rewind > captain’s log day 2 & 3
SUN 04 SEP 2011
Pre-Production Research for Album #5
This, of course, is about when it starts to become a blur.
Did I say “an early night”?
Well you guessed it. The boat ride was fabulous and topped off by standing around the bar at the Boathouse with puffed up blokes watching Collingwood get thrashed by Geelong. You know how I love footy. Steve & Justin seemed to be on a first name basis with all the players on both sides, plus familiar with cogent facts such as shoe size, favourite foods, wives and girlfriend’s names and sexual preferences, and more importantly a running commentary on every move they made and how it compared to the time they made that same move back in 2004 against…….
misadventure on the high seas imminent
Imagine my level of fascination. Luckily other boating survivor Alex is French, a sound engineer and producer vaguely tied to the arts, so we drone on endlessly about stuff that nobody understands either. Tapas at the bar, then relocation to Pacharan for the second half, via scooter ride to the Walters Bros expat villa for recharging activities amidst 6 dogs and what seemed to be a kitchen with enough lighting to service the MCG.
Once we got to the city it started warming up. In a move we rarely witness, Andrew didn’t make it this far, slinking back to Violet St. for a kip. The fact that he had not slept at all the night before, may have been a contributing factor.
So there we are getting rowdy at the bar in a multi-story Spanish Tapas Restaurant surrounded by imported ham legs swinging from the rafters, and the Walters are arcing up you might say. Their brotherly schtick bubbles over into mock boxing, chest pounding, jaw protrusion and guttural evocations of a footy kind. In an attempt to reduce the awkwardness of having a couple of arty types in the melee, I casually bump up against the ruck with modest intention and momentary verve, to be greeted by a poorly judged fist to the ribcage culminating in suspension of the ability to breath and a shitload of pain. All in good fun, just a flesh wound, is that all you’ve got etc. Bit of a chat with Charles then on we go.
Ginger 60, Pham Ngu Lao and Insomnia (how apt). Shirts are being removed, beer guts commented on, more thumping and grunting – the horror.
Approaches are made by persons of ambiguous gender who basically just want free drinks from the loaded westerners and let’s face it, Justin is the only one interested and we’re all too pissed.
On the way to Insomnia, straggling at the back of the pack licking my wounds in an attempt to re-associate myself with complexity of walking, talking and breathing in a synchronous manner, I get dragged into an alleyway by two scooter disembarking members of the transvestite community who run a tag team gag where one enforces a straightjacket embrace (warmly welcomed by my already smarting thoracic cavity), barks sweet nothings into my ear like “you come hotel with me I want you so bad you strong handsome man so sexy…..” – while the other rifles my shoulder bag.
Both of them are really strong handsome men too, as discover when I try to break free and relocate my bag which seems to have repositioned itself out of reach somewhere behind my back in a confusion of arms and legs.
I employ the Walter Bros ruck dissolution technique realizing that my inherent non-violent respect for the contradictory gender is neither required nor relevant at this juncture. A quick recon on bag contents and I locate wallet, iPhone, sunnies – the essentials.
I excuse my self politely with a parting “Fuck you guys” and rejoin the conga line into Insomnia, which turns out to be a great little low key joint with a MacBook Pro hooked into the substantial sound system. It’s on the bar for iTunes/YouTube roaming so we take turns selecting songs that mean so much to us – and nothing to anyone else.
The Walters Bros are just yelling shit out again in an effort to destroy our momentarily convincing hub of urbane chic and cultured western know how.
I realize something vaguely resembling a wallet, but of little monetary or sentimental value, is missing from my bag.
The sun is coming up – it’s bedtime.
Saturday – more of the same – with Andrew, sans Walters.