20 Gigs & The Lost Girl

20 Gigs & The Lost Girl

Published by Jez Haldane at Smashwords

Copyright 2015 Jez Haldane

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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20 Gigs &

The Lost Girl

Jez Haldane

Acknowledgements

While this is ostensibly a work of fiction, the bands and artists are real. The Twenty Gigs were real, and have been reviewed and related as true to the performance and feel of the shows that my memory allows. Any personal interaction with any of the artists as suggested here was real. If you’re a musician that played one of these shows and you beg to differ with my recollections, you may well have been drunk or possibly high. I joke. ..but either way, the punter is always right. At least I’d like to think that the judgment of this punter is.

Many thanks to my friends who have put up with my ramblings throughout this project, and to those musicians that have offered their encouragement along the way.

Extra special thanks to Ingrid S for her keen eye and assistance with my editing process, without whose help and perseverance this project never would have been realised. A true rock star if there ever was.

Finally, to the real life inspiration behind the title character, I wish you every happiness now and forever.

For anybody that has ever dared to pick up a musical instrument.

Contents

Gig 1 Nick Cave, October 2009

Gig 2 Megadeth/Slayer, October 2009

Gig 3 Magic Dirt November, 2009

Gig 4 The Dirty Three, January 2010

Gig 5 AC/DC, February 2010

Gig 6 Massive Attack, March 2010

Gig 7 Kuepper & Bailey, May 2010

Gig 8 Peter Hook, September 2010

Gig 9 Gareth Liddiard, November 2010

Gig 10 The Fall, December 2010

Gig 11 Grinderman, January 2011

Gig 12 Adalita, March 2011

Gig 13 Texas Tea, July 2011

Gig 14 The Dropkick Murphy’s/Sick Of It All, October 2011

Gig 15 Mogwai, November 2011

Gig 16 Throat, April 2012

Gig 17 Fear Factory, September 2012

Gig 18 Metallica, February 2013

Gig 19 Cliff Richard, February 2013

Gig 20 Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds, February 2013

Epilogue, October 2014

About Jez Haldane

Gig 1

Nick Cave, October 2009

It was our last night in London and happily it coincided with the Nick Cave show at the Palace. I managed to persuade her that this should be the last thing we did before we returned to Brisbane the following day. The idea of a Joy Division pilgrimage to Manchester via Macclesfield to visit Ian Curtis’s grave didn’t appeal to her, and I guess understandably so. She’d put up with enough of my skewed musical priorities. While this time it was a happy coincidence that there was a show on that I’d wanted to see, in the past I’d been known to quietly steer dates of trips to coincide with a band I’d wanted to see if I knew they were going to be playing around the time. As she’d agreed to Nick, I didn’t push the idea of visiting sites of Post-Punk significance. Since we’d been together she’d displayed a high level of tolerance for a great many of my personal attributes. She’d even made it through the Rocky series as far as halfway through Rocky IV, before switching off the TV in disgust. It was hard to ask much more than that.

Like many others, she’d just lost her job as the impacts of the Global financial crisis deepened across all industries. There wasn’t a great deal work-wise happening in Brisbane with confidence still down, so I suggested we should take a holiday somewhere. Probably not the smartest thing in the face of financial uncertainty, but I thought it would be good for her. My time working in the UK had been one of the best periods of my life and I wanted to introduce her to some of the friends I’d made and take her to my favourite places. I was hoping maybe she’d see in them what I did. Back then, times were prosperous and there was a lot of fun to be had by a young man. Sadly that was in stark contrast to the London of 2009. It was good to see my friends again, but the economic situation here was substantially worse than that of our own. There was desperation in the air, we both picked up on it, and it wasn’t pleasant. In hindsight, I’m not sure why I would have thought it would have been any different, but I was disappointed that she hadn’t been able to experience the city as I did.

I was still looking forward to seeing Nick Cave play on what has become his home turf. We’d arrived just in time to see them take the stage with West Country Girl. This didn’t form a usual place in their set list so I was happy to see it crop up. The Dig! Lazarus Dig! tour had officially wound up, so while a few tunes from the record were bound to make it into the set, I thought it was probably going to be one of those shows where some lesser known material might make an appearance, particularly given that the full band weren’t in tow tonight. This is where it ends though, with Cave treading more familiar territory from that point on. Nicks pleading vocals from The Weeping Song echo around the venue in all its cavernous glory. Exactly as they should.

I looked beside me and she seemed disconnected by it all. She’d never seen Cave play before and I’d wondered how she’d find it. Halfway through The Mercy Seat she turned to me and announced she thought it was crap and wanted to leave. It’s one of most intense songs in the catalogue and Nick never fails to deliver it with the passion required. I stare in disbelief at her for a short while. Nick is lurching about yelling things about an eye for an eye and tooth for a tooth and absolutely not being afraid to die. How can she not like this? But she doesn’t and tells me so again quite categorically when I question if I misunderstood her over the noise. I have a policy that I don’t walk out on a set until it’s finished. Even if it’s horrendously bad, but I’m concerned and I don’t want to upset her by protesting. I can see I’m going to do just that if we stay any longer, so I lead her outside through the crowd as Nick fades into the background and the sounds of West End streets take over.

A couple of years before I’d invited her to come along with a some friends and I to the Zoo to see The Church play. The Zoo was the place I felt most comfortable, and that’s how I wanted her to perceive me. Even though I’d known her for a fair while by that time, and had seen her semi frequently over that time she hadn’t been part of my circle of friends. I was looking at her differently now and felt I needed to make the best impression I possibly could. I’d always been hopelessly awkward around women ever since I first became interested in them. So I retreated into music, something that I’ve never properly emerged from.

Things didn’t improve a great deal when I started university. I made the error of focusing my attention on securing the affections of two women in the course of a five year degree. I fell a long way short on both occasions. They were both nice girls, so I don’t regret it for a second in that respect, but neither were right for me – I just couldn’t see it at the time, though I’m sure those around me were able to. The young ladies in question certainly did. And if Girl no.1 didn’t elect to pursue a different career direction after third year, I probably still would have kept beating my head against a wall, trying to force something that wasn’t meant to be. Enter Girl no.2. She’d taken time off in the middle of the course and returned to study in my year group. I was smitten for two years, without really making much of a genuine attempt to further my cause. It was only at graduation I decided enough was enough and made a ‘move’. The problem was she didn’t, or rather moved in a different direction, and I ended up head-butting her. My timing was exquisite. I didn’t feel a thing. Much like the perfect off drive in cricket when the ball leaves the bat crisply without any jarring back to your body. She felt it all however. I never did see the extent of bruising as she never spoke to me again. I guess she just didn’t see the funny side. At least Girl no.1 does still speak to me, years later in spite of all the reasons I’m sure I gave her not to. I’m sure she’s also more than grateful I only chose to beat my head against a wall during her tenure.

In hindsight, perhaps I should have employed tactics similar to that of a colleague of mine. In one evening at various CBD venues I watched on as he approached no less than eighteen different women, was rebuked on eighteen consecutive occasions, and quite harshly on a number of them at that. None of this bothered him however, and he gave me a sly thumbs up as he walked out the door with his nineteenth and this time successful, attempt in tow. I remember back in early primary school being fascinated with US warships and aircraft carriers around the time Top Gun was in the cinemas. They were equipped with an anti-missile defensive weapon that possessed an obscenely high firing rate. The theory was it didn’t matter if ninety-nine percent of the ammunition missed the target. If the one percent remaining managed to bring down a missile that was otherwise destined to pierce the ships’ hull, then that was a highly successful outcome. My uni pal had saturation policy down to an art form. Say what you will about his morality, I had to respect him for his persistence and unshakable self-belief despite routinely going down in flames. Realistically though, I never could have done it. It wasn’t what I wanted nor was it part of my character. I had the sniper patience of Zaytsev. Sadly not born by my own force of will though, but out of my reluctance to pull the trigger for fear of failure.

Things seemed to be going well enough at the Zoo that evening though. She was different from the others. All the years of awkwardness seemed to melt away. I don’t know why I didn’t see it sooner. It was like I didn’t have to try, it all just seemed to work without the gaps. Best of all, I’d not even had much to drink, which was the only thing that usually facilitated anything resembling this kind of ease in me.

I’d left her in what I assumed to be the capable hands of my two wingmen while I ventured to the bathroom. I’d known Vito for about seven years, and Hugo almost twice as long. They were friends independently of my association, having worked together years before. Typical Brisbane with its tiny degree of separation. Vito was first generation Australian of pure Sicilian descent. Hugo’s parents just liked the name, his genetics just as scattered as mine.

When I emerged from the bathroom and caught sight of the trio at the back of the venue, my ease began to evaporate in the humid atmosphere the Zoo generates in summer.

Vito had assumed a hunched over position with his elbow, fixed to his inner thigh, acting as a fulcrum, his hand a fist with which he was enthusiastically and rapidly slapping against his knee, an eager Hugo providing what looked to be additional helpful commentary. It appeared to be a demonstration of some kind, other wary punters giving Vito a wide berth on the way to the bar. She shot me a bemused look as I approached.

‘So.. can I get us some more drinks then?’ she’d excused herself with as she made her way up the few steps.

‘What in blue fuck were you wankers just doing? What was that shit with your arm?’ I hissed between clenched teeth when she was safely out of earshot.

‘Hey, Hey, settle down, we’re just helpin’ you out here’, Vito volunteered with a defensive palms out gesture that Hugo mirrored.

‘So please enlighten me as to how impersonating an epileptic elephant constitutes ‘helping me out’’?

‘We were just telling her how big your dick is’ Hugo interjected. So that’s what the elephants ‘trunk’ was then.

‘Why would you say that to her? Why would you fucking say that? She doesn’t want to be hearing that from you two dickheads. And you’ve known her less than an hour. Besides, neither of you have even seen my penis. Now it looks like I hang around lunatics, and what does that say about me?’ I didn’t think to ask what the conversation could possibly have been prior to that to be able to segue into one about the assumed size of my penis. Probably a good thing.

‘Just selling you to her man. Women like to hear that kind of stuff.’ How both of these guys managed to get married is beyond me. I remember being at a group outing with Hugo’s future wife, a friend of mine, where in a discussion about her family he made a remark about how close-knit they were. Except instead of close-knit he chose the word incestuous to describe their relationship. Nice one Hugo, straight from Roget’s thesaurus that. I remember digging him out of the hole. Because that’s what wingmen do. They don’t speculate on the attributes of their friend’s penis with accompanying hand gestures.

‘If either of you have ballsed this up for me..’ I start to threaten, but I see her returning from the bar struggling