Tuesday night was without equivocation the greatest night in Perth's sleepy history. The Suicidegirls tour arrived.
For probably the first time since the Dutch stacked it into the W.A. coastline in 1616, Perth got an event before Sydney or Melbourne. If that's not cutting against the grain of conformity, I don't know what is.
Not knowing entirely what to expect at the show, from the crowd's POV I mean, I was blown away to see how many people crammed in, midweek, to Capitol. In the few days that have followed, I've spoken to about 40 people who for some reason or other couldn't actually make it to the show. And I don't speak to many people if I can help it.
Before the show a pretty kickass (yes, kickass not kickarse) local band The Fuzz cranked some impressive noise. My buddy and I had a few shots of Jger in honor of his favorite departed SG, Stormy. Several more drinks would bring rise to one of those rare, insightful moments: we saw goth, punk, mod, emo, biker (more my ilk) and various others splinter groups co-exist peacefully amidst 100dB ruckus. Truly, a golden-baby moment the UN would kill for.
The only incident marring a perfect night; two 50 year-old, seedy looking toolie-types, (You know the overweight balding guy that dresses like a 19 year old Arts student and takes night courses on intermediate carpentry in order to construct a subterranean kiddy-porn dungeon.) tried pushing past people to ogle what was at that point a vacant stage and rub surreptitiously against unsuspecting teenage girls. After a brief exchange of philosophies through the medium of a well aimed palm to the chest, (largely from a mate of mine) they slithered off to the fringes where they no doubt spent the night indulging in underwear thievery and frotteurism. NB: Any of the performers missing articles of clothing or hair, these are your guys.
I'm going to say it here and now, though everyone of the Suicidegirls were brilliant, the standout moment was Nixon on stage in all her glory. In a brief moment of madness I contemplated gouging out my eyes and throwing them to get a closer view. But her presence on stage overwhelmed us up on the balcony. I haven't shut up about it since. And I'm not likely to for a long while yet. Nixon is proof that nature has a premium, private stash of body parts it keeps from mainstream circulation. If she told me to drink the orange kool-aid, I'd do it smiling.
Rest of the night is a bit of a blur. Tumbled through the door about 3 am. More scotch or bourbon. Pretty sure I bought milk from somewhere on the way home. Not sure where that wound up. Smell should give it away in a few days. Sent boss an email about 4am, saying I wouldn't be in - in the morning. Got one boot off; other one was too much effort. Put on the first tour DVD and slowly began the most depressing come-down to date; the Suicidegirls would be gone in mere hours. My sleepy little city feels smaller than ever.
For probably the first time since the Dutch stacked it into the W.A. coastline in 1616, Perth got an event before Sydney or Melbourne. If that's not cutting against the grain of conformity, I don't know what is.
Not knowing entirely what to expect at the show, from the crowd's POV I mean, I was blown away to see how many people crammed in, midweek, to Capitol. In the few days that have followed, I've spoken to about 40 people who for some reason or other couldn't actually make it to the show. And I don't speak to many people if I can help it.
Before the show a pretty kickass (yes, kickass not kickarse) local band The Fuzz cranked some impressive noise. My buddy and I had a few shots of Jger in honor of his favorite departed SG, Stormy. Several more drinks would bring rise to one of those rare, insightful moments: we saw goth, punk, mod, emo, biker (more my ilk) and various others splinter groups co-exist peacefully amidst 100dB ruckus. Truly, a golden-baby moment the UN would kill for.
The only incident marring a perfect night; two 50 year-old, seedy looking toolie-types, (You know the overweight balding guy that dresses like a 19 year old Arts student and takes night courses on intermediate carpentry in order to construct a subterranean kiddy-porn dungeon.) tried pushing past people to ogle what was at that point a vacant stage and rub surreptitiously against unsuspecting teenage girls. After a brief exchange of philosophies through the medium of a well aimed palm to the chest, (largely from a mate of mine) they slithered off to the fringes where they no doubt spent the night indulging in underwear thievery and frotteurism. NB: Any of the performers missing articles of clothing or hair, these are your guys.
I'm going to say it here and now, though everyone of the Suicidegirls were brilliant, the standout moment was Nixon on stage in all her glory. In a brief moment of madness I contemplated gouging out my eyes and throwing them to get a closer view. But her presence on stage overwhelmed us up on the balcony. I haven't shut up about it since. And I'm not likely to for a long while yet. Nixon is proof that nature has a premium, private stash of body parts it keeps from mainstream circulation. If she told me to drink the orange kool-aid, I'd do it smiling.
Rest of the night is a bit of a blur. Tumbled through the door about 3 am. More scotch or bourbon. Pretty sure I bought milk from somewhere on the way home. Not sure where that wound up. Smell should give it away in a few days. Sent boss an email about 4am, saying I wouldn't be in - in the morning. Got one boot off; other one was too much effort. Put on the first tour DVD and slowly began the most depressing come-down to date; the Suicidegirls would be gone in mere hours. My sleepy little city feels smaller than ever.
[Edited on Apr 09, 2006 5:09PM]