Major Contributions To The Australian Music Industry

Powderfinger announced their retirement this week. After twenty scandal-free years they have decided to stop. I think this is a bit of a poor effort. For famous pop rockers, a properly disreputable exit is not just expected, it's required. They are supposed to burst into flames dressed only in their own vomit or drown horribly in a motel room wrapped around a telegraph pole.

But, they're not going to do that. You'll probably meet them down at the library fairly soon, promoting their books on cheese making and plugging themselves back into their own respirators. Powderfinger were an entirely professional moneymaking outfit. In fact an old mate of mine, The Right Dishonourable Loaded Dog, and I are probably responsible for their worst piece of public behaviour.

Loaded Dog is among the last of a dying breed. Not because times were better then and they don't breed them like that anymore, no, because most of them have died due to poverty and poor personal hygiene. He wouldn't mind me saying that. He only very loosely fits into that category now because he's got a job these days and that, for him, borders on personal tragedy and major artistic failing. He's a bone-deep pub-rocker.
So, as I said, he's an old mate, part time broadcasting partner and, by coincidence, a dead-ringer for Bernard Fanning, the lead singer of Powderfinger. (Emergency Contact thinks Loaded is much better looking, but I am never going to tell him that.)

Loaded Dog and I don't live close to each other anymore. Not because of any court decisions, just by the luck of the draw. When we get together, we tend to pick a pub halfway between us and they're rarely proper 'local' style establishments. They are usually something you'd classify as 'touristy'. So, one day we were in one and it's here that I need to round out the picture a bit.

Loaded D looks like a rock star the morning after, all the time. His "indefinable it" apparently depends on what kind of girl you are (and I ain't no kind of girl) but I am reliably told that he has 'it' in spades. He certainly wears the clothes to suit and has a certain presence. I used to call it BO, but again, I am reliably told that's probably me being jealous and uncharitable.

He is flamboyant and thinks nothing of wearing a tropical shirt tied at the waist set off with a sombrero that could double as a beach umbrella. I am peeved when I only get 15 years out of a black t-shirt and when those years are up, I replace the back T-shirt with a black t-shirt. He is the height and weight of a grumpy woman with a pint in her hand. I weigh 115 kilos, am 190cm tall and often have his pint and mine in one hand as I drag him away from a grumpy woman. I have short hair and have never tried to apply CPR to life-size but deflated Santa decoration "in the spirit of rescue and entertainment." As you may surmise, he usually has longish hair and has tried to resuscitate a sagging Santa while screaming, "Live dammit. Live. Come on Santy, don't go towards the light!"

We are very different, but have a lot in common.

So, there we were, giggling away at each other about important things in a pretty touristy sort of pub and three guys keep on trying to insinuate themselves into our conversation. On the way past they'd say something, or comment on the game on the telly, obviously trying to get us involved. They were looking at us way too much and it was getting on my wick, so I placed myself to block their view of us and put the physical barrier up.

I leaned into Loaded and said, "What's with this bunch of winners?"

 "It's happening again. They think I'm him and I'm 'out with my muscle'," whispers Loaded.

Oh goody. We were giggling even more.

Then the mood from the guys started to change. It got stroppy in only the way an Australian can get righteously stroppy if he thinks that another Australian is being a bit up himself and needs to be taken down a few pegs. LD and I had them pegged as Brisbane boys as well, so it was even worse. Imagine the gall of Bernard Fanning, a Brisbane boy himself, bunging it on and being all un-proletarian. Actually, Sydneysiders are snobs compared to Brisbanites and I wouldn't have it any other way. Who gives a fat rat's arse what a Queenslander wants and we certainly weren't going to start handing out fake Bernard Fanning signatures just to keep those yobbos happy.

So I stood up, moved over and said, "Lads, give him a bit of peace, alright? It's been a long, tough tour and he just wants to have a quiet one without being bothered. Right?"

Loaded backs it up by putting his flat hand up against the side of his face to protect from prying eyes and says into the air, "There aren't any cameras or film crews, are there Nicky?"

"No mate."

At this, the three sneer and sigh all at the same time, finish their drinks and get up. On the way out, one says unnecessarily loudly, "I always said I thought he was a wanker!"