With five minutes to go in Richmond’s final round match against the Sydney Swans, Dustin Martin broke free from his opponent to put the Tigers eight points in front; minutes later, and Richmond had somehow secured a spot in this year’s final series, with Martin’s mercurial skills critical to the team’s unexpected success.
The aesthetic of Dustin Martin provided an interesting context for tonight’s garage rock extravaganza at The Tote. Martin is the antithesis of the AFL hierarchy: Gillon McLachlan is the son of a scion of the squattocratic establishment; Martin had a tattoo on his neck before he finished his teenage years. Melbourne’s cultural elite indulges the symphonic complexity of classical music; in the defiant and rebellious margins, garage rock exists on a foundation of three chords and a linear 4/4 rhythm.
And so it was that – with the sound of the Richmond theme song still ringing in the distance – we arrived at the Tote in time to see Chinese Burns celebrate their return to Melbourne with a typically frenetic garage rock assault. Not surprisingly, there’s a dearth of ballads, prog rock and other gratuitous artistic statements – but we never wanted any of that crap, only the raw rock’n’roll sincerity that Chinese Burns do so well.
Guitarist Bobby Hussy and drummer Heather Hussy are The Hussy, a psychedelic-garage two-piece combination from Madison, Wisconsin. With his glasses hidden behind shoulder-length fair hair, Bobby is a garage rock version of Dana Carvey’s Garth from Wayne’s World; on drums, Heather’s troglodyte dexterity warrants comparison with James Baker in more ways than one.
The set is a blunt tool of resistance to the dominant cultural institutions, and the pair ooze the diffident attitude present in the dirtiest of rock’n’roll practitioners. The songs don’t so much finish as stop haltingly. Mid-way through the first song, Bobby discards his guitar and drops into push-up mode; later on, his high kicking guitar dance moves are a high school version of The Dirtbombs’ Mick Collins, but you get the distinct impression Bobby doesn’t give a flying fuck.
Justin Champlin is the iconoclast behind Nobunny. Champlin’s stage attire is an unholy marriage of Brer Rabbit, Dr Frank-N-Furter and The Ramones: rabbit mask, black leather jacket and ladies’ underwear. The room is immediately bathed in the simplistic beauty of garage rock: it’s slightly insane, and strangely reassuring because of it. Bobby and Heather are two-thirds of Champlin’s band, with Bobby shirtless early into the gig (but, sadly, no more push-ups). The music channels The Sonics, The Stooges, Jay Retard, The Ramones, The Cramps, and anyone who’s ever empathised with that primitive strand of rock’n’roll. It’s scrappy, juvenile and fan-fuckin-tastic.
In the crowd, arms flail, hips shake and fists wave; on stage, it’s demented and deranged. Eventually the spectacle concludes and the evening’s entertainment is over. This is what rock’n’roll is about – just like Dustin Martin is what football should always be about.
BY PATRICK EMERY
Loved: The scrappiness of The Hussy.
Hated: Hmm, nothing of consequence.
Drank: Fat Yak and IGP.
