Collection • Consideration • Confusion

Rip It Up, Issue 92, 1 March 1985, Page 14

Collection • Consideration • Confusion

Six Days on the Road with Hunters and Collectors by Russell Brown

Firstly, I think I should explain about Consideration Jones. Consideration Jones is a small, black, wooden hoodoo charm; expansive of lip and decorated in bold pink, orange, yellow and green flourescents, a kind of golliwog for the nuclear age. He has diamantes for eyes and dangles around my neck on a chain of tiny, colourful beads. I found him hanging on my bedroom wall a while back. He’d been left there by the girlfriend of the room’s previous occupant, apparently with the specific aim of offering up a hex on any other woman who dared to darken his pillowcase until he could join her in Europe. When he moved his stuff out he wasn't even gonna touch it. I wasn’t too sure about a hex that would banish women from my life either, but Consideration had a curious appeal about his flared features and I took him on an outing or two. His behaviour was exemplary; his diamantes twinkling weirdly under the coloured lights of the night scene. It happened that one morning he was with me ... Your Mission, Should You Choose ... It was disorientating, it couldn't help but be so. Mondays meant the beginning of a week's work, you learned to accept that and here we were, on a Monday morning, realising I'd be catching the train out of town that night. The content of the working week had been reasonably clear, like rough sketches in five cartoon panels, to be filled out and coloured in with the minor variations each day brought. Now here I was going out on the road with Australian sinewists Hunters and Collectors... Flying High Monday, March 5 I boarded the Northerner some 20 minutes early, just to give myself a chance to sit still and contemplate my situation. Of course before I’d made much progress the wheels of steel began to roll and the situation had changed again ... I was hunched over a beer cursing the damn breweries for putting swill like this on the shelves just because there was a strike on as we rumbled into Hamilton, which was were I'd leave the mainline of human travel for the night. See, around that time of year the modern-day hipster’s equivalent of

jumping the southbound freight is finding a spare seat with one of the tours that knit a purl 'round the country’s seats of tertiary education. Orientation, they call it, but for some it’s like a skip off the edge into a kind of pleasing cfeorientation. I was to meet the Zippy’s Last Tour crowd for a lift thru to my destination, Palmerston North. First, of course, there was a night of music. I arrived too late for the Able Tasmans’ farfisa beat but in time for Look Blue Go Purple who are the kind of band which makes being a "rock reporter" meaningful. Sidestepping, swerving round and occasionally falling flat on their faces over technical hitches, they played another set of bewilderingly varied, spirited and idiosyccratic songs. Five women you should bloody well listen to. Those masters of pop spirituality, the Chills, weren’t on top form when they closed the night but the bedlam down the front of the stage drew out the best version of 'Doledrums' I’d heard them play and an absolutely scorching 'Silhouette'. People sat around the sides of the stage and the band sweated. Wow. Stuck and Starved Tuesday, March 6 It was with mixed feelings that I watched the van shrink into the distance. Within it were the only sure friends within a couple of hundred kilometres and here was I, on the edge of a town where Consideration and I knew only each other. On the other hand was the bracing breeze of free agenthood. It was Bam in Palmerston North as I turned and began walking towards the centre of town... three hours and considerably more walking later, disorientation was again beginning to waft around my head like petrol fumes. The motel where I’d arranged to meet the Hunters and Collectors tour party gave me the address of another place, where the receptionist disclaimed all knowledge of any band staying at her motel. My bag was beginning to feel as if it was full of wet black sand and I decided to head for the sanctuary of a bar. So there I was at 11.05 am, sitting barefoot in the Commercial Hotel public bar, resting my elbows on a tabletop video game. At the table next to me a woman in her 50s gurgled and spluttered through the reservoir of mucus in her lungs, occasionally putting a blotched hand to her mouth and loudly hawk-' ing up into a tissue. She drank gin and tonics and smoked menthol

cigarettes. I wondered what I was doing on the planet. To make it worse, that contrary organ, the writer’s brain, was beginning to kick and wriggle for a change and all I had was a ballpoint and a couple of scraps of newsprint. No typewriter. As Boring Old Bill Burroughs once remarked, the first step to becoming a writer is simply learning how to type. And here I was, itching to whip up an Olivetti Bolognaise while the old Lettera 32 was half an island away ... ... after walking the length of the Waikato Uni campus, sighting the big tour truck was, to say the least, a relief. None of the half dozen students I’d picked out of the throng to ask directions had been able to give me clear directions on how to find their own social hall. Inside the hall, the crew was standing around talking about loading in the PA and lights. Doing the most talking (not an unsual situation, as I was to discover) was Aussie lights person Gary Senior. The slim, laconic denim jacket wearer looks like a better looking, less healthy Andrew Fagan and periodically comes up yvith streams of nonsense so effortlessly deadpan

that make you feel you should take at least some of it seriously and it was such a stream of unconsciousness that was driving stage manager Andrew Frengley a little batty.

“Heylook, I think I'll fly (string up from the ceiling) my lighting desk... and we may as well fly the PA too,

it won't take long ... or maybe we could set up the desk on one of those beams up there and I could do it up there, yeah... no, let’s fly the whole stage ... we could do the whole gig upside down, yeah ...’’ The load in eventually began and the PA stacks were built up on each side. Paul Crowther put the PA through its paces with waves of white noise. Hunters and Collectors arrived with tour promoter, soundman and maternal figure to any number of local musicians, Doug Hood, and began to soundcheck.

Oh, the soundcheck... ever heard 'Whole Lotta Love’ with horns and without guitar? Drummer Doug Falconer wailed it. When Mark Seymour came up and plugged in there was even a version of the song every bozo yelled out for on the tour, 'Talking to a Stranger’. "You horrible little man .’’ glared and grinned Mark as John Archer jumped loudly in a couple of verses through with that bassline. Meanwhile, the support band, Working With Walt, sat and waited nervously for their turn

...the cricket was going from bad to worse as I sat, surrounded by student barpeople in Orientation tshirts, in front of the colour TV out back of the bar.

“Ever done lights?" said Doug, sitting down in the next chairf’Wanna do ’em for Working With Walt?" For the band with the nasty song about Rip It Up ? Sure! The whole

concept had so much irony it was almost magnetic. In the event the scattering of faders I was allowed to use on the relatively huge desk pretty much precluded anything in the way of technoflash but it’s always fun for someone as profoundly nonvisual as me to play around with colours. It should also be noted that

the all-new Working With Walt lineup shows a lot of promise and the way they fed off crowd enthusiasm was heartwarming. 'Rip It Up' the song, however, was pretty disappointing not very venomous at all.

With our cricket team plunging into oblivion, all attention could safely be diverted towards the new Hunters and Collectors. A rock ’n’ roll band! Precise, muscular R&B with a suntan. Physically fit music. The performance, as it transpired, was the least impressive of the North Island leg of the tour.

Afterwards it was chats to a couple of Working With Walts (the guitarist was one of the people who were quite taken by Consideration; “spooky," he said) and staying outta the way of the erew. I was to travel back to Wellington with the band and took my seat in the minibus. Mark poked his head in the door and scowled at his fellow band members: "Somebody keeps drinking half their cans of beer and leaving them," he said, waving a Fosters can.” Don't do it, because it’s a bloody waste of beer!" I fell asleep briefly on the trip and awoke to find a full-scale singalong in progress, with Mark as head choirboy. From Tom Jones to Shocking Blue, they all got the six-part harmony treatment. Doug remembered Mark’s old band the Jetsons doing ‘Venus’ and we recalled the chaos that used to go with

the Toy Love version. Mark was keen to work out the song the next day and play it in Wellington. They didn't, of course. Blowin’ in the Wind Wednesday, March 7 Hunters and Collectors in golf mania shock! Drummer Doug

Falconer, trumpeter Jack Howard and flugelhornist Jeremy Smith were gearing up for a round of golf at the Hutt course.

“Look, there’s no point in me putting a slab on the longest drive because I’ll lose," said Jeremy. “Make it closest to the pin.”

A “slab" is two dozen cans of beer just one of the beer drinkin’ references to be found on The Jaws Of Life. Now you know. Too late, eventually, to see The Killing Fields in town, I settled fora fistful of tokens at the local video game centre and extended my 10 Yard Fight best to 105,000. The game’s a fascinating grid-iron-based affair with lots of room for personal style and sloppiness. Outside the Wellington Wind blew with a ferocity way in excess of that necessary to make its point. After dinner with a couple of close relatives, it was off to Victoria University, where the punks/boots/skins were hanging around outside. I think if you decide to cut off your hair and drop into some Doc Martens you must have to accept hanging around outside places where people are as a major part of the lifestyle. Still, I suppose you get lots of fresh air... Inside, the hall (a good venue) the air was getting less and less fresh by the minute but the crowd was in good spirits. "Well 1 know that it's true but I just can’t say it 1 " lamented Mark in ‘Betty’s Worry or the Slab’ (and you know...). “SAY IT! SAY IT!” the crowd called back in a nicely non-patronising bit of call-and-response. Yeah! The Hunters were called back for three genuine encores. A louder, slightly messier gig than the previous night’s. As far as I’m concerned the thing this band needs to do make this music work properly is get a little less tight. The Zippy Tour had a night off and so sundry NZ band members and crew, plus Gary and Stig from the Hunters' crew set off in a mini van in search of a bottle of whusky... we found two and you wouldn’t believe what they cost... goodnight... Loving and Losing Your Leather Jacket Thursday March 8 The maid looked down and smiled kindly. My early morning eyes still had her in soft focus. It was time to take stock of the situation. Face up to my surroundings. I was on a couch in the hallway of the wrong hotel... but I guessed (right) that this was the Zippies' lodgings. I sat up and offered a few groggy pleasantries. Sitting and then standing up was bound to make the head spin a little but the bells really started to ring when it became clear that my leather jacket was gone.

If you've ever owned a decent leather jacket you'll know just how special a few bits of black cowhide can become. The jacket has moulded itself to you to the extent that it's like walking round in your favourite armchair. Feeling a little worried? Confused? Tired? Lonely? Scared? Like a baaaaad security blanket that jacket'll make you feel better. And now my jacket was gone. It was hard to pierce the confusion and undertake a thorough investigation in the time we had left

before heading north and we rolled outta town without my jacket. I felt very sick.

Disorientated... As the day’s travel to Hamilton unfolded, my humour crept up like the mercury in a thermometer left on a frosty morning lawn. I further got to know my travelling companions, so I suppose I should introduce them: Mark Seymour is short but solid, like a slimmer Broooooce ("Hunters and Collectors are nice guys but they like Bruce Springsteen," Shayne Carter). He's intense, periodically enthusiastic, the best talker in the band. Doug Falconer is tall, a former doctor and the possessor of a wealth of knowledge on sundry topics. Michael Waters, the keyboardist, is a commercial law graduate and handles day-to-day finances for the band, he’s the quietest in a band of eloquent speakers. Jeremy Smith was compared to Neil Finn by Paul Crowther (who, I suppose, should know), he’s slighter, younger and sharper of haircut than the others he’s currently studying as a medical student: John (Jack) Howard is big, a former music teacher and hits a golf ball a long way. John Archer’s modest disposition belies the growl of his bass playing a cryptic, clean-cut, friendly type. So we pressed on, up and over the central volcanic plateau. "Will there be a china shop in Bulls?” Jeremy had asked quietly. “Fred Dagg's hometown? W0w...” murmured Doug Falconer as we trundled through Taihape. Doug Hood and I explained in Waiouru the wonderful view of Ruapehu we were missing because grimy low cloud and rain: "You’d be able to see it right over the top of the toilets there ... a classic volcano.” After a snack in lysergic Taupo we decided to check out the Huka Falls ... well, some of us ... “I’m a punk rocker” frowned Mark. “I don't wanna write songs about waterfalls!” “It's an example of the awesome power of nature, Mark,” said Doug Falconer, who was on his sixth trip to NZ. “You only had to look at the girl in the coffee bar for that!” The Huka Falls transpired to be not unlike Hunters and Collectors. They don’t fall from a great height but they operate with a great deal of muscle. The descent is short but authoritative. We made Hamilton. The Coney Island Club Friday, March 8. After an enjoyably uneventful day (absence of activity is very tranquilising) I did The Interview with Mark and then left for Waikato

University, arriving in time for local cult heroes the Human Lawnmowers, who at times sounded like a punked-up R.E.M. and at other times didn’t. They played three Velvet Underground covers which would take on relevance later in the night... The Hunters encountered the same bizarre melee down front as the Zippies had you apparently gotta grab whatever chance you get if you’re into slamdancing in Hamilton. One young woman was helped out across the stage after screaming in panic and several band members used strong language towards the dickhead element that was causing the problems. Curiously enough, however, the whole gig picked up momentum as it went on and the crowd went looney at the sight of the band coming on for the second encore. Apparently well pleased, the band played another four songs. They left the stage, the house lights went up, the taped music wafted through the PA, the crew began to take out the mikes... all the signs to bugger off home... But in the backstage room Mark was standing with a can in hand grinning mischeviously: “Let’s go back 0n... there’s still a few people making a noise out there!" So the mikes went back in, the lights went down and the ensuing two songs winding up with a repeat of ‘I Believe’ were probably the highlight of the tour for me. Even the promoter danced! Our Man In Hamilton, Paul McKessar, guided us to a nearby building, the site of The Coney Island Club. The Human Lawnmowers knew the rudiments of no fewer than 22 Velvet Underground and Lou Reed songs and they were gonna play 'em all. The result was fairly shambolic but most enjoyable complete with four Hunters standing on the dancefloor inventing backing vocals. The singin' continued in the van on the way back to the motel, composin' choons about nuclear war: “This is not an exerciiiiiiise ...” The spa pool was locked up. Home Is Where Your Heart Lies Saturday, March 9 “Jesus!" said Aussie crewman Andy. "What’s this?” And the Auckland Uni Rec Centre was quite a sight. If you weren't there, imagine a huge gym transformed into a concert hall windows blocked out, floor covered in canvas, black polythene creating a stage area along one wa11... and

still about eight miles up to the roof. I didn't stay long the handful of cubic metres that compose my tiny bedroom seemed a lot more manageable than this gargantuan box of air. They were ... security, man.

By the time concert hour rolled around I’d regained some of that ol’ Auckland buzz and was regarding the Oncoming Night with blind confidence. The gig was a strange one ... This Kind Of Punishment applied their usual conversational, recitallike approach to a crowd about 10 times the size of their usual audiences and damn near got completely away with it. Some pleasing progressions.

But the real strangeness pertained to the venue. There was no drinking or smoking permitted, and 'eavies present to enforce the rules. There I was standing with Yoh Infectious when he lit up a cigarette. Within seconds we were spotlighted by a powerful torch beam from the balcony and there was a flying squad heading our way. Yoh saw the authority figures and panicked he fled but was caught when he ran into a solid block of people. They made him put it out.

“It’s like Sweetwaters brought indoors and turned into a health camp,” said Emma, surveying the scene. Her perception can be incisive.

The gig’s best moments to me were the slower songs, for the way in which they echoed around the huge room. ‘Hayley's Doorstep' just ached...

Afterwards we put up with a rampantly drunken acquaintance from down country. I grinned and bore him after all, he was pretty disorientated... ? Not Much Mardi In the Gras Sunday, March llJztjJß/MIR The Hunters and Collectors stood and jiggled as the Chills played under a ruddying early evening sky. “That’s about enough of these dry gigs, Doug,” said Doug Falconer to Doug Hood. The alcohol ban and lack of decorations, etc, had made the Mardi Gras into more of a casual afternoon in the sun, 1 but that was pleasant. Martin Chillipps talked to the crowd chattily. The outdoorsness of it all produced a 'Wide Weird World' that was 20 metres high. Afterwards the zealously authoritarian bozo from Eden Security tried to make everyone leave the area, even though it was public property. We ignored the bugger... Party Of the Decade Monday March 11. I honestly hadn't expected to see half the people who turned up. People from all facets of my life, people who I didn’t even know were in the city, people who I didn't know knew each other -IP9HBMBSH The appeal of a good party is

pretty nebulous. You do basically the same things you do at bad parties ... imbibe, talk, listen to music ... but something clicks and it’s different. This was a good ‘un. Things were threatening to grind to a halt when the last of the booze ran out before midnight... but then Mark Seymour, moving with real electricity, grabbed a tupperware container and tore through the house taking up a collection. He got $97 and so it was off again with the manager of a certain city niteklub to re-supply. As if that wasn’t enough, Gary Senior collected another $39 when those ran out. I couldn’t miss this trip John Archer drove like he plays bass; precise but hard. Eventually, of course, the comedown ... we walked miles home ... This Is Goodbye Tuesday, March 12. Mainstreet's bedlam when it’s full but it’s an enjoyable bedlam. The management of course did its best to spoil things by only managing to acquire expensive foreign beer for which they charged $3.80 per can, but the crowd soldiered on. The gig began and built as if it was going to be the best of the tour, but inexplicably lost momentum at the end and only one encore was played. Perhaps it was the crowd ... The Chills had a torrid time but the Chills don’t really play badly when they’re not on form. They just don’t play as we 11... Afterwards, it was to Alfie's. At Alfie’s you leave your hangups at the door and concentrate on having a good time if there's anything gays can do, it’s have a good time and that’s why there are clubs like Aifies. “Buy you a bottle of champagne if you lend me the money," said Gary Senior. I liked Gary after all, he'd taken a particular shine to Consideration Jones and any friend of CJ’s was a friend of mine. After the bottle of champagne I don’t remember... Are You My Mother? Wednesday March 13. I have this memory ... walking across the Domain... c01d... dawn ... dispossessed... disorientated... in three hours Hunters and Collectors would fly back home to the big place with a desert in the middle... and for every question that had been answered, another had been skywrit on the horizon of my consciousness ... the answer obviously didn’t lie in Orientation ... to cap it all off, Consideration lay crippled in my pocket on a bed of his own loose beads, having been struck off my chest in a bout of friendly but illconsidered buffoonery on the part of one of my companions the previous night... there would be two hours in bed before rejoining the "real world”... it didn’t seem enough ... it simply wasn’t enough ... let's you and me go to sleep today is another day... •