I found my wife trying to put my clothes in the rubbish. Eventually, after a lot of discussion, we agreed to simply wash them. It had been a long few days. The astonishing humidity in Auckland made it a bad time to be in my Dunedin uniform of black jeans and black shirt. But we were assembled for rock glory, so we had to embrace the sweat. Travelling to Auckland then to a very small, packed room in Raglan gave me plenty of opportunity.
SITTING IN AUCKLAND
The decision to head north to see Ty Segall and the Freedom Band twice in a row was easy to make. If you get a chance to see the best band in the world (?) you don’t hesitate. Especially if the first night is in the newly refurbished Hollywood theatre in Avondale where there are good seats upstairs to relax and watch the show.
We are in position, the aforementioned excellent wife and two old friends who are unfamiliar with the work of Mr Segall and cohorts. They are attending at my recommendation, which is always a burden. Arms full of merch, records, t-shirts and bottles of wine we are comfortably seated in the front row and ready.
The show starts with Ty Segall and Emmett Kelly playing acoustic guitars and harmonising beautifully. Such a delicate start has the crowd in silence and I decide that it’s OK to take out my ear plugs. It is not. After four songs the band hits the stage and things take a turn for the feral. Amplifiers are engaged, electric guitars are held aloft in salute to the primal force of the extended solo and downstairs goes bananas. It’s a cross between Braveheart and Lord of the Flies.
Reclining upstairs we have a great view of the entire stage, watching the band lock in, smiling and laughing at the audacious, reckless noise they are generating, watching Mikal Cronin drive everyone with his bass. The more he shook his hair the more the band responded, ramping up and up and up until the only way out is a dead stop, a squall of feedback and the next song. And the next song and the next, hardly time to draw breath and comprehend what’s going on.
Afterwards, my friends are beaming and confirm that yes, they have been rocked out of their socks and I have not led them astray. The whole show is so savage and dynamic, full of energy and life I once again have to ask the question ... Why not Dunedin?
We missed Idles, Kurt Vile, Ty and so much more. What do we get? George Thorogood, which is fine but ... is the Cook Strait 10,000km across? An uncrossable road just south of Christchurch? Do we smell funny? Or is it maybe that venues are either too small or too expensive, which makes bringing a band south cost prohibitive. Such a shame we don’t have a functioning 400-600 person venue with a proper stage and a nice seated upstairs. If we did, we should call it Sammy’s. If earthquake proofing was holding up the classical music you bet the council would sort it out. Guess punk kids don’t vote or pay rates.
STANDING IN RAGLAN
The next night when I walk into The Yard in Raglan it seems like a mistake. It is tiny. How is this nice seaside cafe going to host even the basic backline of the Freedom Band? How are 200 people fitting in here? Can humidity go over 100%?
First, Earth Tongue play their heavy, fuzzy, fantastic tributes to Satan (he, apparently, will never let you down), the power of rocking and being in an excellent doomy duo. They seem fired up to be playing in front of Ty and band and can be spotted cutting much rug during the headline set.
After Earth Tongue wrap up my associate and I drift towards the front of the stage. Mrs is seated down the back and does not share my interest in guitar pedals and amplifiers. It is the last time I will see her until the show finishes. I’m standing hard up against the stage when I see band movement. I think, cool, I’ll stand up front for the acoustic set before rejoining Mrs for the rocking. Earlier, I had spotted a chair I planned to stand on. However, it seems the band has decided that in such a small space the best idea would be to just pulverise everyone and everything in line of sight with volume and power. No mellow acoustic lead-in tonight, just a remorseless sonic attack that I couldn’t have backed away from if I wanted to.
The crowd was so tight that I barely had room to nod my head, let alone retreat. I was stuck up the front, right in front of Ty Segall — who on this occasion took it upon himself to play all the nastiest guitar solos available in the world. Right into my face. I’m pretty sure it reversed my ageing process for 90 minutes because I was smiling and giggling and having a blast in a way that a 50-year-old man with a job and mortgage should have enough shame not to do.
The young chap next to me was shaking his hair and doing the all-round psychedelic freak out with such vigour I kinda envied him. He spends most of the song Harmonize doing the Wayne’s World "we’re not worthy" dance. If we weren’t so very very damp I’d give him a hug and get him a Lucozade to celebrate him being in the perfect state of mind at the perfect place and time.
Then they start playing Green River by Creedence, this brings me so much happiness my peripheral vision starts to crack and rain. This is multiplied when they suddenly stop the CCR midway through and play their track Emotional Mugger. Consider me mugged emotionally. Normally, stopping Green River part way would make me furious. Tonight it seems inevitable and correct, another neck-breaking switch up from what, as it’s becoming clear to me, is God’s rock and roll machine.
Then a one-song encore and they are gone, leaving me drenched with a salt line on my baseball cap. Somebody puts a Jack and Coke in my hand and it is gone in moments. Not sure it’s the recommended way to rehydrate but it feels good and cold. As the crowd slowly disperses I can see Mrs looking at me. First issue is leaving her alone for the whole show, not known as a winning move. Second is the state I’m in, soaking wet, skulling a Jack and Coke with the holy fire of music blazing in my eyes. She knows that in this state reason is not my strong suit.
I want to stay up till dawn, to drink and indulge, to continue blasting my head with loud music and push my limits. I’m asleep 45 minutes later.
When I wake up I catch my wife trying to throw out my clothes from the night before. She said they refused to burn. So maybe next time I should sit up top in comfort.
Or, not abandoning my beloved, I’ll stand on a chair and hope to see the top of the drummer’s head. Or maybe I’ll wear shorts to a concert and stand up front with a foolish grin on my face until I’ve dangerously depleted my body’s moisture and started to sweat seasonings. I’ll wear ear plugs and still have ringing ears. I’ll have vivid memories of a band loving what they can do, high on the magic they hold so casually in their fingertips, the ability to keep a theatre at a rolling boil and to turn a small room into a frenzied emporium of sweat.
Some worship in front of altars, I choose Marshalls. Hail, hail Rock’n’Roll.
