Trust Everyone
Having spent many of the past few with a schooner glass pressed firmly against my lips, exact details contained herein are harder to pin down that the corresponding latitude and longitude co-ords of a secret location Trust Punks show in Marrickville, New South Wales.
Beginning right there. In the largest single suburb in the southern land, stretching roughly from Rav's house up near the 7-11 — you've either been to a party there or complained about the noise from a party there — west to the Wardell Road border and right down to new Govt-sanctioned "Entertainment Precinct", a zoned space that'll undoubtedly destroy the surrounding streets of the Portuguese Club and Pete's Studio — where the Weak Boys recorded their ARIA-winning, forthcoming new album Weak Boys II.
All set it seemed to waste hours working out these legs wandering around those industrial segments on Friday evening looking for the show, being that 20 kilometres trekked is still easier than the socially-awkward scenario of emailing someone with my certified credentials or asking someone to ask someone. Thankfully, someone (else) put the clue right there on The Wall; a few streets down from The Vic. Home of the only place in this sinkhole of a city that believes in the natural amalgamation of footy and rock. As soon as that Friday game finishes, swivel your little stool around and if you don't fall off you'll be rewarded with some rock band greeting you with some final sound-check tests; or if you're really lucky a set-starting screech. On this occasion, it's unfortunately a band tracing over every other band's former work, right down to the faded tees and flamboyant rock moves. Hardly technically terrible, but nothing of value, much like acquaintance greeting me at the door as I exit after the second song, six-pack in hand. "Did you like them?" Yep. "You're leaving?" Yep. Out into the spitting rain of the night and as far-as-fuck away that whatever that was.
A place, figuratively, not literally, where Tim and the Boys are playing. Despite all intentions, I've never seen them. Neither has the sound guy. What sound guy? Exactly. It sounds muggy and sludgy and mostly not in a good way. Synths and clatter try to come together but end up just sounding like someone trying to squash some distorted disco bassline through a Fisher Price Portable.
This Secret Venue is similarly structurally struggling. The artisan bakery next door undoubtedly has a few complaints on record with the local governing body and plans to migrate at least part of their bread-making empire into the premises once the right palms are greased and the whole place is condemned. Until then, the little levers of that Trust Punks guy are at their maximum, pushing an extra amp up the side ramp for their set. Maybe it makes all the difference in sound quality. Or maybe it's the closer side-of-stage spot, right behind that guy in the dressing gown, painting vibes with his bands like the Bush Doof blazer he surely is. Regardless, all previous audio issues are vaulted, as the Kiwi/Sydney collective rip through their near-faultless new one, Double Bind, from start-to-finish, maybe via some oldies. Who knows, it's past midnight and I'm past done.
The schedule is running predictably late. Far too late for me. I drunkenly stumble home as soon as the band wraps. Three-and-a-bit kilometres being sobriety-inducing to some effect, but the 8am alarm still hurts. As do the sample-testing idiots of the local farmers markets, slow-walking and comparing Audi keychains. The buzzing pocket reminder is of some solace, as reports trickle in from the 50% of that Facebook Messenger thread team stuck up at that northern NSW festival, trading in their new workout-bods for caps and The Strokes and a little bit of sunshine. No place I'd rather not be, probably. Especially when there's blue skies here too, maybe some footy at the local oval and free afternoon food served up at the Gary Owen Hotel. Bridging refuge between this hangover and the next, via Nick's place for something else entirely; adult conversation, featuring sad stories about floating floor boards being incorrectly glued down and amusing iShot snaps of recently-shaved pubic regions. Beautiful, in all ways.
Predicted as such, but far less guaranteed is everything of the following night. The return of At The Drive-In. And as is the way with uninvited reunions, there's more apprehension than anticipation. But we're good lil' pods, we buy tickets at their exorbitant prices. The price this generation pays for all this freedom, traded for being constantly crippled by the fear of missing out on anything worth a single byte-weight in enjoyment or re-grammable value.
End-to-end it's the opposite of all aspects of the evening one prior. Pre-load plans are required as surrounding pubs and eateries fill. Too much riding on this — money-wise mostly — to not catch the underwhelming support, or at least carve out a half-decent section of stained carpet inside the vintage-theatre-turning-arena.
We settle up too close to the front for my anxiety. That guy there, he's had a few. He'll probably smash that can into my face midway through the opener. Could go a sip — it's been about twenty — but not like that. Instead, sandwiched-in we'll watch dry, an unusual amnesty called for the duration of the set (arranged prior to my inclusion) where nobody should have to fight back to this spot with four cans expertly wedged within their fingers.
As some bravely venture forward into poorly organised circle pits, the jostle isn't half as hostile as anyone anticipated. All on the same page it seems — both in the impossibility of lager surviving the trip back from the bar and not wanting to miss a moment we've all invested so many years waiting for. So we all stand relatively still. Good lil' pods, shuffle on the spot a bit, raise fists and claps on command.
They play "Napoleon Solo" and it sounds brutal and unhinged and as great as it should. Vocal chords have naturally deteriorated over the decade-and-a-bit since the band's buzzworthy moment, only adding extra value to the song's pain-ridden pleaing. Almost worth the exorbitant admission cost alone.
One obligatory Big Hit Song encore later and we're back funnelling through the sea of sip-seeking pods. Unmanaged despite a required fence keeping people from piling out of the forced footpath traffic jam and in front of oncoming cars. A few fast hi/buy/sorry-im-going-this-way waves to long-disconnected pals and we're all clear, past closed bars on the desperate search for a late-Sunday sip to prolong the working week grind just a few more. Through a park and we found a hotel with enough locals to keep the lights on through a couple quick ends. Hanging on by a thread. Hanging on to the slipping seconds of something that's looking like an only slightly disrupted bender. Feeling heavier than air, indeed.