The Sacred Cowboys
Town Hall Hotel,
North Melbourne
Friday, August 28, 2024
PHOTOS: James Stewart

You may have seen a few videos of this secret warm-up gig on Sacred Cowboys leaderr Garry Gray's Facebook page.  They're great but being there was something else.

See, unlike the two English twonks who recently announced another culture-sucking reformation tour, when we'd all assumed they'd been safely banished to a tiny island in an oasis in a vast desert, the Sacred Cowboys are a kind of poke in the moral and political eye, as well as being the kind of rock band people actually enjoy when it's parked in front of them. 

Despite coming from the same melting-pot that punk initially came from, The Sacred Cowboys could never have been called “punk” with any accuracy. If they resembled anything, it would be a band from the early 1970s stages of Max's or CB's. They have a kind of outsider-taint to them, an aspect both foreign and familiar. Still do have it, you know.

Also, while there was a reason Molly Meldrum dissed the band on “Countdown”, he'd been told to play them, and he had no choice. The truth is that the Sacred Cowboys were their own coiled critter, intent on their own mayhem. That their lyrics were also broadly and potently political added to their attraction. 

And speaking of taste, from what I remember, Molly might have had an ear to predicting a chart hit, but in my opinion he had the musical sensibility of a Band-aid removed from an old walrus' rude bits and I doubt he would've have recognised good music if it blew a trumpet through his empty head.

Anyway, it was a public rehearsal, not advertised, and played for a Friday night crowd, and Molly wasn't there. Stuff-all fans had been told, because the band wanted to see if they could still get the attention of people who didn't know them.

While there had been a few oblique references made here and there on the socials ... there were no expectations. Some older fans heard - somehow - and turned up. But there were some distinctively younger fans who were pretty damned happy. There were a lot of delighted smiles tonight. Untrammelled excitement.

Now, Melbourne has changed in the last 40 years. Somehow the place has expanded so much that it seems to be several cities. Curiously, while some things seem unchanged (pub life and corruption in the gambling industry, and the urine stink almost everywhere, for example), other things have altered dramatically. I love the lack of VB everywhere, the proliferation of lane culture; yet it's the continual artistic vibe of Melbourne that remains one of Australia's great contributions to the world.

Of course, the world doesn't pay much attention to us lot down here, but that's alright.  

It was a mighty coincidence that this gig was happening when I was in town. I had a holiday booked (my last four or five have been cancelled, and we're not talking swanky posh hotels) and, risking the wrath of the band, Garry told me what was up (but virtuously refused to divulge the name of the venue). 

Thus sworn to secrecy (and feeling like I had the codes to Kim Jong Un's private stash of Bon Jovi CDs) we sallied forth into the dank and cluttered night. 

If you don't know the Sacred Cowboys, now is the time to rectify that wrong, that blight in your musical knowledge. There's a new CD out soon on Kasumuen, “Cowboy Logic”, a broad anthology of Gray's music, which naturally features a lot of Sacred Cowboys. Given that it's over 15 years since the Cowboys last played, and quite a few since Gray's last band, The Sixth Circle, played ... well, we're pretty fortunate, I'd say. It's available for order here.

One of my many regrets is that I'd not seen the Cowboys back in the day; another was that I couldn't afford a fucking chauffeur. However, despite the appalling Melbourne traffic (Adelaide doesn't have traffic jams unless there's a huge car crash) and a blowzy, wet Melbourne day, we arrived in good time.

Like thieves with an unexpected pouch of diamonds we kept to ourselves at the back as the regulars and local workers (and public servants) ate and weaved around us, intent on a night somewhere else. This is our everyday Australian culture at work: it's a winter's night and people are out and about despite a griping economy, cheery interest rate rises and the knowledge that, out there somewhere, is Peter Dutton doing his impression of an unctuous funeral director who will sell you the best and most expensive coffin you can't afford. And then he won't bother dressing your departed friend/ relative, but just stuff the clothes at the bottom, thus sending your loved one to meet their maker naked. 

Finally the last of the regulars have eaten and left, the tables in the front bar are packed away, and the local (I assume) office workers have sunk their nightcaps and were wibbling their way home.

Band members can be quite distinctive in a pub on a Friday night. They're dressed to go on and there's an air of suppression about them. Anticipation or fear, or both. Or something else. Everyone not chatting or meditating over a pint.

The group of drinkers clustering near the bay window slowly begin to notice the bags, cymbals, guitar amps and cases, and various miscellaneous band junk piling up about their feet. 

The nearby corner door is locked. The band claim their spots and, underfoot, the drinkers are crowded out; they move on.

The Sacred Cowboys' new drummer, Damian Fitzgerald, built his kit around the chatterers, long-time Cowboy's guitarist Mark Ferrie corrals himself into the right corner while Timothy Deane (and his spectacular pedal board) takes the far left corner, while bassist Anthony Paine holds his own between Tim and Damian. 

Sacred Cowboys mainstay Garry is pumped, almost hyper. He's ready, you see. Grooving inside, delighted to be with this outfit.

From my vantage point at the back of the room, just watching them sort themselves out on the sticky carpet stage (without monitors) the band seem to be kinetically bound to each other.                     

Little faces begin to peer in at the window behind them. 

Without any fanfare or introduction, they start ... and you're hooked, really. There's a lissom swagger about this outfit, a strength of purpose ... all this from only three rehearsals... Garry's voice is a damn big creature, and needless to say, it needs a damn big band to match it. These musicians are the business.

Two sets, the first mostly newer material, the second being older songs. Which songs?

Nope. Not telling. By the time this outfit are on a bigger stage the set may have changed anyway.

In between conjuring benedictions upon us and walking through the crowd, brushing past the glassy, the few remaining public servants (by now a tad dishevelled), sundry ne’er-do-wells and everyone else, Garry shares the mike with one of the local fans, who knows the words (which is pretty damn cool for a rehearsal if you ask me).

What are they like? I really don't want to give too much away, you need to see them at Shotkickers in Thornbury, Melbourne, on October 11.  It will sell-out so get onto tickets here.

But you should know that they're better, far better than anyone has a right to be after three rehearsals, with only two of the chaps being in the band of yore. There's a dialled-down intensity about them, a sort of caged animal ... but they're absolutely enjoying themselves as well, and it's very evident.

Milling about in the throng is something of a character in his jesus shirt, lux red beard and Cap'n Sensible shades. At some point during the second set, this local goes down on his knees before Garry, a supplicant before a preacher ... except they're neither. It's just ... the moment, the exciting drawl of the band, the presence of the singer and ... well, I suspect alcohol may have played a role, though I could be wrong.

Towards the end of the last song, Fitzgerald chucks a drum onto the ground in front of the kit, and a cymbal, which crashes neatly. An excellent idea; in time with the song grinding to a close, he slowly adds the rest of his cymbals to the pile.

I hid up the back, no further from the band than (say) Jim Reid from the crowd barrier, trying to take it all in, from the wedge of the front bar to the thunderstorm outside, the smokers peeping in the windows, the chap who owns the Town Hall Hotel unable to wipe the delighted smile off his face. Kudos to the man for setting the gig up.

Sure, there's an element of what-was-then. But what we saw here seemed too big to be mere nostalgia, too powerful. Truth is the band drew in and held the attention of a crowd mostly new to the band, and this really was a gig for the ages. There was a simmering energy, a spontaneity about the proceedings. The last two songs, a called-for encore, were made up on the spot. Will they write new songs? I only know what I saw...

Put it this way, if you'd never seen the Sacred Cowboys before, you would've been reeled right in; hooked trout, lure and sinker.