The right time

There's no time
Like the right time.
- Hoodoo Gurus, 1994

On Sunday, February 1, 2009, on the Green Stage under the Big Top at Claremont Showgrounds, a little bit after lunch (deli-style ciabatta sandwich rounds and a medicinal Little Creatures Pilsner, since we were in WA and all), Flange Gasket made their final stage entrance in front of what Sky Sports NZ’s Ian Smith might call a ‘goodish’ crowd. Some true believers, some casually interested, some inevitably hoping for another car crash. But we had a crowd. We had a band, too. Angus Young, guitar and vox; Marty di Biagini, guitar and vox; Chris ‘Bear’ Sorenson, Marty’s Fender P-bass played very loudly with a pick like Lemmy Kilminster; and Phil ‘Duffer’ Duff, drums and civil disobedience. His own attempt to upstage Your Correspondent in the media-whoredom stakes was to get himself booked for driving his rental car under the influence of four ouzo-and-cokes and half a dozen cones (on the way *to* yesterday’s soundcheck, mind.)

We had a rogues’ gallery at side of stage too, made up of various friends, colleagues, musos, well-wishers, hangers-on and randoms. Richie Richardson and partner were there, flown out by Danno. Other bands had stopped by to offer their regards - the Grinspoon lads, who’d been there right at the start (we’d been on their undercard on our first Sydney tour of course) had reminded us this was the second time they’d managed to outlive us. Didn’t feel like it was really the time to bring up my earlier point re knowing the right moment to leave before you become fat and irrelevant. (Made the point anyway, though.) Even the infamous Chris Kurtin had come down from his ivory tower at SCU and had put in an appearance amongst the plebs. The ‘80s revival couldn’t have come at a better time for Kretin, his Miami Vice wardrobe was back in fashion again. He was loving it. Even talked about trying to track down an original Audi Quattro coupe from the ‘80s like the one in Ashes To Ashes.

All that, of course, melted into the background, whether it was Beth’s hurried good-luck kiss or Richie’s hairy-handed slap on the shoulder as we filed past onto stage to the sound of the old Channel 9 Wide World of Sports cricket intro music. Actual cheering, and lots of it. Fans outnumbered carcrash hopefuls, or at least it sounded that way. I’d miss this shit. I really would.

“Hello,” I said. “I suppose you’re all wondering why I’ve gathered you here today…”

Bear laughed, at least.

“It’s our final ever show,” I continued. A big stage ‘Awwwwww’ from the punters. “Cheers. So, if this is the first time you’ve ever heard us play…”

“You should have been a bit fuckin’ quicker on the update,” remarked Marty. He was going to miss this shit too. He wasn’t allowed to swear at his own shows. Well, maybe now he could, now he was Under New Management. It was a day for firsts, after all. He’d never played lead guitar out front of Flange Gasket either, and now looked as good a day as any to try. Sounded pretty good in rehearsal. The 15 minutes or so we’d had time for this morning anyway. Still, the real acid test was the opening 16 bars of Learn to Swim with Harold Holt. The scariest lead break opening since the Living End gave up writing 1000mph rockabilly stuff.

If you were there on the day, that sound you heard right then was the massed forces of Generation Y going ‘Fuck, I didn’t realise the guy who wrote Mesmerising could play guitar like…’ And then tailing off because Generation Y, being under the impression Guitar Hero is a video game not a job description, have no actual frame of reference for what Marty was doing out there. The rest of us would have probably called it ‘shredding like a motherfucker’. A classically-trained motherfucker, no less. Bear fitted on bass like he’d been an OEM installation; the Duffer was taking his frustrations with the WA Police out on his kit with Bonzo-esque force, while as for me, after all the shit I’d been through, I was just happy to be there. I’d woken up with a gravelly voice - hotel aircon and so forth - which I knew would mean two things. I’d have no voice tomorrow, but I’d have one hell of a rock ’n’ roll snarl going on by curtain-up. We were in Bon Scott’s home town, after all. A man’s got to represent.

That was Harold Holt. Its companion piece was next, (I Wanna Be) Angus Young. My theme song. Gasket had given me the chance to be Angus Young for a good few years. Time to give back. And on through Cock Rock Will Never Die, Meaning Of Life (still scary-popular amongst a crowd of kids who were surely still in primary school when it topped the Hottest 100), Stupid People Shouldn’t Breed, Radio Friendly Chick Song (which Marty, in true Sam McCarthy style, deliberately de-prettified by stomping on his grunge-vintage Big Muff effects pedal and howling the fuck out of the major progression melody like Kurt Cobain with his grumpy pants on) and our almost-actionable siren call for irresponsible behaviour, Hey Hey We’re The Drunkees. And like all the good gigs, it’s a blur. I wish it wasn’t. I wish I could remember every minute. I wish Channel V had picked that set to telecast, not our shambolic Adelaide one (which rated its arse off, of course) - there was a live recording of our Perth show which made it onto Triple J’s Live At The Wireless many months later - but it’s not the same. Actually, truth be told, Channel V did have a couple of camera guys out front of stage and in the darkened crush of randoms at side of stage, but that particular set never made it to air, as far as I know. You had to be there.

We skipped Video Hits - anyone on a hungover Sunday morning would - and went straight to Beef Week Queen. Since Bear didn’t really know it, and the Duffer was a bit puffed from beating the shit out of his equipment, Marty and I pulled up a pair of barstools and electrified acoustics (cheers to Marty’s lads T-Bone and T-Bag for sorting the gear last-minute on the morning of) and ran through it in true ‘80s hair-metal-power-ballad style. Sort of Every Rose Has Its Thorn meets Extreme’s More Than Words. After a haircut and celebrity rehab. Kretin, ‘80s icon that he was, even had his lighter out at side of stage, until Major Havock - reinstated as head of security after being placed on gardening leave by Maddy after our crashing of Marty’s QPAC instrumental gig - went him with the fire extinguisher. The Major was very particular about enforcing the No Naked Lights rule at side of stage, largely because it gave him excellent prospects for opportunities to CAP FKN MUPPETS.

We had one more song to go. Hundreds of shows, thousands of songs played, and only one left. And it wasn’t even ours. Thinking stuff like that doesn’t help in the moment, so I didn’t. I just ducked off side-of-stage with Marty to hand my acoustic over to his lads. We had something up our sleeve for the last number - one of those what-the-hell ideas which had come up this morning. One last show, one last chance to get those out of our system. You’re in the moment at that stage, so you don’t catch peoples’ eyes when you look side-of-stage - just as you don’t see faces in the front-of-house crowd, just a sea of humanity (unless nearly everyone’s fucked off and only sporadic headcount remains, of course). Beth was probably there, Joey and a bunch of others, but I wasn’t looking for them.

It’s the out-of-the-ordinary that breaks you out of that focus. Like glimpsing a couple of randoms in courier company polos at the back of the throng, largely ignored. A girl with blonde hair, tied back in a functional ponytail; a bloke in a black open-face helmet with a big grey beard, reminding me of Mr Smith from Two Wheels. Mr Smith… hmmm. Maybe not him, but a friend of his.

I pushed through the scrum, urgently if apologetically, to get to them.

“What the…”

“He sulked,” Kate muttered. “And just kept sulking until I agreed to drive him down this morning…”

“Fucken A,” I said. “Glad you could make it. You alright?”

“Fucken A,” Sam replied woozily. “Course I’m on more anti-anxiety meds than’d kill a fucken donkey, but it’s all good…” He grinned lopsidedly. “You best get back out there.”

I did, before we could direct any more attention than necessary their way.

“Right folks…” Fucking alright. He made it. “This is our last song and we’re going to make an old drummer very fucking happy. Phil, get your arse out from behind that kit…”

The Duffer bounded out from behind the cans, tossing me his sticks in exchange for the handheld mike. I’d been looking forward to this all day. Like most guitarists, I’m a frustrated drummer. And don’t let any of the Guitarists’ Union tell you it’s the other way around. Beating hell out of stuff in the pursuit of musical enlightenment always looked like such fun. And the Duffer had caught me messing about on his kit during rehearsal breaks enough times to know it, too.

“G’day, I’m Phil,” said Phil. Glad he cleared that up.

There was a mike set up on Phil’s drum riser, but for reasons that were probably about to become self-explanatory by the Duffer’s vocal performance, it was usually faded right down on the front-of-house desk. I clambered aboard. Mmmm, drummer arse-sweat. Bashed out a quick and dirty drum lick, then stood again, grabbed the mike and went walking across stage. “And while we’re here, can you give a big fuck-off round of applause for our man Bear Sorenson from Hayabusa who’s subbed for us today…”

Perth loves the Bear, it seemed. He took a stage bow as I slapped him on the back.

“And keep it coming,” I said, heading for side of stage, “because we’d like to get some heads out here on stage who are the reason we ever made it this far. They were there at the start and they’re here at the end…”

I glanced off stage. McCarthy had shrunk further into the darkness. He looked… terrified. Rabbit in the headlights. A little nervous shake of the head, telegraphed through his beard, while his fingers whiteknuckled around Kate’s hand.

I shook my head with a reassuring grin. It’s OK, mate. I understand. Then pointed at two blokes standing in front of him, in turn. “Ladies and gentlemen of the Big Day Out… I give you Mr Gregory Richardson of Exocet Records, and Mr Christopher Kurtin of Seek Discoveries…”

A little smile creased the corners of McCarthy’s beard. Thanks mate.

Richie strode nonchalantly out onto stage. We’d warned him earlier. Kretin, meanwhile, reacted like a squeally Price is Right contestant who’d just been told to Come On Down. We hadn’t warned him earlier, because we figured it’d be more fun that way.

“Now Richie and Kretin used to play a bit back in the day, and have been telling us how to play for the past ten years or more, so we thought… fuck it. Get the old men to show us how it’s done.”

Kurtin now looked set to soil himself. “What the hell are we playing?” he said. While scowling at T-Bag (or possibly T-Bone) for trying to hand him a tamborine. He wasn’t that keen on the Linda McCartney role.

“So yeah, we’re in WA, home of a bunch of serious-fuck-off rock bands… like Eskimo Joe, Jebediah…” [Phil consults notes written on his hand] “…Little Birdie…” [Get on with it Phil, sun sets at eight] “…but since Dave Faulkner from the Hoodoo Gurus was from here, we thought we’d play this.”

Richie, with Marty’s shiny new Maton slung low over his shoulder and dialled up large and distorted, sneered in old-skool garage punk style and ripped his fingers down the throat of the opening riff to the Gurus’ The Right Time. We thought we’d play it not just because we were in Faulkner’s home town, and not just because it only had about three chords and we were vaguely sure Kretin would know the words, but because it fucking howled when you turned it up big. We’d been playing this song since we were a covers band - since before then, when it was just me and Sam and the late great Matty mucking about on old broken shit playing old broken riffs after school. There was no time like the right time, and that was now. So it was. Play it loud.

Baby here we come
We’re gonna step on you
Just stay out of our way now
Listen we don’t care
Keep your business to yourself
You’ve got too much to say now…

And by FUCK it was fun to drum. Extreme percussive violence in 4/4.

You are mine… (you are mine)
Any time… (any time)
There’s no time… like the right time
Make a sign… (make a sign)
To cross that line… (anytime, anywhere)
There’s no time, like the right time
And that’s NOW!

Kretin, wisely, had chosen to do backup vocals. Easier to remember the bits. Phil, for his part, was giving it the Big Ones. And was within gobbing distance of the right key, usually.

Baby we ain’t sure
That we like your attitude
Don’t you act like a child now
We ain’t here for long
No excuse for being rude
Service me with a smile now
(You’ll get a big tip)

You are mine… (you are mine)
Any time… (any time)
There’s no time… like the right time
Make a sign… (make a sign)
To cross that line… (anytime, anywhere)
There’s no time, like the right time
And that’s NOW!

Fuck me, the old man can still solo. So we let Richie go on a bit. Bear was thrashing my guitar through the bleeding red meat of the core riff like a man possessed by the demonic fury of RAAWWWWKKK. I’d already broken two sticks and was glad the Duffer kept ample spares gaff’d to his stool. Marty, who’d taken his bass back from Bear, just had a grin like a Lotto winner, doing his best Flea impression as he bounded across the stage slapping hell out of his instrument. So to speak.



Baby watch your step
Or we’ll have to mess you up
Better dig what I say now
Uh uh uhhh
You might live longer that way now
But for what?

You are mine… (yes you’re mine)
Any time… (any time)
There’s no time… like the right time
Make a sign… (make a sign)
To cross that line… (anytime, anywhere)
There’s no time, like the right time
Like the right time
Like the right time…

I defy anyone not to air-drum through the last pass through the chorus of that song. I’m actually air-drumming while trying to type this. It’s not conducive to getting the story written, I have to admit. I’m also getting a lot of very strange looks. Philistines.

Anyhoo. BDO Perth, big top and all that. Huge fuck-off rock ending. I mean, HUGE. Richie even busted out an enormous Pete Townshend windmill-and-scissor-kick, as the final chord crashed home. His chiropractor would be in plenty of work. I hurled Phil’s sticks into the crowd - Phil didn’t mind, he’d long since dived into the mosh himself and was being tossed around like a blow-up doll, while the front-of-stage security frowned rolled their eyes in front of the NO STAGE DIVING signs. Kretin was standing on a monitor agitatedly gesturing for more from the crowd, like some sort of bizarre hybrid of Oils-era Peter Garrett and Gollum. Bear and Richie were conferring at stage left, the Guitarists Union, muttering and laughing about what they’d fucked up. Marty was just standing there, shaking his head, mesmerised. And all the while, the deafening roar that came back from those screaming and cheering kids just seemed to dwarf anything we’d blasted at them in the preceding half-hour or so.

I trotted out from behind the kit and wandered to the front of stage, slipping an arm around Marty’s shoulder. He seemed genuinely unable to speak, so I nicked his microphone while I was there.

“Thank you Perth,” I declared. “We were Flange Gasket. And by fuck we had fun being them.”

Wasn’t much point adding anything else. THANK YOU GOOD NIGHT! somehow didn’t seem right at a bit after half-one in the afternoon.

And that was that. The GAS-KET roar melted away, the lights dimmed over the dissipating crowd, the front-of-house faded up their between-sets DJ mix-up. This is the end, my only friend, the end. Vale Flange Gasket. 23 April 1998 - 1 February 2009. Lest we forget.

“Good fun,” Richie nodded, with a grin. “Real good fun. Thanks for that, lads. That was bloody brilliant.”

“Backing that in,” Bear concurred. He was scanning side-of-stage for Lena; a broad grin of recognition indicated he’d found her. She swept across stage and into his arms.

“Anyone seen Phil?” she asked.

Phil was picking himself out of the remnants of the mosh and trying to scale the north face of the crowd barrier. Unsuccessfully. Last I saw he was deep in animated discussion with a couple of kids in Metallica shirts, neither of whom would have been born when And Justice For All had come out.

“Drummers’ Union meeting,” I indicated.

Two men were still at the very front of stage: Kretin, standing bold and statuesque in rock-god-pose as though he’d been frozen in time (or in carbonite) since the last time Velvet Curtains had played; and Marty, sitting on the edge of the stage, lost in his own thoughts. Presumably trying to get them back in order before his own gig later in the day. Now I was scanning side-of-stage, and there was Beth, running, and now here was Beth, standing. She kissed me. Told me we were amazing. Who knew, she might have even meant either or both.

“Where’s…”

She read my mind. “They had to go,” Beth said.

I nodded. I figured as much. “Afraid of being found out, or Sam’s head was caving in, or something like that?”

“Something like that,” she replied.

I nodded, again. “He got to see the show, at least.”

Beth smiled. “He might stop sulking now.”

“I wouldn’t bet on it.”

I didn’t know what to feel. There wasn’t really much else to do but soak up the atmosphere, while the crowd thinned towards the sunshine outside and the crew milled around amongst us ripping the stage down. Platitudes like ‘Good show’ were a bit redundant, though they were being exchanged. Kretin was babbling about the songs we should have done, many of which seemed to be from his own back catalogue. Thinking about all the great songs we could have done, this one last time, just didn’t bear considering. Some Ballistic Missiles would have been awesome, with Richie here. Some Hayabusa, with Bear. Some of those awesome-to-play obscurities and B-sides from our past. Ah well. It is what it is.

I broke away from the others and sat down next to Marty at the front of stage. Nothing against the ring-ins, but I just felt like I needed to share the experience with one of the guys who’d been there at the start, in the garage in Goonellabah. And Phil was still talking the finer points of percussive violence with the punters, so it was just me and Marty Monster left.

“You right, mate?” I asked.

Marty still seemed a little dazed, staring off into space. His lips were moving, but sound wasn’t really coming out. He was counting on his fingers, and I realised he was reciting numbers, doing some sort of mental arithmetic: three-twenty, four, call it seven and a half…

“You OK?” I asked again.

“Sixteen,” he finally said.

“Sixteen?”

“Sixteen minutes,” he said. “Should be enough. Mesmerizing, Love Is Cruel, Byron Sunrise, the new single… give us sixteen minutes, then get your arses on stage.”

I belatedly realised he was talking about Gasket crashing his set. His main-stage set, later tonight. In front of all those people.

“Serious?”

“Fucking serious,” he confirmed. “Very fucking serious. As very fucking serious as you can get.”

“Jesus,” I said. “Your crowd gonna like that? Your band gonna like that?”

“Fuck ‘em,” Marty declared. “Gasket deserves a main-stage send-off. Besides, are we ever gonna get a chance to do this again?”

“Nope,” I replied.

“Exactly,” Marty said. “And as for the band, I think they’ll cope somehow. We soundcheck with Gasket stuff most tours. Tommy usually chucks his toys if we don’t…”

“Fair enough,” I said. As if I even needed to say the words. “I’m in.”

The rest of the boys had overheard our convo. One by one, they were in too. Bear, Richie, Phil, Kretin if we’d let him. With Tommy, Reid and the rest of Marty’s band, it’d be pretty cosy up on stage. But hell, why the fuck not. Once more unto the breach, dear friends.

“All in,” I declared.

“No time like the right time,” Marty noted, with a sly grin. “And that’s now.”