CELIBATE RIFLES
@ the Crest Hotel, Sylvania, Saturday, August 4 2001
@ Sydney Harbour (with the Pyramidiacs), Sunday August 12, 2001
@ the Annandale Hotel (with the High Society) Friday August 31, 2001On the way out of the Studio 22 taping way back in April I chanced to bump into Dave Morris and immediately exploited that occasion to ask him when the Rifles were likely to be playing again. He replied that they didn't have anything further planned until about September, which back then seemed like just this side of eternity. As it turned out they were back a month earlier than expected, though as I sit here typing this now they have come and gone, as has September, the World Trade Center and even a Saints reunion, albeit just as a brief sideshow to a record industry showcase; for official media leeches and approved trendoids of all persuasions only, no common punters or other such riff raff invited thank you very much.
Of course the World Trade Center memorial concert subsequently showed everyone once and for all how such things should be done - strictly major media luminaries only, one well-established/choreographed committee-approved winner apiece, slick production and camera-friendly staging, ponderous ghost written monologues for irrelevant non musical celebrities and absolutely no intrusions from, or even access by, any hint of an annoying audience at all. In short, all the live atmosphere of the twenty third overdub on the Muppets Recreate Tubular Bells. Paying customers? Sure, we're keeping the phone lines open for an extra couple of hours! We don't want your direct participation, but we'd be more than happy to have some of your money (and now it comes out that very little of this money has actually been paid out to relatives of victims; apparently the aid organisations are stockpiling it in case there are "more" emergencies - that's the beauty of being a cynic: people are always making such a concerted effort to prove you right). Wonder if we'll eventually see a souvenir "live" album...? Maybe they could get Milli Vanilli to dub in a few backing vocals.
A Rifles show, on the other hand, is always completely live, wholly spontaneous, absolutely unadulterated and unashamedly in your face, not phoned in and digitized for retransmission at a convenient juncture. Slack bastard that I am, it has taken me all this time to get around to chronicling any of those recent (actually not so recent by now) Rifles shows for Bar. Here then are the bits that this old fart remembers, but first a general comment: We have been blessed by their presence, but we are not worthy. After twenty years of them slogging it out hand to hand in the trenches, we have no right to expect that the Rifles still could be showing as much energy and enthusiasm as they do. That they do is testament indeed to their dedication and though support remains loyal, they deserve much more.
Twelve months ago when they emerged from several years of apparent near hibernation, with their strongest album since "Blind Ear", things looked good; when they were forced to replace their departed rhythm section abruptly after a decade of harmony and refinement, things didn't look so good after all. That they were able to redraft old members so quickly was a sign; that those old members were old only in terms of experience, but neither in attitude nor application, was a further sign. To me that sign reads "Fuck you, we're not giving up that easily!".
The first show of this mini tour was on Friday the 3rd at Manly Fisho's, but I'd had a shit day at work and was too shagged to make the effort to go. If the gun laws were different in this country, there are a few fellow employees who would have been well in my sights (and no, that's not just meant as a metaphor). As always, I regretted the decision not to go once it was too late to get there, but at the time I just couldn't raise enough enthusiasm. More fool me.
Having fucked up once, there was no way I was making the same mistake the following night, so it was off to the suburban delights of Sylvania, world famous for its waters. The Crest is an old style Australian drinking palace, a veritable temple to the consumption of alcohol. Not your small suburban pub, but a sprawling structure on a scale approaching Gormenghast. As it says in the Bible, "In my father's house are many rooms and there's cold beer on tap in every one of them" (I'm paraphrasing a little).
I can't remember seeing the Crest advertised as a rock venue for many years and they turned out to have a refreshing way of doing things. The low stage where the band would be performing is in a large open area from which there is unrestricted access to and from other parts of the pub. Sometime in the early evening the management simply declared that everyone already in the building could stay and see the band for free, while everyone who arrived after that watershed moment had to pay to get in, whether they wanted to see the band or not (and let's face it, they were going to be hearing the band, even if they were in another part of the hotel and couldn't see them).
I arrived some time afterwards, having always expected to have to pay, and was staggered when the doorman actually apologised to me for the fact that someone was going to be asking me for money once I got inside the front door. Luckily for them, the Rifles were on a fixed retainer, rather than a percentage of the door money, so they didn't have to worry how many punters paid or evaded the cover charge.
However there was method in the management's apparent madness, as those who decided to take advantage of the free entry then had been forced to hang around for quite a while. Question: what do you do when you're standing around in a pub for a few hours with nothing to do? Answer: you fill up your bladder and the management's coffers, pretty much in unison. I found the place packed with punters, plenty of whom were already full of piss and bad manners, in roughly equal proportions, with only the music on the PA (run of the mill radio schlock rock) to pacify them. A spin of Cold Chisel's "Cheap Wine" had two blokes near me standing with their arms around each other's shoulders, singing along to every word (not just the chorus or the first verse mind you, but every f%#$in' word!).
As there was no support act, there was still a lengthy wait even though I'd arrived pretty late to begin with. Fortunately the I-94 Barman was there to help me pass the time, regaling me with a personal history of the Crest Hotel, making particular reference to great bands witnessed there and underage drinking indulged in during the halcyon days of his youth.
Eventually the appointed hour arrived and the Rifles were let loose on the stage, while sections of the audience cut even looser on the floor in front of them. The low stage was separated from the punters by two steps, which ran the full width of the stage and appeared at first glance to be the perfect place for the dancers to rest their beer glasses while the terpsichorean muse (or perhaps it was St Vitus) took possession their bodies. However it wasn't long before the uncoordinated idiot dancing had turned those steps into a bed of broken glass which then spilled out onto the floor, as one punter after another accidentally trod on the glasses in a desperate bid to keep/regain balance lost when communication broke down betwixt feet and brain.
While side-stepping broken glass and dodging the flailing arms of falling punters isn't something I necessarily seek out in order to enhance my enjoyment of an evening out, it's a regular enough hazard to be taken in my stride, especially when a band smokes as the Rifles were doing, even despite one or two technical hitches. Sure, the general lack of hand/eye coordination amongst the audience was undeniable, especially down near the foot of the stage, but so too was the level of enthusiasm, evidenced not only by the alarming physical seizures which passed for dancing but also plaintive cries for favourite old songs, including some pretty obscure covers not often played way back when, let alone now.
Clearly that Studio 22 session six months ago, which still hasn't been broadcast or even scheduled by the way, was just a dry run for the new "old" rhythm section; a chance to flex and stretch the musical muscles while everybody got accustomed, or rather reaccustomed, to one another. However, this time around it was the real thing; all that was missing was the stern pronouncement that "This is not a drill!" as they got started. Of course, even if that announcement had been made, most of the audience wouldn't have heard it since the intro to "Jesus on TV" was so loud and aggressive. From there on, it was an all out assault easily worthy of a band twenty years younger.
Most of the aforementioned audience requests were refused on the basis that the new line up is still in the process of reacquainting itself with its own back catalogue, though that didn't stop them rolling out a completely new song towards the end of the set. Otherwise, the repertoire consisted of a well chosen mixture of the old and the new, plus an unexpected cover of the Saints' "Simple Love" and the virtually inevitable encore selection from the AC/DC song book - this time it was "Highway to Hell".
The next gig was scheduled for Thursday the 9th at the North Bondi RSL, but another shit day at work led to another missed opportunity. I just don't seem to learn, do I?
The next appointment with the Rifles that I actually kept was on the following Sunday; a cruise around the harbour with the Pyramidiacs. I arrived in good time - well, you have to. Being five minutes late doesn't mean that you miss just the first song; it means that you miss the whole show, unless you're prepared to take a quick swim to catch up!
It was slightly before midday and the cruise wasn't due to start until 12:15, but a motley throng had already begun to assemble at the wharf, including two thirds of the hard rockin' 300 St Claire, who were drinking an early lunch out of brown paper bags. Despite the admonition that there was to be strictly no "B.Y.O.", they weren't the only ones who'd come well stocked with liquid refreshments. Even to the casual eye, there was a startling variety of bottle tops and necks poking out of quite a number of pockets - though in every case it seemed that the reason was not to avoid paying for beer on the boat, but simply to avoid having to wait until the bar opened.
As it turned out, their preemptive preparations were well justified, since the cruise boat was late (hmm, looking back over the last couple of these cruise reports, I see that the boat usually is a bit late, but I'm willing to bet that the first time I need to rely on that lack of punctuality it'll bloody depart right on time!). As soon as it docked, we all piled in and sat around and then... nothing much happened. After about twenty minutes, it suddenly pulled away from its mooring, much to the obvious surprise of a few people who'd stepped back out onto the wharf, not to mention the consternation of those on the boat who could see that one of those left standing stranded on the wharf was Kent Steedman. Fortunately this departure was only temporary, making way for one of the scheduled passenger ferries which also use that wharf. I doubt that any regular commuter would board the cruise boat in error, but on one occasion last year an old tourist couple without much command of English did try; fortunately for them they realised their mistake in time, otherwise they might have had some very unexpected holiday memories to take home with them.
Once we finally got going physically, it didn't take long for the Pyramidiacs to get things going musically. It's a wonder that they don't do more of these cruises. On a bright sunny day, their bright cheerful music was the perfect accompaniment as the scenery slid past and the ales slid down. Unfortunately for them, instead of hugging the shoreline while the boat made its customary leisurely circuit of the harbour, the skipper took us straight out into the middle of the harbour and then seemed hell bent on setting some sort of water speed record for the brief journey direct to Hermit Bay. Sure it's a lovely spot, but by taking the boat out into the main traffic area, he gave the poor old Pyramidiacs the challenge of a lifetime, since it meant that we were continually sailing across the wakes of a larger vessels and it was clearly a major fight for them to continue to play their instruments and stay upright at the same time.
On the other hand, not all the passengers were seduced into inner serenity by the sweetness of the sounds they were making and welcomed a bit of excitement. When it looked like we were going to ram a small fishing boat which unexpectedly swung in front of us and then suddenly came to a complete stop, a couple of blokes at the next table got extremely excited. However their hopes were dashed when our rampaging charger throttled back and the other boat hit the juice and skipped out from under our looming shadow just in time. A second tantalizing incident not long afterwards, when it looked like we were going to bury ourselves into the side of the multimillion dollar Bounty replica, also came to nought, much to their obvious and audible disappointment once again.
Meanwhile the Pyramidiacs finished their set and the Rifles swung into the first of theirs. Having got to Hermit Bay, we seemed to be stuck there without moving for a good half an hour and I pointed this out to 300 St Claire bassist Mark Maniac. As I understand his line of reasoning, when you've got hot music and cold beer, you don't really need a great view as well; at least that is how I interpret his disinterested response of "I didn't come here this afternoon to look out the window".
I've probably made the point before, but a Rifles cruise show is not the same as a regular Rifles show on dry land. The open air (and daylight) sets a noticeably different tone and this is reinforced by the song selection, which usually includes as many covers as it does originals. This cruise was no exception, though on this voyage the covers were more serious than the likes of the more usual, frivolous "Hot Blooded", "Pretty In Pink" or "Can't Get Enough Of Your Love". We still got both of their favourite Only Ones tunes ("Another Girl, Another Planet" and "City of Fun"), but also "Sweet Jane", "Astra Wally" and "Crying Sun". And it wouldn't have been a Rifles Cruise without at least one AccaDacca tune, "Long Way To The Top" being the chosen reading from their hymnbook for this outing.
Once again, regular Rifles cruise accomplice and all round sea dog Bill Gibson helped out with the backing vocals on occasion (and whenever he helps out with the vocals, it is an occasion!) and between songs the irrepressible Damien Lovelock provided an abundance of background information regarding their significance to band and the events and characters which were their inspiration. There's no more pleasant way to spend an afternoon, though it's still a shock to be leaving a Rifles gig before it's even gotten dark. For those who do like to look out of the window once in a while, there's also that terrific view continually passing by.
After a couple of weeks absence (I think they toured to Brisbane, or maybe it was Melbourne), there was one more chance to catch the band at the Annandale Hotel and I didn't allow it to slide past me. Thermals guitarist Leigh Ivin, working his other "rock job" as semi-regular soundman for the Rifles, was in a particularly happy mood when I arrived, as for once they'd let him choose the music on the PA, so he was taking the opportunity to coerce the audience into joining him in his rediscovery of the early music of Dr John (e.g. before he became bogged down in the mire of his own myth).
Support for the evening was the ever dependable High Society, who came out firing on all cylinders and laid a wide trail of burnt rubber across the stage. In fact, after their recent triumph on the much larger stage of the Metro, they were practically bouncing off the walls either side of the considerably smaller Annandale stage!
However the night definitely belonged to the Rifles. Not to be outdone by the uncompromising (almost confrontational) performance of High Society, they came out hammers in hand (metaphorically speaking) and proceeded to nail the audience to the floor and walls. You may have heard of the three "Rs", well this was the three "Ss": "Storm", "Spirits" and "Sharpies" ("Paddo Sharps" from the new album). After that opening salvo, the audience might have been ready for a short respite, but the Rifles weren't having any, continuing instead with "Cold Wind", a modest breather during the moodier sections of "Ice Blue" and then straight back into the hard stuff with "Cycle", "Hammer" and "Downtown". Stuff me, that was only the first half of the set!
It's interesting how the dynamics of the new rhythm section seem to be virtually the reverse of the old. In the Nik Reith/Jim Leone configuration, Nik laid down a solid foundation with the big drum beat, while Jim then assembled a sturdy, elegant dwelling on top of it; in this new configuration, it's more Michael Couvret's aggressive bass that provides the initial framework within which Paul Larsen's drums then organically carve and shape, rather than mechanically construct, the actual scaffolding on which the twin guitar sound is raised up, pushing from behind as much as supporting from below. Of course that impression may also be due to the fact that Jim tended to stand pretty steadfast during most performances, while Michael Couvret adopts a much more aggressive stage presence to go with his playing.
Even the Rifles do need to vary the pace occasionally though, if only to demonstrate a little compassion to the poor punters out front, so as the onslaught wore on with "The More Things Change", it was tempered by the slow burn of "Oceanshore" and the elegiac "G's Gone". But never fear, they weren't running out of steam, pulling out a killer version of "I Shoulda" and the near prehistoric "Killing Time" as proof, before closing with crowd pleasing renditions of "Wonderful Life" and "Bill Bonney Regrets".
The setlist, which I snagged after the show (shit, you didn't think I was naming all these songs just from memory did ya?), shows that they'd saved their cover of the Saints' "Simple Love", "Electravision Mantra" and "Johnny" for encores, but in the heat of the moment they slipped "City of Fun" (I do remember that!) in between "Simple Love" and "Electravision Mantra" and then ran out of time to play "Johnny". Ah, such is life as Ned said, but you won't hear any carping complaints from this cheap, but well-satisfied, riff slut.
This show was far and away the best gig of the three that I caught during this short tour (and not just because of having my privates fondled by a strange woman in the middle of mini-mosh at the height of performance - I'll guess I'll have to go to my grave forever wondering whether this was deliberate, drug inspired or just plain accidental). Unfortunately all the pleasant memories now are tinged with regret, as it was also the occasion of my one and only meeting with Miss Anne, whose critical handiwork had recently graced the book reviews section of the Bar. We didn't speak for long after the show, as my hearing was in its usual post-blitz fractured state and she was heading off elsewhere with a friend to catch up with other friends and anyway there were clearly going to be so many other opportunities to catch up later on...
Despite my recommendation, she didn't turn up to the Moops' inaugural show the following week (or at least if she did, I didn't spot her in the crowd) and she died not long after, so none of those anticipated other opportunities ever eventuated. Had we all known what was lurking around the next corner, I'm sure a greater effort could have been made to cajole her into getting out to a lot more gigs. Hindsight's particularly wonderful in that regard. For whatever it may have been worth, at least I did get to tell her how much I'd enjoyed the comprehensive rectal exam she'd performed on the book she'd reviewed for the Bar. She in turn promised that there were more reviews to come, though of course now that promise cannot be kept.
I'll admit that this is a bit of a morbid note to end on, but sometimes that's how life pans out. I don't know what happened to the threatened acoustic gigs, which were being mooted earlier in the year either, but apparently that's it for the Rifles until Christmas. No word yet on whether there'll be a Christmas Eve show this year, but the traditional Boxing Day show is on for sure. This year the featured album will be "Blind Ear". As Santa has been heard to exclaim occasionally, "Yo ho ho".
Overall Beer Rating? Somewhere between a carton and a slab. I'd place it towards the upper (alcohol poisoning) end of the scale.
- John McPharlin
