About three years ago I wrote a review in which I made an unflattering (and tongue-in-cheek) reference to St Kilda’s contemporary relevance in Melbourne’s rock ‘n’ roll scene.
About three years ago I wrote a review in which I made an unflattering (and tongue-in-cheek) reference to St Kilda’s contemporary relevance in Melbourne’s rock ‘n’ roll scene. The observation provoked an emotive letter to my editor; notwithstanding my comments, St Kilda, I was informed firmly, was ‘where everyone knows things are at’, or some equally specious sociological observation. And, complicating matters slightly, it appeared the author had neither personal experience, nor general awareness of the Seaview Ballroom or even The Espy’s halcyon days.
Putting aside geographical and subcultural prejudices, tonight we headed across the river to the third A Day By the Green, held at the St Kilda Bowling Club. Two trains, augmented by a few connecting bike rides, and we were at the venue. In the front bar the scene was de rigueur for any Saturday night at any suburban sporting club: half drunk glasses of Carlton Draught, sunburnt faces and the air thick with the unencumbered roaring of inebriated laughter. We looked for the bain-marie housing chips and dim sims, but sadly we were denied.
Through the door and into the band room, and it was another world, again. Nowhere does crusty old rock dogs like St Kilda: studded belts, black jeans and battered Stetsons, faces weathered by a thousand gigs, and then some. Age and indulgence has taken its toll, but the raw passion shall never weary.
Six bands have already played by the time we arrive, there’s still three more to come, the entire bill drawn from St Kilda and surrounds. Cold Harbour hit the stage a fashionably 15 minutes late from their announced starting time. The last time we’d seen Cold Harbour they’d rendered the headline act, The Beasts Of Bourbon, surprisingly unimpressive; tonight’s set was no less memorable.
The hour set comprises four, or maybe five, discrete slabs of music, each comprising two or three songs that segue seamlessly from spaghetti western to dusty psychedelic to beer barn rock ‘n’ roll with ne’er a break in tempo.
Guitarist Vincent Kramer and drummer Evan Richards trade vocal duties; like the best bands, there’s a focus but no obvious leader. On guitar Rusty Teluk sprays licks so acidic they threaten to strip the paint from the walls; on bass Colin Holst is immovable and impregnable. Later on we struggle through the mist of beer to remember the songs played: Dust Storm and Wasted ring a bell, and there’s at least a couple of new tracks thrown in for good measure.
Later on Smoke Machine produced arguably one of the finest hits-and-memories cover set in living memory. The opening trifecta was to die for: Smoke On The Water, I’m Bored and John Paul Young’s Yesterday’s Hero. The band looked, breathed and reeked of St Kilda punk rock credibility; Fred Negro’s appearance on backing vocals (and ‘dow dow, dow-dow’ during an emphatic rendition of Bruce Springsteen’s Born To Run) was so perfect it couldn’t have been scripted better.
When Stevie Wright’s Evie is offered up in its original trilogy form, any lingering doubts of credibility are stomped out of existence. There’s some Thin Lizzy, Stooges and Easybeats, and the house lights are turned on. It’s all over and the crowd roars its appreciation. Outside the rain has cleared, and we jump on the bikes and begin the long ride back to Northcote. St Kilda might not be what it once was, but it’s still alright.
MIKE DOZNA
