Demolition and Salvage- Robert Lastdrager

 During a recent night out with a couple of mates in Melbourne, conversation centred on the deaths of Lobby Loyde and Billy Thorpe, their Queensland origins and the impending reformation of the original Saints line-up at Brisbane’s coming of age festival “Pig City” later this year. My friends took the opportunity to remind me that I had left Queensland in the mid 1980’s vowing never to return. They asked how it felt having been 2000 kilometres from home for over 20 years. “Just lovely” was my reply.

 In the early seventies my parents took me to a tourist attraction called Bullen’s Lion Safari situated half way between Brisbane and the Gold Coast. There on a humid 30 plus degree-day I watched a large polar bear swaying from side to side in a cage so cramped the animal was unable to turn around. “ That’s not right is it Pop?” I queried “ No, no it’s not” the old man replied, shaking his head. Ironically that enclosure was to mirror my adolescent relationship with the ‘Sunshine State’, the feeling of being born and trapped in a humid cultureless cage.

By the age of sixteen I was taking regular hour-long Friday night train rides from the southern working underclass suburb of Woodridge to the Cloudland Ballroom in Bowen Hills, a majestic venue frequented by generations of dancing Queenslanders. There I experienced the most amazing array of early eighties Australian pub rock bands along with a cavalcade of international acts including The Clash and Ian Dury and the Blockheads. Dury was warned that if he sang “Spasticus Autisticus” police would storm the stage and arrest the band. They played the track during the encore and nothing happened, but the suspense was fabulously nerve-wracking. One thing was always assured at Cloudland, everybody had to jump in time to the music due to the 1940’s multi cross ply American GI built dance floor and everybody had to jump to the omni present mass of intimidation that was the Queensland police force.

In 1982 the Bjelke Petersen Government ordered the illegal demolition of Cloudland during the middle of the night, turning it to rubble and dust before daybreak. That act of bastardry tore a lot of people’s hearts out, including mine. For me it represented the continued erosion of not only civil liberties but also artistic vitality. It was the last straw.

It’s not easy to explain to the uninitiated the effect the Bjelke Petersen government’s political and social agenda had on the population all those years ago. Police intimidation and oppression all took their toll, particularly on the indigenous communities, students, union workers, rock and roll bands and anyone else on the wrong side of the political fence.

The government’s righteous and wholesome media façade contrasted sharply with the reality of life on the street. Blatant police brutality was commonplace for anyone involved in unlawful protest marches, as was the anxiety and paranoia induced by the frenzied clatter of police camera shutters that documented everyone and everything. Imagine coming home to see television footage of Minister Russ Hinze at the notorious Bubbles Bathhouse in Woolloongabba, declaring that no brothels existed in the state. The place was warped, pure and simple.

The media have never focused on the exodus of bands and individual artists, filmmakers, photographers, writers, poets and DJ’s from Brisbane during that era. There must have been thousands who headed south. It wasn’t about wanting to leave; it was about having no choice but to leave. The Queensland regime unwittingly became an exporter of popular culture of which the rest of the Australian capital cities, primarily Sydney and Melbourne, were the main beneficiaries.

I left Brisbane with $400 and a car full of drums. I arrived in Sydney during Monday afternoon peak hour and crawled across the harbour bridge to the muffled roar of The Saints Prehistoric Sounds on my car stereo. I felt triumphant.

That first night at the Sandringham hotel in Newtown I watched Louis Tillet’s Paris Green do the business with a smokin’ Louis Burdett on drums. Celebrating my new found freedom I wandered outside and lit up a joint, only to have a NSW police F100 wagon pull up outside the pub at the same time and toot its horn. Flooded with residual paranoia I immediately flicked the J away into the gutter and continued to sheepishly sip my schooner. A barman appeared and launched himself onto the running board of the Ford and expertly slid a slab of beer into the passenger side window in one smooth movement. All I saw was an arm and thumbs up as the police re-entered the King St crawl. Jubilantly I skipped over to the gutter and retrieved the smoke. Finally I was in a big city!

I’m not really sure why I’ve written this piece, suffice to say that when I heard the terms “coming of age” and “Brisbane” and “Pig City” in the one sentence I felt a little aggressive twinge in my lower back. Maybe this is a form of therapy? Maybe I’m venting? Whatever. Here’s to all the Queensland refugees who fought the law and got out of town to play another day. I’ll be raising a glass and celebrating Brisbane’s coming of age from the comfort and safety of a gaffer taped bar stool in Melbourne. Cheers.

© Rob Lastdrager, 2007
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