30 YEARS FOR ICEHOUSE

ICEHOUSE

30Years

LET ME TAKE YOU BACK TO THEIR LAST GIG AS FLOWERS with Dr. GREG

THE LAST FLOWERS CONCERT

GREG MANSON

Due to uncertainty about gaining entry, I made a very early appearance - so early in fact that only those concerned with the show were inside and I was able to observe the first few teenies hurtle to the front row like penguins fleeing a shark, and squeal and squabble for position.

Actually, the place filled up at an amazing rate. I wasn't aware that it was a gig for teenagers (or maybe it wasn't supposed to be) so I felt like a bloody schoolteacher after a while — all this innocence!!! (If only you knew — ED).

Oh well, at least there was a bar for the jaded to lean on whilst the true rock'n'rollers climbed all over each other and enthusiastically screamed   their   responses   on cue.

Anyway, onto the music, (about time too — ED). The Numbers appeared with their new line-up the lovely Annalise free to shake her hair arid strike glamorous poses, but there really wasn't much difference in the sound so it's debatable whether any real change has been wrought — cert­ainly not in their attitudes to the audience anyway. Good pop and much more   accessible without keyboards.

Onto Men at Work…An interest­ing test for a band of such maturity, the kids quieted down during the songs, but gave rousing applause at the end of each.

A few people felt the need to sarcastically yell out "yayo” (a la Police's call and response) but on the whole, they went down very well. Those singles really break down barriers in Sydney.

Last up was Iva and Co, who led us through a familiar set played rather loosely I thought (which was probably better) and were definitely responding well to the energy of such a young crowd.

I don't see how this mob can fail especially in the UK where they'll blow those Blitz pansies away. Maybe the bear-pit mentality of the Aust­ralian rock'n'roll scene does pay off. Those who do survive are fit to do battle with overnight successes who are still adjusting to it.

The announcement of the name change was formally made and after an encore, Flowers marched into a new phase. Who'll rise from the ranks to replace them? . . (maybe this new band called Icehouse — ED).

and to the future...

Simon Moor,managing director of Kobalt Music with Iva Davies doing the doing...

http://www.spellbound-icehouse.org/kobaltpressrelease.html

THE ONLY MAN I EVER REALLY HATED

                 

                  BY GREGOR MANSON

I can’t remember the name and our paths only crossed once, but had a profound effect on me. It stays with me to this day.

I left school at 15, jumping before I was pushed:  I hadn’t been getting on with the powers that be at school. They were determined to get rid of me one way or another: my political activities in relation to Vietnam and the Springboks had made me a marked man. 

 

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My parents were devastated, and offered to pay for me to go to Uni if I would stay on and bite my lip. I was having none of that; University was for rich kids back then and I wasn’t one of them bastards….I was going out to work.

After about a year in the meat works and a couple of factories, my mother convinced me to sit for the Commonwealth Public Service exams. I passed, and was accepted. The purchase of some polyester garments soon followed, and I reported for duty.  I was sent to a musty filing section in an old office block.

There was lots of wood paneling, overhead fans, and creaking leather chairs; the cool gloom in the old building’s shiny corridors was almost Victorian, but I didn’t mind. The work was a lot less physical and I didn’t end the day covered in blood and shit, so I was definitely on the up as far as I could see.

My first task upon arrival every day was to go to the post office, see if there was any mail, and then collect the daily editions from the newspaper offices at the other end of town. I had pointed out to my superiors that I passed both these establishments on the bus coming to work; and could quite easily hop off and do both jobs on my way in, but that was not how it was done. I had to sign on in the old green book which sat on a lectern inside the door, then go straight out again, and walk back the half-mile or so to do the pick-ups. 


It didn’t really matter, it was a chance to get out and about, wander through the record shops, and go for a bit of a stroll in the early morning sun. The city has a fresh feel about it then; the smell of brewing coffee, newly washed footpaths glistening, and the calls of paper boys echoing down the slowly awakening canyons.  I thought it wasn’t a bad wicket really, at least I wasn’t out in the suburbs on a building site in the blazing Brisbane sun.

One morning I headed out, umbrella in hand, as light showers had begun, and for some reason decided to do my run back to front. I headed down an alley as a shortcut, and, as I passed a loading dock, noticed a bearded man standing in the drizzle staring at me. He was carrying some roses in a long cardboard box, and just standing there getting wet.  Our eyes met for a second as I passed, and I thought,

“What’s he doing...bloody idiot.” 

I gave it no more thought, and headed out on to the street to complete my rounds.

THINKING ON YOUR FEET

THINKING ON YOUR FEET

A Rock’n’Roll Memoir

by

Dr. Greg

At the start of the Eighties I was sitting on my arse in Melbourne.  My missus had left me, and my band had gone down the tubes.

 I had been working as a night watchman at the local hospital, but after I’d sprung a couple of staff-members loading up their car from the back of the dispensary about 3am on a rainy morning, they threatened me, and I reported it. There were obviously bigger fish involved because I was subsequently hassled to the point where I chucked the job in. My only income then was the dole, and a pittance coming in from shifting a few bags of pot around the district to keep me in beer money.

I decided to leave town: a mate of mine had moved to Sydney and was working for a new music magazine that had just spread its wings from Melbourne.  He told me to head on up and he’d put me up on the floor until I got sorted out.  I knew the magazine’s owner socially, and when he heard that I was moving up there, he offered me a job as a delivery driver because the local guys didn’t seem to be able to co-ordinate the distribution properly.

That didn’t surprise me, I had visited my mate once or twice and the staff were in permanent party mode. It was all happening: the office was a chaotic mess, and the amount of drinkin’, rootin’, and general bad behaviour going on  (in and out of business hours), amazed me. Any chance of getting in on the action and getting paid for it was a big win.  I packed my record collection and a few odds and ends into the back of a rented car, and headed up the Hume into the hurricane.

The Sydney music scene in those years was really taking off, as the old Mushroom axis in Melbourne had gone a bit stale (even allowing for a few fops like the Models and the Hunters). Sydney was rockin out:  Chisel had moved in, the Oils were just getting bigger and bigger, INXS were starting to make their mark, and bands like the Sunnyboys were packing out the inner-city pubs.  Sardine were on at the Hopetoun, The Trade Union Club was roaring, and the whole place was buzzing in a big way. 

The magazine, (let’s call it ROKK), was the hot new street organ, and every issue was eagerly snapped up by the punters as it was delivered to the clubs and venues.  Getting it out on time was top priority and I threw myself into the task.  The set-up had several drawbacks: apart from all and sundry being permanently stoned as maggots; the whole thing was laid out and printed in Melbourne, then shipped up to Sydney for distribution. 

This put all the pressure on me at the end of the chain: the uncertain printing schedule meant that no commercial carrier would guarantee arrival times in Sydney because they didn’t always get them at the same time, and obviously wouldn’t hold up their trucks for a few boxes of pocket-sized music mags.  Many editions had to be rushed up the highway by speed-fuelled staff in an old station wagon, or flown express; blowing that issue’s budget to the shithouse.  I was hopping into the goey myself trying to single-handedly spread 10,000 copies around 250 outlets from Narrabeen to Caringbah via Parramatta.

There were more than a hundred outlets in the inner city alone and they all had to be out by 5pm Friday.   I rarely got them before lunch on a Thursday and often a lot later than that.  It was punishing stuff, and the pay was shithouse; but the fringe benefits made up for it.