Kickstart my heart

Oh, yeah, kickstart my heart, hope it never stops.
Oh, yeah, baby, yeah.
- Motley Crue, 1989

And speaking of Twunter, as we were doing before the jump… if a roadtrip’s worth doing it’s worth doing LIVE ON THE INTERNOOB. Edited highlights of the Twuntfeed from @angusfromflangegasket across the day, across the North Island:

10.30am, State Highway 1 (SH1) leaving Wellington

Right kids. Game on. Hello world, pants off Australia. The whips are cracking, the surf’s up, the doctor is IN.

It’s just another afternoon when TOO MUCH CRAP IS BARELY ENOUGH...

WTF are we doing you ask? Roadtrip. It’s 406 miles to Auckland, we’ve got a full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes.

Which is weird cos none of us smoke. It’s dark, and we’re wearing sunglasses. Possibly dark BECAUSE we’re wearing sunglasses. Hit it.

Should introduce you to Thor. [iPhone snapshot attached] Our lightly munted conveyance for the trip nth. No stereo, no wipers, no electrics.

And about five hundred horsepower of Hemi V8 crate motor. Yeah I’m looking forward to a steer.

Not too fkn big on flat land around here it would seem. It’s like they’ve sprinkled the city in powdered form over crumpled Alfoil.

10.50am, still SH1, in sight of water again

Cleared Porirua. D still keen to stick with the trip rather than visit the rels. Having just driven past the place I can see his point.

11am onwards, somewhere along the Kapiti Coast

First argument. Best driving song ever? Getting no love for Bug Powder Dust by Bomb The Bass here. Heathens.

Agree with @cardinalfang, Phil’s version of Sabotage FTW. Even though you *cough* PLAYED on it Joey…

Unfortunately Hol’s $28 Warehouse stereo can’t pick up the Js. Hauraki and the Rock are alternating as appropriate.

Hol’s still spouting ‘80s hair metal anthems, D reckons Canned Heat and Bear says old skool Acca Dacca. This may turn ugly.

[much argumentative Twuntering ensues from the cheap seats]

Radio Hauraki just won the argument with ZZ Top’s La Grange. Consensus reached. Can take blue UN stackhat off now.

Around half-eleven, thundering across rural Manawatu sledging the locals on the internet

Levin. Famous for bogans, a racetrack where a Toyota Corolla won a race, more bogans, and a name suggestive of what you should be doing there.

Things to do in Foxton: (1) Visit the soft drink factory; (2) Sit around and wait for death; (3) Drive through as fast as legally permitted.

Have been told I’m giving the Manawatu an unfair hammering. And should be fkn glad SH1 misses Palmy Nth & Feilding. All true.

12.15pm, in Bulls

One of SH1’s greatest attractions: the burger shop at Bulls. Decision time. SH1 via Taupo or SH2 via Wanganui? And with or without pineapple?

Where the fuck do you get pineapple in NZ you ask? Same place you do in NQ. From a shop, in a can.

Hollywood’s deciding vote goes in fav of SH1. Apparently there’s ‘even more yokel rural shit I got to see’. Cultural exchange is AWSM.

Good moo. Glad I got mine with oink as well.

12.40pm, still in Bulls

Back on the road. D says he’s regretting getting his with egg.

Now we’re ALL regretting D getting his with egg. Wished the windows worked. Open the fkn quarterglass Hol FFS.

1.40pm

Taihape. They hurl gumboots for fun here. Tip from the experts: drive through at unabated speed with doors locked and windows up.

Unless you’re travelling with D after a works burger with egg of course.

Break own advice because of Hollywood’s incontinence. How the fk does he do those non-stop late night missions? Catheter?

Behind large dirty campervan in Taihape New World carpark. On rear window: I WISH MY WIFE WAS THIS DIRTY

D and Hol engage driver in tourist conversation while Bear adds SHE IS - JUST NOT WITH YOU. Time to GTFO.

2pm

Waiouru. An army base and not a lot else. Have been thrown the keys to Thor. This could end badly, ie up a tree. Wish me luck.

No you can’t have my fkn ute if I croak it @drcletus. It was a fair swap. Not even a proper fkn XR8 anyway you fraudulator.

And what the hell are you doing on Twunter anyway @drcletus, get back to work curing gay whales of cancer.

That wasn’t very PC, I’m sorry. Apologies to any gay whales with cancer out there.

3.30pm, BP Connect Taupo, Heuheu St

FUCK ME. Apologies for the radio silence, and for the salty sailor talk, but SERIOUSLY.
Just drove the Desert Road – over the foothills of Ruapehu - lunar landscape stuff. Astonishing. Mind blowing. Etc

Only thing I can compare it to is that mountain stage of the Tour de France that finishes up above the snowline. Fkn amazing.

As is Thor. Take one 1971 Valiant, insert Saturn V up arse, watch horizon for approaching light-speed objects. Barry Norton: fkn genius

Fairly heavy on fuel though, particularly after an ill advised jump start at 4am this morning outside Blenheim fried the engine computer. Running a bit rich.

Only got 370km out of the last tank. Sadly Taupo is 371km from Wellington. Fairly heavy to push too. Though we knew that from this morning also.

At least it’s not raining. Probably just as well with no wipers. Full tank, battery swap, round of coffees and a top up of the jelly snake stockpile.

And ANOTHER slash for Hol. Seriously dude, Depends. Or tie a knot in it.

Rolling out. Have reluctantly handed keys to Hol. Just started raining. Some would say karma. He says Rain-X.

5pm, going nowhere, watching temp gauge edging northward over Hollywood’s shoulder

Tokoroa has a rush hour. Who knew. Stuck in traffic. Leaden skies drizzling persistently. Hol swearing likewise.

Bear now bored enough to read copy of No Idea free with coffees in Taupo. Reading aloud despite increasing threats of violence.

So Aussie supermodel hottie Olivia Kane has dumped her Famous Rock Star Boyfriend. That’s not fkn news, she did that in 02.

Bloody good call on her part of course. Taste and discernment. Apart from the whole going out with me in the first place bit.

RT @drcletus She was young and needed the money! > Screw you sir, it was you needing to run yr fat arse over the Gateway that started this

Ok embarrassed now. If of course that really IS you @oliviakane83, which I doubt.

The last tweet had been in response to a reply from @oliviakane83: hes still annoyed because you got the girl and all he got was a dirty footprint on his car LOL

Of all the places in the world I could have caught up with Olivia again, trolling through Tokoroa in a fully sick Valiant on a mid-week afternoon wasn’t among them. Her avatar was a butterfly, possibly a monarch – I vaguely remembered Olivia had a thing for them, tattoo on her ankle or somewhere, so that kinda checked out. She followed up with a direct message:

oliviakane83: how else would i know? :-)

angusfromflangegasket: No fkn way. That’s O for oresum. Great to hear from you, what are you doing on Twunter?

well since im all single and everything since you told everyone ive been dumped…

Just reporting the facts ma’am. Well whatever Bear read out in the No Idea. Thought it was the other way around?

kinda both - we broke up - mainly because he’s a dick. sick of americans. i miss aussie guys.

Aim straighter. Up and to the left.

still the same god awful jokes. just as well yr cute. how u doin anyway? been following the roadtrip. and the blogs. sad fangirl.

Stalker.

yeah thats me, creepy obsessed stalker. if it wasnt for creepy stalkers we wouldn’t have met up yeah :P

True dat. Where you at these days? No Idea says you’re in New York, any truth in that?

yeah acting school. time to get out of modelling & do something else. otherwise washed up at 26!

Yeah thanks for that. I was 26 when we were dating.

ROFL i know. i was there remember? :-D hey sorry will miss u guys playing BDO not back in oz til march. lots of work on

Thought you were washed up at 26?

still 25 for another few weeks yet thanks alot babe – actually in bris for bday drinks Mar 29 – love 2 catch up – will DM u my details if OK?

Sounds great, look forward to it.

Bloody did sound great, too. Particularly the bit where I mentioned to a car load of Hayabusan sledgers who’d been keen to tell me I’d actually been in conversation not with thermonuclear-hot Brisbane-born supermodel Olivia Kane but with a 350 pound Alaskan truck driver with a body odour problem and a fetish for dressing in womens underwear that I was going for drinks with newly-single thermonuclear-hot Brisbane-born supermodel Olivia Kane in a couple of weeks. Well, technically a couple of months, but let’s not piss away the immediacy of it with hair-splitting.

“So,” mused Bear, “you’re taking the girlfriend along I suppose?”

I laughed. “Cheers for bringing that up,” I noted. I’d not actually mentioned Beth to the boys. Not that I was ashamed of her, just that I genuinely had no idea whether she was actually my girlfriend or not. “Who told you about that? That dodgy music journo?”

“Journos never reveal their sources,” Bear contended.

“She revealed her sauce to you though didn’t she?” Hollywood remarked, more cheerful now that the traffic had lifted, even if the drizzle hadn’t. Rain-X only really did its job at pace on the highway, trundling around at urban speeds it was next to useless.

“Class, Hol, all fuckin’ class. Yeah she might have said a few things.”

“Mate if she’s still my girlfriend when I get back I’ll be astonished, let alone in a couple of months.”

“Thought you said it was a couple of weeks?”

“Ah, fuck you and the horse you rode in on. It’s March. Weeks or months, it’s just fuckin’ semantics.”

“What’s the deal,” Hollywood asked, “you been fucking around on her?”

“No,” I said. “Surprising as that sounds.”

“Fucking unbelievable as it sounds…”

“She’s been fucking around on you?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Then what’s the issue? Can’t stand each other?”

I shook my head. May as well throw it out there. “She’s bipolar,” I said. “Or something.”

“Or something?”

“Manic depressive. Dunno what the clinical definition is. Up and down. Very unpredictable. Some days are good, some days aren’t.”

“Ah,” nodded Bear understandingly. “The ‘aren’t’ days must be a bit tough.”

“Couldn’t tell you,” I replied, “never see her. Disappears.”

“Where to?”

“Don’t know. Away. Out of contact. So far,” I added, “she’s come back. Wherever she gets to, whatever space she ends up in, she doesn’t want me around. So yeah, I might have a girlfriend when I get back. Or I might not.”

Well that killed the fucking conversation didn’t it.

It’s times like this you need Motley Crue’s Kickstart My Heart. Actually, I’ll rephrase that. There are no times at all you need Motley Crue’s Kickstart My Heart. None whatsoever, inclusive of the time that was like these, i.e. now. But this time was the time that The Rock chose to crank aforesaid slab of late ‘80s spray-on cheese through the nation’s radio waves.

It was my fault. I began, almost subconsciously I think, drumming on the passenger console. It’s a sickness I have. We’re all frustrated drummers, we musos, particularly those of us who actually are drummers. Bear began humming the riff, as it built to cataclysmic levels of hair-metal fury. Airdrums from D, nodding his head as Hollywood broke in-car protocol and dialled the volume dial up on the stereo wedged face-up in the footwell between the lads in the back.

When I get high, I get high on speed
Top fuel funny car’s a drug for me
My heart, my heart
Kickstart my heart…

Hol wasn’t winning too many rounds of karaoke with that raspy falsetto howl, though it was pretty context-appropriate for the era. His right arm was draped on the sill, hand on the wheel; his left hand was fingering chord changes out of thin air, mouth sucking the imaginary lemon. I found myself joining in.

I’ve got the cops coming after me
Custom built Val’ doing 103
My heart, MAH HEART
KICK START MAH HAA-ARRRT
YEAH, ARE YOU READY GIRRRLS
YEAH, ARE YOU READY NOW NOW

Too late to stop now. No turning back. The volume had been cranked to absolute max, as had the vocal chords of the occupants. Call it roadtrip madness, white line fever, whatever. Three hours from home, we’d cracked. And were bellowing Kickstart My Heart as though our lives depended on it. In between laughing to the brink of tears.

OHHH
YEAHHH
KICK START MAH HEART HOPE IT NEVAAARRR STOPS
OHHH
YEAHH
BAAAYYY BEAAAAHHHHH, YEAH
DER NER NER NER NER NER NERR
CHUGGA CHUGGA CHUGGA CHUGGA CHUGGA CHUGGA
DERR NER NER
CHUGGA CHUGGA CHUGGA CHUGGA CHUGGA CHUGGA
BAT CUNT, BAT CUNT, BAT CUNT…

And so on and so forth. Until Hollywood got stopped by the cops doing quite a bit more than 103. His subsequent foul mood lasted for as long as it took us to get back up to speed and for Hauraki to crank Iron Maiden’s Run To The Hills down the airwaves at us. And so it began again.

There were other roads we could have taken north, but SH1 had taken us this far, served us well, and we’d developed the same irrational affection for it as we had the mighty Valiant, even though stumbling along with a misfire and scrambled electrics was taking a lot out of it. There’s something to be said for running the entire length of a country – well not including the couple of hundred kays at either end north of Auckland and south of Dunedin – on the same bit of road, even if it’s only an arbitrary label stuck on by Transit New Zealand. SH1 it was. We continued north-west through Cambridge (home of the Datsuns, though they weren’t home so we didn’t drop in) towards Hamilton, and another fork in the road; SH23 peeled off to the west of Hamilton, winding through the rainforest of coastal ranges towards the surfer’s paradise (in the best possible sense) of Raglan. Raglan was Bear’s declared destination at trip’s beginning, after all.

Yet none of us were surprised when he said not to worry about it, he’d just take the car back to Raglan for storage in a couple of days, once Barry had finished fixing up the mess we’d made of his car up at East Coast Bays. Almost before he’d finished talking, Hollywood had offered his spare room. His place was Bear’s place, his stuff was Bear’s stuff, and his girl (and presumably her BFF as well) was off limits.

6.40pm, road madness very much in the ascendency

Apparently the sound of Te Awamutu has a truly sacred ring. Us, we’re in Hamiltron, City Of The Future. Most of us happy to live in the past.

Bear’s hanging in to the grim end. Good call.

McShite for din dins. Shit call. Spectacularly shit call.

Pretty much all motorway from here to AKL, so it’s world of dull. Think the M1 from the Goldie to Brisneyland. Without the interesting bits.

Then again most of the north island is dull, apart from the hilly green bit in the middle. Not really worth bothering with. Skip it.

The previous message proudly brought to you in association with the South Island Tourist Board…

Fuck I love road trips. The disorienting distances, the crap food, the puerile banter and the psychosis that the road creates.

This is a problem as I usually only love things that start with B. Beer. Bacon. Bikes. Bi-curious babes with big boobies. You see my dilemma.

Four men, one car, a day and a half on the road, and on road food. Thor will need more than detailing after this. Disinfection. Reupholstering.

Cannot. Believe. My. Fkn. Ears. The Rock are playing Beef Week Queen. WTF? How’d they even get a copy? And who the fk would UNDERSTAND IT??

I want the Beef Week Queen. She likes her red meat if you know what I mean. And I think you do.

And in other unlikely developments, we might actually make Auckland airport before Team Gasket do.

Thor versus NZ138. 1971 Valiant versus Airbus A320. We’ve got more electrical problems, they’ve got more squeaky grey plastic.

And hotter trolley dollies. Though it IS an Air NZ flight. Hollywood with a bit of lippy and rouge wouldn’t be a distant second place.

Yeah, yeah, I need a girlfriend. Thanks for pointing this out @leilanialexander.

Pukekohe. Hollywood suggests a lap of the race circuit to see whether Thor can better his record from his old track-day Porsche.

Most certainly, without a shadow of a doubt, the most appalling idea we have ever had, collectively or individually, in the history of time.

Track access gates are locked anyway. Bastards. Back to the motorway.

Exit signs for Ramarama. Like Bananarama or Farmarama, just more self-referential.

Southern approaches of Auckland. Very much like the northern half of the M1 actually.

Almost all over. Actually feel rather sad. End of the trip, end of Hayabusa, end of Thor’s useful service life most probably…

Well obviously I don’t know that middle bit for an absolute fact… It’s called a Big Guess. Like civil engineers use.

Clarification: I’m told this is not the end of Hayabusa. It is not even the beginning of the end of Hayabusa. But it is perhaps the end of the beginning.

Translation: they’ve got no fkn idea either, but at least they’re not trying to punch on with each other when we started out.

Started out seeking fortune and glory. It’s a short song but it’s one hell of a story.

Except we started out seeking not to kill each other, the song lasted a day and a half and the story would give an insomniac narcolepsy.

Can’t believe there’s still people out there who haven’t unfollowed me. Egads, you’re keen. Bless.

Christ on a bike. We’re here. Auckland International Airport. 36 hrs to the minute since we left. Well near enough. WTF dya want, accuracy?

36 hours. 1500 km. Four tankloads of fuel. Three batteries. Two jump starts. One interislander ferry. Multiple run-ins with Plod.

What a long, strange trip it’s been… I’ve always, always, ALWAYS wanted to say that in some sort of proper context. Me FTW.

Off to meet the rest of Gasket, check into our hotel and sleep until next Christmas. Be good to each other. Angus is going now.

No matter where in the world you go, no matter what country or culture, people are people. People at airports in particular. People just off a long flight, shepherding their worldly possessions out of customs and immigration into the unfettered air of the terminal proper, especially. That look on their faces as they peek out into open territory, part hope, part fear, part fatigue. Haunted by their experiences, but relieved to be past them, and hoping to see a familiar face.

I’d promised Team Gasket that no matter what, I’d be in Auckland when they got there. I hadn’t told them I’d actually be at the airport to meet them, though. Nor that I’d be flanked by three other dishevelled, giggling idiots who 36 hours of road narcosis had had equally profound effects upon, many of whom were best avoided by standing upwind at all times. Even Hollywood was looking a bit shabby, and a bit red around the eyes seeing as though he’d been obliged to dispense with the aviators. More Nivea Q10 required there buddy. There was actually a bit of a crowd gathered, given that a few other BDO acts were on that flight and their local fanbases had gotten wind of it. Thankfully they’d also gotten wind of us, downwind in fact, so there were remarkably few autograph requests.

Marty emerged first, trailed by Maddy. First time for everything I guess. A roar erupted from the crowd, by which I mean it erupted from us. Bear led the chant. It wasn’t particularly original - GAS-KET!! [clap clap clap] GAS-KET!! [clap clap clap] – but then again neither were the festival punters who came up with it in the first place. Occasionally they sang it to the tune of ‘Ole ole ole’, but that was about it. A sour smile from Maddy and a vaguely idiot grin from Marty – and likewise from the Duffer – indicated our efforts had been recognised.

“One Angus,” observed Hollywood, after the air-kisses from Maddy and a few reluctant hugs from the boys – we’d tried our best to stay upwind, honest – were out of the way. “Delivered. On time and under budget.”

And suddenly it was over, and the boys took their leave. And it was kinda sad. End of Hayabusa or not, it was the end of something. Certainly the end of that long, strange trip. D summed it up best.

“Boys,” he said, “it’s been emotional.”

Sure, he just ripped off the end of a Guy Ritchie geezer-gangster flick, but after 36 hours none of the rest of us had any original material either.

Ahhh. Luxury. When you roll with Maddy, you roll in style. Sure, she wasn’t actually speaking to me – Joey had warned me she was still pretty irate about the flights debacle, even though I figured no-harm no-foul since we were all here, present and correct – but she’d booked us in to some pretty swish accommodation. Or rather Joey had, but doubtless it would have had to meet with Maddy’s standards.

It certainly met with mine. Which, after 36 hours in and out of a 1971 Valiant, and most of a week spent sharing quarters with Bear et al, amounted to: my own shower, my own bathroom, and my own bed. The shower was my first commitment. Maddy and Marty had insisted on the boys coming for a meal, and Disco Stu was also up from Wellington and keen to catch up along with a Kiwi girl we’d gone through uni with who was (a) a newly-minted lecturer at Auckland Uni, (b) hot and (c) single, so the night looked like being a fairly presentable one. I didn’t feel too bad, all told. A shower and a shave, a change of clothes – finally I had something to wear other than the same four T-shirts I’d taken to Byron what felt like three months ago, even if it was stuff apparently plucked at random from the racks of Joey’s nearest hipster boutique (though the retro Mr Grumpy t-shirt I kinda liked) – and a second wind, and I’d be smashing company. I just needed to stretch out a day and a half’s worth of crick in my lower back. Need a flat surface. Like a bed. Yes, very much like a bed. I’ll just lay down for a minute and…

Anyone else see where this is headed?

I woke at 3am, starving, staring at the ceiling. Four missed calls and five new messages. Bugger. Ah well, there was always tomorrow night.

I cleaned out the snacks in the minibar and crashed out until sunup.

Subdued. That was the best description I could come up with. Gameday, when it came, was subdued. Auckland was grey and drizzly, which matched the mindsets of the Gasketeers who faced it, the thrill and anticipation cancelled out by the sense of impending dread that came along with it: we were on too late in the day on too big a stage to be justified by our NZ following, and we knew it. Peering out from backstage in the minutes prior to the show, the mediocre crowd quarter-filling the D-barrier in front of our half of the mainstage told its own story. If you’re going to suck, try not to suck in public. Punters were flooding in during the break between sets, but they were flooding in on the other side, ready for Serj Tankian’s solo set over there which was to follow ours over here. System Of A Down heads tended to be a tad harder of core vis a vis the punters who got into Gasket, to be fair, though I’m sure there was overlap. Our stuff was eclectic enough to cross over with a remarkable array of other fanbases. We’d even toured with the John Butler Trio once, back in the day. It almost worked.

You can list the reasons it wasn’t going to work straight off: wrong stage, wrong time. Marty, I knew, we’d have limited use of, but I guess we didn’t realise just how limited; he basically spent the whole time with Maddy and/or his Vanity Project entourage, rocked up twenty minutes before curtain up, asked a bunch of pointed questions we didn’t really have the answers to as he was the professional festival-hardened muso here not us, frowned at the answers, skolled a sugarfree Red Bull and we were on. The Duffer and the Jeff looked to be quietly freaking out, in their own ways, given this was the largest crowd (Serj notwithstanding) that either of our Spam Filter contingent had played to in many a year. Me, I’d been quietly freaking out since I set foot in the precinct yesterday afternoon during bump-in. I’d made an incoherent, mumbling arse of myself at dinner the previous night with Disco Stu and the lovely Caitlin Taylor of the University of Auckland – she was smart, funny, cute, so very together and sharper than the Wilkinson Sword factory, whereas my head was God knows where and nowt came of anything, as was always going to be the case. Despite the clear and present intent of Dr Taylor, and despite the motivation of being just something to keep the blackness away, according to the significant other/current fuck/momentary distraction/whatever the hell Beth was meant to be.

Actually I’ll tell you where my head was: on stage, the next day.

On stage, the next day, it wasn’t as bad as all that. We gained headcount as we played, a lot better than the alternative, which we’d also experienced in our time – our most recent festival outings in ’03, for instance. We sounded good, sharp, gutsy. Everything that’d been good about the Bangalow show, was good about this one, despite the slightly demoralizing affect of grey drizzly skies and a half-empty tract of damp punters laid out before us. Still, we were professionals. We rose above it.

The other thing about our later slot was we had more time, an extra ten minutes. We’d had time to open our set with the Datsuns’ Freeze Sucker, a nod to the locals shamelessly designed to win a few swinging votes our way in the punter headcount stakes – that and it was a fucking epic rock song, of course.. We’d had time to talk more crap than usual (well, than we expected to be able to during the half-hour sets back in Oz). We even had time to play Beef Week Queen. We didn’t, because that wasn’t really a Gasket song and noone else believed me when I said it’d been getting NZ radio airplay, but we would have had time to if we’d wanted. We did have time at the end of the set to throw in a couple more covers though - because, when it came down to it, we were just a covers band. Because it had a monster riff, and because it came from Auckland, we cranked Shihad’s La La Land. We’d decided not to play any Hayabusa tracks, we just didn’t think it was right to, it cut a little close to the bone – and much as we wanted to, I didn’t think we could get through Max Tractor in one piece. We’d been tossing up between La La Land and the D4’s Get Loose, which was also a thousand mile an hour garage punk song, but we reckoned the Shihad track would have more demographic-weighted traction in the targeted opportunity space going forward. Plus it had less chords.

It also meant more to our guest axe, whose cue was to saunter onstage during the solo in La La Land – there wasn’t originally one, but we put one in for his benefit – and shred like a motherfucker. No real surprises ref the identity of same. D had come to see the show, but he reckoned he was in semi-retirement from performance these days. Bear couldn’t stomach being in the compound, or even the country; he’d flown out yesterday, board under his arm, heading for his sister’s place near Margaret River for some rest and recuperation. Hollywood, as he had at Tractor’s wedding, simply ashed his cigarette, checked his hair in his guitar’s reflection, and stepped up. Actually, tell the truth, he’d approached us: “Wouldn’t mind a cameo at Big Day Out,” he’d remarked, “might be a nice touch, with the attention around Tractor and all.” Not in any way like Hollywood to have his eye out for marketing convergences, confluences and synergies like that. Hayabusa of course had endured much the same American journey as Shihadifier had – sucked in, chewed up, spat out – so the lyrical content of La La Land would have resonated with Hollywood. Not that we let Hollywood sing lyrics of course. Not that anyone did. Even his side project band was instrumental.

Hollywood got our biggest roar of the set so far, unsurprisingly, so we were glad he’d invited himself out to play. Even if he made us look scabby, grubby and badly dressed – we all had our various takes on black-on-black, appropriate since we were taking a consciously black-armband approach to the set today, but Nick as usual trumped us all. Black T-shirt with the NZ Music Month roundel on it, suit jacket, expensive jeans, black Italian loafers. If it wasn’t for the Gibson he was throttling, he could have stepped out of a Tarocash catalogue.

His presence did mean that with one actually competent lead guitarist on stage – sorry Jeff – I could concentrate on vocals for our last song. Which, inevitably, had to be our black armband song for Tractor. I didn’t want to fuck up, didn’t want to waffle. So I waited until the noise had died down after La La Land, and said, “This is our last song, it’s for Dan Maxwell.” I glanced over at Hollywood, who I was sharing front-of-stage with. He gave me a definite, confident nod. Cheers bud. Of all the times to need a bit of that excess confidence of yours, bring it.

The song wasn’t Back In Black, which Tractor himself would have probably pulled for, but it was AC/DC, because it had to be. It was Bon Scott’s epitaph, Ride On. Strictly speaking it wasn’t the last thing Bon ever recorded with AC/DC, far from it – that was Night Prowler, Tractor’s fantasy T20 cricket play-on music – but it had the essence of Bon in it, and given that Bon had unapologetically been Tractor’s idol as a rock singer, it had to be Ride On. For an AC/DC song, it was soulful, bluesy – even subdued. But it required the lead singer to bring his A-game. And I was pretty sure I’d left mine in an airport locker in Brisbane or somewhere.

Put in, Angus.

It's another lonely evening
And another lonely town
But I ain't too young to worry
And I ain't too old to cry
When a woman gets me down

Got another empty bottle
And another empty bed
Ain't too young to admit it
And I'm not too old to lie
I'm just another empty head

That's why I'm lonely
I'm so lonely
But I know what I'm gonna do –

I'm gonna ride on
Ride on
Ride on, standing on the edge of the road
Ride on, thumb in the air
Ride on, one of these days I'm gonna
Ride on, change my evil ways
Till then I'll just keep
Riding on.

Better late than never, the banner we’d unearthed from Tractorfest – the one with Tractor’s old number 8 Otago shirt writ large – was unfurled from the overhead gantries, drawing a cheer from the crowd. Almost like we’d planned it for then, rather than at the start of the song.

Ah well. Ride on.

Broke another promise
And I broke another heart
But I ain't too young to realize
That I ain't too old to try
Try to get back to the start

And it's another red light nightmare
Another red light street
And I ain't too old to hurry
Cause I ain't too old to die
But I sure am hard to beat

But I'm lonely
Lord I'm lonely
What am I gonna do –

Ride on
Ride on, got myself a one-way ticket
Ride on
Ride on, going the wrong way
Ride on, gonna change my evil ways
Ride on, one of these days
One of these days…

Cue Mr Nick ‘Hollywood’ Holland on lead guitar, playing a solo that’d break the heart of the tin man from Wizard of Oz. Zen-like focus, the man had. Head bowed over his work, like the only things that mattered, or even existed, in the universe were him, his guitar, and the notes he was crafting out of the empty, unforgiving vacuum of space. God he looked like Matt, just in that moment. Hairs were raised on the back of the neck; Christ, I’m choking up. Shake if off man, you’ve still got work to do. Hollywood peeled out of the solo as we neared the finishing post:

Ride on
Ride on
I'm gonna ride on
Ride on, looking for a truck
Ride on
Ride on, keep on riding
Riding on and on and on…

We rode on, to the end. Hollywood’s last notes rang out as the crowd roar swelled over them – correction, this was comfortably the biggest cheer we’d got all day. We bowed and thanked the crowd. Hayabusa’s crowd, really. We’d just borrowed them, and we were grateful they’d looked after us. It was only when I glanced over at Hollywood that I realised he was still standing in that same position, head bowed, over his guitar, like he’d been turned to stone. And it was only when I took a few steps towards him that I realised his head was bowed because he didn’t want everyone to see the big fat tears that were streaming down his face.

“Alright, Nicko?” I asked.

He glanced up. We were off-mike, but it was hard to argue we weren’t in the spotlight. Even if acts that played in mid-arvo didn’t actually get much of a lighting show. He was distraught, just suddenly, totally gone. Like something had just punched him in the face, or maybe the guts, and he had no comeback for it. It took an age for any words to come out of him

“He’s really fucking gone, yeah?” Hollywood said woozily. “He’s not coming back.”
Hell of a time to leave the ‘denial’ phase of grief – standing front-of-stage at the Auckland Big Day Out. Poor bastard.

“No, mate,” I said, starting to crack myself. “No, he’s not.”

That did for him. “Sorry... sorry mate, I’m such a fucking cunt…” He kind of sagged at that point, as much as I’d let him anyway – my arm went under his shoulder just as his legs started to give. “I’m sorry,” he kept saying, like it was his fault, like this sort of thing, embarrassing yourself in public, was some sort of criminal offence.

“You did good, mate,” I told him. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”