RADIO BIRDMAN
+ THE UNHEARD
Yallah Roadhouse, Yallah, NSW
Saturday, October 15, 2005
WORDS AND PICTURES: The Barman
It is, perhaps, a good time to take stock of where things are at.
Yallah Roadhouse is a small venue, capacity about 350 or so, you’d guess. It’s on the southern fringes of Wollongong and a good 90 minutes south of central Sydney.
There isn’t much to see in Yallah. It’s on the railway line and was a good place to put a township once upon a time, only there isn’t anything much there anymore.Shellharbour, a baby boomer oceanside town full of claustrophobic, brand-new estates (and an old haunt of mine for obscure reasons – none of which have to do with living there), is a short hop south. So is Albion Park Rail, notable for its Golden Arches and a tiny airport from where they operate MiG jet fighter joyrides.
If you’re looking for a dynamic, bustling urban heartland for rock and roll, cast the eye elsewhere.
The Roadhouse itself is a big barn, its corrugated iron walls softened by burlap material and farming detritus adorning, one to deaden the sound and the other to give it that authentic feel, maaaan.It used to be a drying shed for animal skins, culled from a nearby abattoir. A couple of the patrons look like they've had their hides tanned here (hey - it is a Birdman demographic). There’s a PA system over which they call the number of the order from the snack bar between bands. It's probably way healthier than the nearby Maccas. Locals in the know catch a courtesy bus back to the ‘Gong. This is a one-road-in-and-one-road-out sort of place and Warilla Highway Patrol have a rep for taking no prisoners.
Yallah’s a stop-off on the circuit that provides a living for MOR artists, the louder sort of cabaret acts that appeal to ageing mortgage belt prisoners and barely revived overseas ‘60s artefacts that can’t draw breath without the aid of an iron lung back home.
So what’s a legendary band like Radio Birdman doing in a place like this? Answer: Biding their time.
Their last stop was Manly Fishos, a small room (300) in a licensed club on Sydney’s northern beaches the night before. It was, by all accounts, a raucous, two-hour set with stunning energy interchange between band and crowd. Pip said it was a party. Rob revelled in the proximity of the audience (more on that soon) and the way the band opened up and went for it.
I was far too pissed to go, having spent the day at the Test cricket, taking care of business and sipping (no, skolling) from the cup of corporate hospitality. A correspondent by the name of David Moore did and had this to say in an email:“We were absolutely blown away. New stuff, old stuff, all top-shelf. However, New Race was spoilt by some prick doing his Hitler impression on stage midway through the song. Dr Tek took care of him though. The butt end of an electric guitar in the middle of the back would tend to take the wind out of anyone’s sails, I guess.”
So as to the strategy of where and when they appear, the band’s actually playing it smart. They’re not wearing out their welcome by playing only occasionally as they work in new songs and a new drummer, and limiting themselves to small venues. The word is that won’t do any long runs of shows in medium-to-large places until they have a new album out. They’ll make an exception for festivals like the Big Day Out, where a pairing with legendary forebears the Stooges appears a (remote) possibility. But don’t hold your breath.
As great a band as they are, they probably wouldn’t sell out a Metro or a Palace right now. In contrast to the early 1980s when they weren’t around - and more people that could have possibly have caught them in their heyday were claiming to have been there in the ‘70s – anyone who wanted to catch them live probably has by now. And unless you’re a Birdman Tragic (guilty as charged), most people with the limits on disposable income that mortgages/children/wives/ex-wives impose won’t go chasing a Greatest Hits set, night after night.
For most, that air of mystery that swirled around the band for so many years has subsided, to be replaced by a degree of familiarity and an appreciation for the skills that have replaced sheer physical assault alone as a weapon in the Birdman armoury.
But let’s lay it out: New songs had to happen otherwise there wasn’t much point being a band.
So before you ask, recording sessions are (finally) pencilled in for Radio Birdman in December. OK that’s been said before, but schedules have been cleared and all sorts of things agreed on, not the least of which are the songs which are now in the process of being seriously rehearsed, demoed and married to lyrics.
Whether anyone wants to say as much is another matter but there has to be a sense in the ranks that recording a new album carries a huge element of risk i.e. There are heavy expectations that go with the attendant legacy and who in their right mind wants to fuck with history? If so, that’s understandable (to a point) but let’s be blunt: There’s a risk in everything these days and if a new Radio Birdman record isn’t going to change the world and blow Britney Spears off the charts, it is an opportunity to show the band’s growth without re-inventing its essence. This is a band that can work the yin and yang of melody and raw power, concurrently.
On the surface, there are parallels in the way the band is working now with the way they made their earliest recordings: Play gigs if and when time allows – hit hard and hit ‘em again. Weekend rehearsals. Develop the songs to the point that everyone is happy with them. Try them out, live. This time around, rather than rely on studio downtime, of course they’ll book a block and do it in one go. There’s also no shortage of studio experience in the ranks, so it’s going to be less of an exploratory mission. The economics might also be different but it’s still all structured around diverse lives and commitments. There’s (mostly) no questioning the quality of what happens, however, when they escape the studio and take to a stage.
Like tonight.
They do security in a funny way at the Roadhouse; I’m not even inside the venue before I get my very own personal security guard shaking me down to ask if I’ve pre-paid for tickets or want to buy some. There’s no chicken wire across the stage either (shades of “we’re getting the band back together” while on a mission from God) but there’s a crash barrier in place. Yuk. The DMZ between stage and crowd might provide a safe haven for photographers but creates a gap between band and audience that Rob, for one, later laments.
It’s a familiar set to anyone who’s seen Radio Birdman in the last couple of years. All the hits - with a sprinkling of newies. Tonight’s my first chance to bump ears with “Make It Worse”, a brute of a tune debuted at the previous show. It swaggers along like “Under My Wheels” era Alice, all lyrical bile and a strongarm riff. “Heyday” brings up the rear in the set and is really taking on solid form now. A moody, almost ethereal (for Birdman) accompaniment with an insistent, building beat and a menacing, almost insidious Rob vocal, it deserves to be recorded and heard. Quickly.
“More Fun” prompts the members to strike up a congratulatory toast all round. Deniz goes through the motions of cutting down a disobedient mic stand with his white Crestwood Epi before pulling the punch, and the mood is light. “You’re Gonna Miss Me” gets off on the wrong foot but is revived without recriminations, the band indulging in some free-form fun before cranking up the, by now, almost traditional closer.
It’s a way longer set – roughly double the hour that they put in at the Showdown at Sundown fest in Newcastle on the October long weekend. It’s nice and intense but with an undercurrent of fun.
Speaking of, Pip hasn’t brought the beret back (that was a one-off at Annandale) but surely deserves a regular fashion photo spot at the I-94 Bar for his ties. The black-with-Birdman-badge of many years was replaced at Newcastle by a light-coloured number that was fatter than an opera diva’s ankle and must have been of a similar vintage to my late grandfather, if it wasn’t from his collection. Yallah’s treated to one of those “ebony and ivory” keyboard pearlers only procurable in stores dealing in Three Stooges and Elvis apparel. Damn fine and sartorially elegant! If you have something to submit for the Professor’s consideration, feel free to mail it and we’ll see it’s passed on.
Support was The Unheard, a ‘60s-inflected Wollongong band that I haven’t caught for years (and I only saw two of their songs tonight). There’s a small but strong crowd reception for them and I plan on catching their thing soon.
