From the Facebook group:
I’ve finished my five week-long stint at good old ABC Capricornia and am easing myself back into my real world of creative wank, overwork and inner-city latte sipping.
Before I go back to Brisbane though, I’m house sitting for my best friend’s mum and looking after her three cats.
This is the temporary office I’ve set up on the back deck. Sebastian the Persian cat is incredibly disgusted with my take-over of his usual sleeping spot. He is a jerk and if he’s not careful he’ll find himself locked in the dishwasher.
Among my many projects (because I am so busy and important, clearly), the Stuff The Stocking charity events are looking like they’re going to be the most fun. Click the link and show your support if you’re in the vicinity of one of them.
“Twelve minutes of pure injury,” is how my best friend describes a set by her boyfriend’s band Downpour, the best (and only) hardcore band in Rockhampton. They’re launching their demo tonight and we’re here with forty others to drink impossibly cheap booze and show our support for “the scene”.
Tonight, “the scene” is located at The Cave Bar, a small room at the back of a dodgy pub in the town’s CBD, proudly advertising itself as a real pub due to its lack of gaming machines. At any rate, it is one of the few places in town with original live music.
In proper D.I.Y. style, the demo was recorded mostly live by a friend, then burnt onto stenciled CD-Rs and housed in paper slip cases, meticulously put together by the band’s guitarist. Half the band work as orderlies at the base hospital, folding linen and cleaning up bodily fluids. The bass player works at Target and the drummer works for the railways.
“You know,” my friend continues, “sometimes I think that fuckheads turn up to these shows just to punch the fuck out of people.”
She’s probably right. Maybe it’s the steamy weather, maybe it’s the town’s obvious class divides, but Rockhampton is an incredibly violent place. The latent anger bubbles to the surface in boozy punch ups, football games and road accidents, yet music seems to be the least socially acceptable outlet for testosterone-fuelled rage.
Downpour start their set and the crowd is a seething mass of swinging punches and pile-ons. Mic leads are broken, glasses are lost and smaller dudes are steamrolled. The less adventurous punters climb onto the bar rail for safety and a clearer view as the seven-foot-tall singer fights his way into the audience, shoving his equally gigantic and mega-drunk mate Big Will away as he gets up in his face.
“Somebody take Big Will down!” he shouts, grinning from ear to ear. “The man is a menace and needs to be stopped!”
They blast into the next song and the crowd clambers up and onto Big Will, forcing him to the ground. This is the sort of violence and aggression where nobody gets hurt, the sort of violence that is fun and constructive. It’s the same stuff that drives career women to the gym, jocks to the playing field and puppies to shred the valuables of their owners.
As soon as the band finishes playing, one of the gig’s organisers grabs the mic.
“OI! Some cunts have snuck in here without paying! It’s only five bucks you stingy fucks, fucking pay up and support the scene or otherwise gigs like this won’t keep happening.”
He turns off the mic and puts an iPod on through the PA, leaving band and punters alike scratching their heads. Money? Nah. Nobody’s in this for the money.
For more Downpour, here’s their MySpace and a video of their song “BWS”.
Live photos by Luke Wonnocott, all others by me.
