The Aints in Sydney. Iam Amos photo.
It’s a concept both risky and bold. The Aints, as they were originally constituted, were a short-term thing that evolved into something more substantial. After a live record and two studio albums, they’d been put to one side for a time (25 years) while main protagonist Ed Kuepper did other things. Many other things.
Much water had passed under the Go Between(s) Bridge since then. History had also put on a lot of weight. The original Saints had re-convened for a tour that did a degree of justice to the band’s name, but was clouded by ill-temper.
Thoughts of doing it again apparently reside in the church of indifference, baby.
Mandy Tzaras photo.
Glen Matlock's Adelaide show was such a fine, big smile-stretched-across-the-face, hugely enjoyable gig. Not because of the association to THAT band, but because Glen is who he is, likes the kind of music he likes, and brings it into you.
If you’re hesitating about whether to see this man’s gigs - don’t.
The Aints in full flight: Peter Oxley, Paul Larsen and Ed Kuepper, with Alastair Spence obscrured. Mandy Tzaras photo.
You knew something special was up in Adelaide tonight because as you approached The Gov, heading determinedly back to the carpark was a small group of lone pushing-toward-pensioner men, each clutching the same record: “The Aints Live at The Sarah Sands 1991”. There can’t be too many left of this, they only made 300; get yours at the gig; two LPs, $50.
Ever hear of Reid Fleming, World’s Toughest Milkman? Good. Now you have.
The first comic came out, it must’ve been 30 years ago. I had a T-shirt, gave it to Bob, who has cherished that damn thing for about 25 years now. I did my heart good to see Bob bouncing around tonight in that tattered t-shirt. “I thought I told you to SHUT UP!” Fleming bellows from the shirt. It perfectly matches the night.
Kim Salmon in full flight. Photo by Barry C. Douglas of Barry Takes Photos.
Before we start: The Scientists were bloody brilliant; Geelong hosted a magical gig. See them while you can, you may never get this chance again.
Now, then. There really are times when not being a multi-millionaire is, frankly, a bit of a fucking niggle.
So there I was, reading that a certain band were going to tour Australia - they’ve played a few reunion gigs overseas as one of the two guitarists lives in London - but they haven’t toured Australia in well over a decade. So there’s every chance this could well be the last time I’ll ever see them.
Dateline: Adelaide. Hugo Race (pictured right) and Michelangelo Russo arrived at the venue shortly after 4pm, just in time for a swift soundcheck, have a couple of beers, smoke a couple of rollies and a cigar (respectively) while Michael Plater was on.
Quizzed later about their 4am wake-up to drive from St Kilda to Adelaide’s West End, Hugo denied it being a hard trip. "Warsaw to Paris, that’s a hard drive" … you knew he meant non-stop.
And it’s not the first time Hugo’s done this drive; this time he was captivated by the patterns of light, the yellows of the rapeseed, a stand of blasted trees waving in the wind… Charlie Marshall does this kind of thing. Not so much old school as a rediscovery of the essence of travel.
Ripley Hood in front of Brando Rising. Robert Brokenmouth photo.
In which your scribe receives news and loses it a tad. This is a very partial review… I missed quite a few things … oh, dear.
So, an Adelaidean in Melbourne negotiates buses, trams, and other hurdles (including a Lebanese cab driver who’s lived here for 40 years and still has an accent like a wheel of cheese to a plastic butter knife) to arrive at a record shop.
With a Budget flat-bed truck outside.