Remembering Rocktober in November

ROCK CONCERTS are great, aren’t they? Of course, I’m not talking about the wooly-woofter sort of crap foisted on the young-and-easily-impressed these days. Naw, I’m talking about the rip-snortin’, ball-tearin’ blinders of days gone by. I remember one at the Sydney Opera House in about 1979. It was a 2SM Rocktober concert so it was probably before FM radio happened, and Good ol’ 2SM was the gun station. Triple J was just plain old Double J. And like a lot of the good concerts of that era, this one was free, which was lucky, because they stuffed up with the dates and it actually ran in November so it was stinkin’ hot.

Here are some names to ponder if you’re talking about free rock concerts: Radiators, Mental as Anything, Misex, Cheetah, Colleen Hewett, Captain Matchbox, Russell Morris, Jim Keays, The Mixtures, Dragon, Ted Mulry Gang, Doug Parkinson, Mike Rudd, Hush, Bob Hudson, Ol’ 55, Max Merritt, Stars, Neale Johns, Stevie Wright, Norman Gunston, Kevin Borich, Richard Clapton, Aunty Jack Team, Jo Jo Zep & the Falcons, Marc Hunter, John Paul Young, Marcia Hines, Split Enz, Skyhooks, Jon English, and Sherbet. If you’re under 30 years of age, there’s still a shitload of names you’ll know and they all played there and for free that day.

I was carting out The Goog—five-foot-nothing of pure terror with tiny tits and a nice arse—in those days. Looking back, she was a goddamned friggin’ psychopath of a girlfriend, but jeez, she was a lot of fun to be with. I spent 13 years of my life with that girl, but I, but I—but I’m alright now… beep… Phhhftt! Gurgle.

The Goog and I had rocked up on the John Player Norton to The World’s Most Beautiful Building, which just happened to be plonked on the water’s edge of The World’s Most Beautiful Harbour. We rode right through all the barricades, through the jostling crowds, and parked the mighty Norton right where the crowd started to thicken too much for even a bike to pass. In rock concert/motorcycle terms it was The World’s Most Beautiful Parking Spot, though we were still a couple of hundred metres from the stage and that was fine by me. To this day, I still haven’t seen inside the Opera House—that’s for rich people and gays—but I’ll admit to seeing more than a few Bogan bands belt out some fine Aussie Pub Rock ’n’ Roll. In the late 1970s there were 2SM free concerts everywhere.

The Goog met up with some of her good looking cousins and friends and disappeared into the crowd to soak up the rockin’ atmosphere; I stayed with the Norton, talkin’ blokey shit with a whole lot of other bikers who’d rocked up and took advantage of the prime M/C-only parking space. There was a fella named Harry with a Triumph, plus a member and a prospect from a well-known outlaw club.

Man, it was so hot.

The man with the Coca Cola van parked at Circular Quay West had sold out of Coke and all other soft drinks very early in the piece, so rather than making millions of bucks selling thirst-quenching cans of wet sugar to parched patrons, he could only stand forlornly in his van and catch abuse from pissed off patrons who wanted something wet NOW! Eventually, he wandered over to where the bikie scumbags were having a neat old time talking bullshit. While lamenting the lack of product, he mentioned that the 40 of so bags of ice hadn’t even had time to melt before he was Cokeless at the Quay.

I’m an Ideas Man, I’ve always said that, so I started thinking. Hmm, hot day, no drinks, just these stupid unmelted ice bags… wait a minute… “Hey mate, I’ll buy a bag of ice off you for a dollar.” Coca Cola Man and four scumbag bikies set the tone, bravely crunching and slurping through a bag of ice in almost no time at all. “Here’s another two bucks, mate,” I said. “I’m heading into the crowd to see my girl and her sexy cousins, see if they need a drink.”

Bounding into the crowd, a bag of ice slung casually over each shoulder, I tried to make my way to The Goog and Sexy Cousins. Didn’t get far, being mobbed by thirsty rock crowds begging, pleading and even demanding a handful of life-giving ice. You must remember, this was the era when sunscreen was for poofters and nobody carried bottled water. It was like a goddamned auction for a while, as I was offered cigarettes and joints, plus one and two dollar notes for few cubes of frozen water. (That’s right, you young whipper-snippers—the $1 and $2 coins hadn’t been invented by then.) I can’t get the memory stick working that well these days, but I sorta recall that a schooner of beer was about a buck back then. Man, those suckers were thirsty.

I still hadn’t found The Goog and Co. by the time the two bags of ice had been converted to two limp, damp plastic bags, so I darted back to my supplier for more. Travelling faster and selling less ice this time, I soon found The Goog and Co. clinging closely to the front of the stage, which was situated at the top of the famous Opera House steps.

Gosh, were they glad to see me and my ice bags. For a brief time in my life, a posse of sexy women were clamouring for something I had. Look at me, Ma—top of the World!

“Thank God you’re here,” The Goog said between icy munches. “I’m busting for a wee and I’ll need your help.”

“Sure, babycakes,” I replied, “and my help involves…?”

“Just come with me,” she said quietly as she led me to the eastern side of the Opera House steps, where the crowd thinned out and even disappeared as we neared the gleaming row of Porta-Loos.

Something was wrong and I knew it. Hmm, massive rock concert, handy row of women’s Porta-Loos and no long queues of hopping, squirming sheilas. Hmm, now I see—all the girls who were gunna go had already gone, and all at the same time it seemed. In front of the row of plastic pissers was the greatest river of piddle I’d seen in a while; it was deep and it was wide and it was totally blocking access to the Porta-Loos.

“So you want me to do…?” I enquired of her.

“Be a sport and piggy-back me over there,” The Goog asked, although I didn’t believe what I’d just heard.

As a couple, we were still in the first flush of new lurve, so I figured: What the Hey—I’m going to get lucky later on anyway, so off came the desert boots and socks and I bare-footedly piggy-backed that lucky young girl across the raging river of pee. I could hear yuks, yurks and blurghs from the crowd, as they watched on, probably not believing it either. But I also heard cheering (oh well, razzing) from the crowd and it was more than likely a female-only cheer. I reckon there must have also been a few ‘Now why can’t you do that for your best girl’ slaps on the back of many a bloke’s head.

I even waited chivalrously outside the flooded piss station. It was there I heard an almighty ruckus coming from inside that Porta-Loo.

When The Goog entered the flooded pisser, she had a blue denim jacket slung over her shoulder, was wearing a halter-neck top and a brand spanking new pair of pure white Levi Strauss jeans. They looked good, being bright white, outtasight and really tight. The filthy language that burst forth from within the cubicle told me something had gone terribly wrong, and there would be no easy fix. Seems The Goog had managed to drape her brand new jeans in the putrid puddle of pee-pee on the flooded floor of the Porta-Loo.

She emerged from the Porta-Loo, denim jacket tied around her waist and holding a pair of yellow stained white jeans at arms length and uttering some swearwords I’m sure hadn’t been invented yet or were at least not in regular usage. The entire arse-section and most of the thigh area was saturated in a really bad way.

Leaving the scene must’ve presented an even more intriguing view. I think it was the Kiwi band Dragon playing on stage at the time, and they must’ve wondered why they were losing the eastern portion of the crowd, as it seems like all eyes were locked onto the unusual sight of a barefoot biker piggy-backing a seven-stone spitfire with no pants. She was clinging on and holding aloft some sodden white jeans, desert boots and socks, a half a bag of melting ice, and swearing all the way through the Olympic pool-sized puddle of piss.

We moved to the east, away from the concert and finally onto dry land, where she climbed down, but didn’t stop swearing. We kept walking east, away from the crowd and along the stone wall that holds back the Harbour. The Line of Demarcation between the Opera House and Farm Cove was a high steel fence, about six foot high, made from sheet metal and running from the Harbour wall to the base of a sandstone cliff, atop which sat a large cast of concert-goers with probably the best view of the stage. There was an unlocked sheet metal gate in the fence, and two bloke coppers and one good-looking sheila copper were standing around yakking on the western side of the steel fence. 

Like I said, I was an ‘Ideas’ Man and a grand idea was already formulated to clean The Goog’s jeans. We would use the world’s best Harbour to rinse the strides, although I hadn’t exactly figured out the whys and wherefores. 

As we passed the three coppers, I gave them my best and cheesiest grin and a friendly nod. They all regarded us with that strange ‘one raised eyebrow’ look they teach ’em in cop school, that says: “I’m watching you closely, but I don’t really want to get involved.”

We passed through the gate and closed it behind us. The plan was now fully formulated. I basically braced myself against the sandstone wall and lowered The Goog down by the ankles. It worked a treat, although it’s not something you’d ever contemplate completely sober. There we were, me holding The Goog by the ankles, her at full stretch, dangling the jeans into the Harbour and swooshing them around. One of the coppers even poked his head around the end of fence and said, “Don’t drop her, mate…”

“Naw,” I replied cheerfully. “I’ve got it covered—she’s really light!”

Now, I don’t know how many times you’ve dangled a girl in a halter neck top, knickers and nothing else by the ankles into the Harbour, but it was the first time for me, and truthfully, it got very hard to keep my mind on the job. I mean, the knickers had some ‘very sympathetic’ folds to them, and… awww, you get the picture. My mind started wandering. The Goog had finished the rinse cycle and demanded to be hauled back up, which happened immediately. Once she was up something even more immediate happened—we went the tonk! That’s right, we made The Beast With Two Backs right there in broad daylight not two metres from three coppers, with the only privacy coming from the metal fence between us and the coppers and the crowd.

I’m sure it wasn’t my best effort, but it was certainly the most daring.

It was just then I discovered we were in full view of the crowds on the cliff top, and they weren’t just watching two goddamned pre-verts going at it hammer and tongs—no, they could see us on one side of the fence and on the other side, the coppers—totally oblivious to what must’ve been a public indecency charge or two.

There were catcalls and wolf whistles, much cheering and jeering, and I reckon the cops must’ve thought that it was all for them—especially when some prick called out, “Hey, mate, give her one for ME!”

It was all too much to contemplate, so the whole thing ended as abruptly as it began and I quickly helped The Goog on with her now sparkling white but salty wet jeans. We went through the gate and I once more smiled and nodded at the coppers, sensing that they were none the wiser that they missed out on a hell of a collar.

After that effort, the rest of the 2SM Rocktober concert was just another rock concert. Although the end of the concert got interesting: the Stage Announcer was busy telling everyone to piss off because there was no more music, and the Norton, the Triumph and two Harleys in the prime parking spot just seemed so vulnerable as the crowd turned as one on their heels and began flooding out. Fair dinkum! It was like the early American pioneers circling the wagons against marauding redskins as the crowd jostled past too close for comfort; many of them tried to go straight through the middle of the clustered bikes bumping the odd handlebar or shinning themselves on an exhaust pipe. The extremely large patch member, his prospect, plus Harry and me were being swamped no matter how many dazed and buzzing rock freaks were shoulder-charged out around the group of cycles.

And then, The Goog took charge.

Being only five-foot-nothin’ and seven stone wringing wet, she was no Amazon. I mean, she was skinny enough to have to run around in the shower recess just to get wet, but when she walked a few paces into the flowing crowd, bent over forward into the seething mass and stretched her arms out wide like a second-rower Rugby League player packing into a scrum, the crowd just parted around her, veering out wide and out and around the clump of now-protected bikes. I think the fact that her psychotic, growled orders involved even more exotic swearwords than those she used in the Porta-Loo debacle helped individuals in the moving mob to instantly identify The Goog as a person or thing to avoid at all costs.

Back on the Mighty Norton, waving goodbyes to Harry and the others, The Goog and I powered northward across the world’s most beautiful Harbour Bridge and headed home. With all the unfinished business after the jeans-rinsing and girlfriend Harbour-dangling, a slight detour was in order. Halfway along the Wakehurst Parkway is a fire trail, only accessible by four-wheel drives and motorbikes. The trail dives down into a deep ravine and scoots past the headwaters of the Manly Dam before popping out at Allambie Heights, our ultimate destination.

Now, halfway down the steep descent, just a little off to the left, is this natural rock formation in weathered Sydney sandstone that looks all the world like a multi-function ‘love chair’. A few years before I started carting out The Goog, I was unlucky enough to have two girlfriends at the same time. One lived at the northern end of the Wakehurst Parkway; the other lived at the southern end. They only ever met each other once, and that was bad enough, but being young and up meself, I thought is was an absolute hilarious thing to have treated them both to a session in the sandstone love chair known as ‘The Rock’ on the same day. Slender Brunette Southern Girl in the morning, and Jiggly Blonde Northern Girl that very afternoon!

All right, so this was more than three decades ago and I’ve learned a lot of stuff since then. Three decades ago, I must’ve been as thick as shit in the neck of a bottle, but here’s a tip for young blokes just setting out on life’s journey: don’t ever talk to your current girlfriend about previous girlfriends or encounters—no matter how funny those events may seem to you. Chicks just don’t dig it, okay? Even if they ask or try to drag it out of you, don’t say anything. “I’ve never had sex before and Darlin’, you’re the first,” is all you say.

So there’s The Goog and I, about to finish what was started some hours before at the Opera House—only this time without the audience or risk of arrest—when The Goog looked into my eyes and asked, “This is The Rock, isn’t it?”

I should’ve said no, but yes came out. I should’ve said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” but I knew exactly.

The thrashing and the bashing and vile swearing started all over again, only worse this time.

Like they say, live and learn.

Road Tales By Kelly Ashton