The Doc No Longer In The House

Music celebrities appear to be created on reality television, these days.  Or You Tube.  It's hard when poker machines take up what was once valuable performing space for a fledgling band cutting its teeth.  Today's young music stars like to sing pissy songs and shake their butts (aka twerking).  Come to think of it, is twerking just a modern day form of lewdness that was construed from Elvis shaking his hips?   

I used to go and watch pub bands, and didn't Australia produce the creme de la creme?  A good night out often entailed my toes hurting from the shoes I wore, my stone washed jeans (uh, yep), and mousse in my fringe (I had one until I was informed by a stylist it did nothing for me).  A good night involved beer spilled down your back, and the ends of your hair gummed together with dried beer.  A good night was hot, and sweaty.  A good night often started with a brain-dead bouncer on the door.  One of them would not let my cousin's then boyfriend (now husband) in on the basis he was wearing a singlet.  We went to a nearby friend's flat in order for him to borrow a T-shirt.  We were finally granted access to the venue and - surprise, surprise! - the guys in there had taken off their shirts because it was so damned hot.  WTF?  A good night would start by drinking cider from the bottle shop on the beach, because nobody could afford those damned prices in the bar.   And then it would be hot, and crowded, and noisy, and should you be standing near a speaker your ears would ring like the bells of St Clement's all the next day. 

And a REALLY good night would include the refrain, 'No way!  Get fucked!  Fuck off!' 

Yep.   Sigh.  RIP, Doc Neeson.  What a charismatic showman you were.  One of my workmates back in the 80s had the most massive crush.  We are still good friends, and she told me yesterday how devastated she is.  We worked in a law office together, and a group of us juniors would walk to Martin Place Station every afternoon after work,  I would take the train to Bondi Junction, and the others had to stand on the other station and take the Cronulla line.  We'd stand on, or walk up the escalators together, dodging stragglers and dunderheads standing to the wrong side.  I remember one of the clerk's complaining after walking behind somebody, 'Aw, I walked straight into that knob's fart!'  What I mainly remember about our walks to Martin Place, was a very tall, dark, saturnine looking man passing us from the opposite direction.  My friend cried, 'Doc!'  We all thought she had cried, 'Stop!' and all stood stock still.  She was gibbering like an excited school girl, and being a good friend, I accompanied her in her search for the Angels' front man.  We walked all the way back from just near Hunter Street to Circular Quay, and couldn't find him.

Now he's in Rock and Roll Heaven, and now there's even more of a Hell of a band.

And our kids might not know the fun of being in a sweaty hot venue, shouting at the stage.