Nirvana In Pyjamas, Learn To Swim With Harold Holt and Git The Led Out - and called up all the usual tribe as our rentacrowd for our ‘Live at the Wireless’ set in the afternoon. There was only one minor issue, which Marty brought to our attention.

“Phil, are you going to answer your phone sometime soon or is it meant to lie around here on the table screaming like that?”

Actually, that wasn’t the minor issue. To Marty, stuff like unopened mail and unanswered phones lying were fairly major issues. He was our resident anal retentive, particularly when it came to cleaning. Every share-house is duty-bound to have one, I guess. Phil duly scooped up his mobile and retired to the couch to answer the call. Apparently it was the guy from the muffler place in town, where Phil’s canary-yellow early 80’s Daihatsu Handi (the Drum Machine, as it could only hold Phil and his drums, no other passengers) was in dry dock, having decided to emulate the chronic flatulence of a Harley-Davidson over the past few weeks and having scored a default sticker from the local Plod accordingly.

“Anyway, so what do you think we should call this band?

“We definitely need a name?” I asked.

“Will do, at least for the assignment,” Marty confirmed.

“Okay, how about this,” suggested McCarthy. “The Four Cunts.”

“No,” said Marty. He seemed quite definite that this was not a good idea.

“Three Cunts and a Marty?” McCarthy persevered. “That’s a no then?”

“Any better ideas?” Marty hoped, evidently not comfortable with ending up as chairperson.

“I guess Chateau Dodgy is a bit obvious,” I suggested. “How about The Uncle Ted Experience?”

“In honour of our major sponsor?… not bad… bit obscure, but not bad,” McCarthy said. “What says the Duffer?”

“Fucking flange gasket??!!”

“And you thought mine was obscure,” I opined. “We’d probably have to drop the fucking, at the very least.”

Phil put his hand over the end of the phone. “Hundred and fifty to replace a flange gasket… it’s not just me, that’s just crap, isn’t it?”

“Could silicone it up for a six of Teds,” I offered. “For half a carton, could even use proper gasket goo.”

“That’s what I figured,” Phil concurred, and set about relating to Mr Muffler Technician where he could shove his hundred and fifty dollar flange gasket.

McCarthy, for his part, was sporting a whimsical grin, considering this new option.

“Flange Gasket,” he mused. “I like it. Could work.” He looked around to gauge our reaction.

“Makes no sense at all,” Marty protested.

“Even better,” he agreed.

And he did have a point. It went with the philosophy behind the whole project. I think Marty was worried that if it looked like they’d gone to a lot of trouble to set up and record what seemed to be a ‘joke’ band, it’d backfire on he and Phil when assessment time came. But, to be honest, it’d well and truly ballooned out of his control by now. Marty wasn’t the type to try and impose his will on a group dynamic, and the Duffer was likewise too laid-back to want to drive the bus. McCarthy and I was just having heaps of fun playing rock stars and writing really silly songs with big industrial-strength riffs behind them, like we’d been doing for years anyway, and were just amazed anyone had asked us to play them, even go to the trouble of running a tape across them with proper(ish) gear and shit. I think McCarthy’s main concern was whether this really would improve his chances of getting into Cassia’s pants, given how silly and subversive this was all becoming…