The Hobart Chronicles XXXII: A Tale They Won't Believe

Lean on bar, hands in the pockets,
Drain those glasses down like rockets.
Weddos, Roaring Days, 1988

Son, don't be dense! You know it's an offence
And you must expect a summons in the morning
Weddos, Summons In The Morning, 1988

It’s a tale they won’t believe,
When I get down to Hobart town
Weddos, A Tale They Won’t Believe, 1989

Thus far, have I given you the impression that Slobart is a pleasant, charming and mostly harmless little hamlet?

Let me tell you about South Arm.

Specifically, the Foreshore Tavern at Lauderdale, on the South Arm.

The background to this anecdote is that, courtesy of former housemate WMDamian, I became a Weddings Parties Anything tragic back in the early 90s; one day Weddos will have to reform and do some Christmas gigs when I am in Melbum to enjoy them, but until then I follow the fortunes of Mick Thomas and whatever musical incarnation he is currently in.

Well, Mick Thomas & The Go Set’s tour finally brought them to town – two gigs at the southern end of Tasnarnia, one in the north. The first of these was last night, in the outer Slobart suburb of Lauderdale. Lauderdale is located on what’s known as South Arm – it’s a sort of geographical daggy end to the eastern shore, where the proportion of bush scrub is still balanced against fibro houses and beach shacks. At least, I think it’s like that in daylight.

Last night, the incessant rain had caused minor flooding and the South Arm road was in fact closed when the high tide covered the asphalt for several hours. Perhaps it would have been better if it had remained covered. As it was, the road was passable if slippery, so that my new colleague Carolyn and I, at a loose end on a Thursday night, managed to navigate the Volvo out there.

‘Out there’ really isn’t fair, as it’s only about 30 minutes from my place in town, and about 15 minutes from Carolyn’s temporary house-sit in Bellerive. However, physical distances are, well, concentrated in Tasnarnia – mere meters on the map may translate to a yawning chasm in breeding and manners.

I should have paid attention when Carolyn pointed out the feral utes we parked next to, but years in Tamworse have inured me to the sight of CAT mudflaps, Bundy stickers and oversized tyres. I strode confidently into the Foreshore Tavern’s bistro entrance, where the loud noises turned out to be a ‘private party’ being thrown by Heart FM, a Macquarie station which “plays the best music from the 60’s to now” (according to their website). The PA’s volume made the jocks incomprehensible, but from what I could see the listeners appeared to be playing bingo. We backed out of there in a hurry, to look for the front bar.

The front bar turned out to be remotely located; although an aerial survey would show it to be in the room next to the bistro, the only way to get from the one to the other was to go outside and walk around the building via the carpark, in the driving rain. Hmmm.

Early beers and a counter dinner of fish ‘n’ chips were a tame, if somewhat soggy, affair. With the lights on the décor could be described as Shabby Chic Feral Rooty Hill RSL. One of the pool tables was Out Of Order; the other was missing a ball, the cue ball, the triangle and the cues, none of which stopped us from cobbling together a game. I said hello to Mick Thomas at the bar, causing me the simultaneous shame and thrill which is the bane of the embarrassed tragic.

Later, it got dark, and out came the nocturnal wildlife. About three quarters of them must have been of the order Lepidoptera, as despite the downpour they flocked to the light in the outside smoking area. In fact, they seemed to have happily paid their $10 door charge for the privilege of huddling together in this cold, wet corral where you couldn’t hear the band. The few people interested in the music were treated to regular arctic blasts from the door as one or another of this tribe ventured from the smoking area to the bar, and back again.

During the No Nos, a Hobart-based support act who played an excellent set of energetic death-rockabilly, the dance floor was populated by exactly two inebriated and unsteady ferret types, one precariously balancing a coke and something in his left hand and a beer in his right. Flannel and workboots whirled mesmerically.

But the peacocks, or perhaps galahs, of the night were the young women. Carolyn and I received some valuable fashion insights from their attire, which was clearly their Friday night best. The current uniform seems to require long boots, leggings or skinny jeans, and long jumpers. Muffintop was flaunted, not disguised. One young thing, wearing a long grey-striped jumper over her leggings, made slow, deliberately theatrical dance moves, reminiscent of Madonna in her Vogue era of a decade ago. Strike a pose. Vogue. Move to the music. Her grace was impaired only slightly by the enormous handbag swinging like a wrecking ball from her arm.

My personal favourite was a bovine young lass who accessorised her tight pink jumper with a thin white belt – strapped directly under her boobs. It gave the concept of ‘empire line’ a whole new twist. Unfortunately any vigorous dance move meant the belt slipped to her waist, necessitating a pause in dancing to hoick it back up around her ribs. One of her most vigorous dance moves involved dropping to the dance floor in a kind of squat. When she avoided overbalancing (which wasn’t often), her tight jeans slipped so far down she treated observers to at least six inches of plumber’s grin. Dancer’s crack. Scrag’s crack? It was confusing.

During the set break the open fire in the centre of the room went out and the mood in the bar moved up a notch. When Mick Thomas hopped up on the stage with his acoustic guitar, the crowd were ready for music – and got an ear-splitting hum of feedback. The sound bloke at the mixing desk, beastly careless, had cranked all his knobs up to eleven and hopped outside for a ciggie. There were no bodies in the first five metres before the stage to absorb the hum. The first three songs, Weddos classics including A Tale They Won’t Believe and the cover of Racist Friend, inflicted auditory damage. Mick scowled at the stream of patrons heading out to join the sound bloke in the cancer corral. The appearance of Squeezebox Wally added harmonies and about another 30dB of feedback. When the mandolin player from the Go Set joined the line up, it didn’t do any damage – because the sound bloke hadn’t bothered to turn on his pickup and he emitted no noise whatsoever.

The mood was turning as ugly as the music. One cultural giant at the rear of the milieu shouted, “Wha’s yer name? Who the fug areya?” Mick paused and fixed him with a stony glare. “I’m your worst fucking nightmare, mate. I’m gonna play folk music all night.”

Twenty five minutes was all Mick and Wally could stand and they abandoned the stage. Somewhere close to our left there was a loud crack and the acrid smell of gunpowder. Someone had set off some sort of firecracker. I think it was a firecracker. The Go Set were setting up but Carolyn and I decided that prudence was the better part of valour and before someone came to erect a chickenwire barrier across the stage in preparation for Rawhide we fled the Foreshore Tavern.

Perhaps tonight’s gig will be better. It’s at the Brisbane Hotel. In Hobart. Yes, I don’t understand either.