he Bouncer hit
me so hard that I went stumbling, rubber-legged, down the stairs into the carpark.
Then he came after me
gymnasium-crazium police-force rejects, with over-developed trapezius and a paucity
of intellect so pronounced that it rivals that of strippers who give toothy head
and girlfriends who can't cook. Their sole source of potency being denying patrons
paid entry into a shithole that no one in their right mind would enter for free,
it's quite apparent why their penchant for savagely beating people ranks as their
primo weekend pastime - countering the repression they must harbor towards
lunkheads of all persuasions breaking their balls just to step over a freakin'
1990, I was a ball-breaker of premium caliber. Having had enough of the music
industry's blind eye, I was Peter Finch in Network: "I'm mad as hell
and I'm not going to take this anymore!" And with my new subversive band,
"F.U.", I was intent on pushing the outside of the arrogance envelope.
Nauseated at having spent years pandering to the thieves and pimps who called
themselves A&R, bookers, managers, agents, record execs, I altered my vision,
I shifted my stance and, like Caesar in Conquest Of The Planet of the Apes,
I said, "No" (- and also "Fuck You" a lot).
wanted to re-establish the POWER that came with being With The Band, Man.
armed with the knowledge that it is always better to ask forgiveness than to seek
permission, I de-censored my patois; there was no politically-correcting
factor deployed between my small brain and my big mouth any more. I started this
band to go against the grain and by god I was going to stick to my vision if it
took a savage beating in a Coogee Bay carpark to prove it
was baiting the Bouncer all night, so his crack upside my skull was not entirely
unwarranted. But HIS attitude was not completely civil either, towards the bands
who were essentially fellow contractors, alongside him, working for the venue
Selinas. Technically, he was supposed to be on OUR side, but he made it very clear
that, like most bouncers, he was more intent on letting the coquettish ingénues
with melon tits feel up his 'roided biceps than giving due respect to his fellow
cannot recall every insult I smarmed at that stooge that night at Selinas, but
it was an unrelenting stream, starting with load-in and continuing all night,
every time I was near the front entrance, which he "guarded" - ranking
on his faggoty bow-tie, his menial "job", the fact that even though
he hated my guts, he had to "guard" me from the dickhead fans - and
many, many digs about his inherent gaiety. And it wasn't all subtle, some of it
was just outright, "I swear you look gay - no, really, I mean it - you look
really gay, man!" He tried to grimace and take it like a London bobby, occasionally
retorting with blunted barbs which displayed not one ounce of wit or intelligence,
but his mien was fraying fast
was after we came offstage; the singer, drummer and myself were lounging at the
entrance with this stocky dope and someone made a comment, the exact wording forgotten,
but the gist of which begged my wisecrack, with my back to this Bouncer, "It
musta been this guy - he's gay -" THWACK!
- And that was
where we came in
one who had always believed that bouncers were too prosaic to interpret my eclectic
derogation as anything more than cro-magnon grunts, I was more astounded that
this one possessed the INTELLIGENCE to discern that I was insulting him, than
shocked at actually being hit. Holding my head, I expounded from the bottom of
the stairs: "You can't hit ME - I'm With The Band, Man!" [Note the unabashed
deployment of the Power Phrase.] His retort was as eloquent as it was informative:
"Fuck you - you little shit!"
the answer to "How do you deal with an enraged bouncer?" is the same
as the answer to "How do you shave your balls?" - Very Carefully. So
I did exactly the opposite. I started taunting him, flapping my arms like a fairy
and busting some fancy Ali-vs-Frazier footwork, daring him to catch me - if he
could swerve his swinish bulk towards me in opposition to the gravitational pull
of the earth. That was when he called to the other bouncers
perception of a bouncer's gayness is directly correlated to the number of them
surrounding you in a carpark about to give you a savage beating: i.e. no one looked
all that gay any more.
before I even knew the term, I had opened a can of whoop-ass. So I made
like a Flock Of Seagulls and I Ran, fleeing through rows of cars and scudding
over car hoods. They gave chase like a pack of wolves hunting the lamb. I made
good my getaway. Narrowly.
blocks away, I called the police.
I had ramped up the severity of the fracas on the phone, they sent four squad
cars, obviously envisioning ghoulish gaggles of loose-lipped bouncers running
wide-eyed in the streets, cracking bystanders' heads arbitrarily and displaying
their biceps uncontrollably to women who didn't have melon tits and therefore
didn't need to witness this crucial display of man-muscle.
- as guilefully as politicians on a home-stretch to a seat in office - the bouncers
started lying. Amidst a backdrop of cop-car roof racks spinning noiselessly blue
and red for dramatic effect, the surfeit of police officers grilled everyone involved
with the incident, and though I and my band-mates maintained our stance of victimization,
every bouncer alibi'd for their apish brethren, "who-me?" innocence
wafting off their neanderthal foreheads. The cops' position was that if every
bouncer was denying that any incident took place - then no incident took place,
inciting my drummer to state boldly in front of these ineffectual police,
"Hey Jon, why don't we take a block of wood to this arsehole's head and then
deny that we did anything
Meanwhile, my singer reported that
in another section of the club, a huddle of Bouncers were being cussed out by
the club manager for bringing The Law down upon his house of rock repute with
such clamor. After all, this venue was not a lowly "toilet gig" - international
acts stormed through here; they needed a savage beating lawsuit like a bouncer
needed more bicep.
But it was all showboating. This club was obviously
a member of the local council, as were the local cops, which made the chances
of anyone being hauled from that establishment off to a dank cell that night as
unlikely as Cameron Diaz learning to act. Nothing short of a brutal slaying with
a screwdriver to the eye would encourage these lackluster pigs to move against
one was charged. But at least short-range satisfaction was rendered unto me. For
with the club manager's directive to the bouncers to cease & desist, now our
mouths ran rampant, along with other bands who had shared our bill and who had
witnessed the furor and subsequent panty-waisted outcome; everyone cussing and
riling the now-impotent bouncers as we loaded out; those artless cretins fuming
that they could no longer even vent their now-justifiable rage, let alone "bounce"
any one of us for insolence. And I bet none of them got any patron melon that
- eat it, Laffing Boy! Remember who I'm with - I'm WITH THE BAND, MAN!