Art Bar, Perth Art Gallery, July 21, 2016.
There was supposed to be three of us: myself, Brian Buckley and Daniel Brand; but poor Brian's back is in the process of disintegrating like the UK's commitment to tolerant multiculturalism, so Daniel and I braved the rain and cold alone. But to be honest, we were too excited to care. We were about to see Peter Garrett, live on stage, for the first time - in the flesh - for fourteen years.
Daniel's been an Oils fan for a good long while, and I've been one for even longer. I remember dancing to Beds Are Burning at Primary School socials. Later, I remember immersing myself into Oils albums through my latter years of high school. I was constantly amazed and enthralled by the energy, the passion and the unbelievable musicality. On December 31, 1994, I finally got to see them. I was at the front of a heaving sea of people at Fremantle Oval. To this day, it remains one of the most exciting nights of my life. I'd never seen - or heard - anything like it. An enduring image that remains is one of Peter Garrett running wildly across the stage during a ferocious version of 'Forgotten Years', with a pink ocean flare showering the audience with smoke and light. It was a gig to remember.
I've seen the Oils many times since. Whenever they came to Perth, I went. And I was never disappointed. When they split up, I was gutted. When they reformed, even if just fleetingly to lend their support in a dark time, I was elated. But now, it really seems as though, once again, the Oils are coming. In 2017.
It's a tantalising prospect. How will they go? What will they play? Can they still cut it? When a band ages, particularly when they are known for their almost magical live power, you have to wonder. And if there are going to be weak links, two points spring to mind: the drums and the voice. They are the jobs that need muscle and verve. Now, anyone who's seen Rob Hirst in the flesh knows that he has the largest arms in the world. I swear to God, the bloke could row a viking long-boat across the Atlantic by himself, without breaking a sweat. So that just leaves us with Pete. Big, bald Pete.
I love Peter Garrett. Always have, always will. Unlike many, who were disappointed when he went into politics, accusing him of selling out, failing and all the rest, I was proud of him. He took the big leap from the sidelines to the main event, and gave it his all. For the rest of his life, he's probably going to cop flak for an insulation debacle that cost two lives, and which all informed parties (on both sides of the political aisle) know was orchestrated by Kevin Rudd, and for which Garrett took the fall. It's a tough gig, politics. No amount of sweating, gasping and shouting in an oxygen devoid pub can prepare you for that kind of toxicity. But like I said, he had a go. I respect that.
After leaving politics, Garrett committed to writing his story down, which has since been published as his excellent memoir, Big Blue Sky. And to Garrett's own surprise, the experience of writing lead to more writing; but this time, in the form of songs, rather than prose. And they kept coming. He showed them to friends. These friends, like Martin Rotsey, who know a bit about music, told him they were good. And that he should record them. So he did.
In little over a fortnight, with a crack team of musical mates assembled (including his three daughters on backing vocals), he cut the album, A Version of Now, which features some of the most personally forthright songs of his long career. Wordy, witty and heartfelt, they proved beyond doubt that the bloke could still write, and that he could still sing. But the question remained; could he still cut it live?
Well, last night gave Daniel and I our chance to verify whether or not Peter Garrett could still cut the mustard as a live performer. And it is safe to say, yes, yes he can. Daniel and I walked out of that gig with smiles on our faces, covered in yellow condiment.
The venue for the gig was the Perth Art Gallery, which, as Garrett noted himself, isn't really where he expected to ever play a concert. Yet as a venue, it worked extremely well. The sound was excellent, the space intimate and the views to the stage widely inviting. There's also something appropriate about viewing a man - who is still listed as a Living National Treasure in such a place. And before too long, he quickly made it his own.
Garrett played eight of the nine songs from his solo album, and each benefited from the freedom and energy of live performance. Kangaroo Tail took on more a Hercules-in-wistful-mode feel; Only One - a fine love song to his wife, Doris, became slinky and funky, and No Placebo crunched and grooved. Though this band of Alter Egos is most certainly not the Oils (despite featuring two, including Garrett himself), make no mistake; these guys can really play. Of particular note was the tight, super-assured bass from Mark Wilson (of Jet) and the backing vocals and the at-times blisteringly good guitar from local artist, Abbe May. And with Peter Luscombe on drums, it was almost amusing hearing someone other than Rob Hirst provide the beat for Pete; if only for the simple, musical truth that even if you pumped him full of enough morphine to knock out a bison, he (Hirst) would never, ever play so far behind the beat in his life.
Of course, Martin Rotsey needs special mention. Always the most unassuming of guitar heroes, Rotsey always seems both entirely in his own world, and utterly fused with the band in which he plays. It was a rare treat to hear him without having to try and untangle his distinctive sound from that of his virtual twin, Jim Moginie. If Rotsey were a batsman, he'd be David Boon. Unflappable, silent, and, if you tried to hurt his mate, lethal beyond belief.
Garrett dropped in a few surprising covers. He brought out his trusty harmonica for a briskly-paced version of Muddy Waters' blues classic, Got My Mojo Workin'. He sunk his teeth into Skyhooks' Ego (is Not a Dirty Word), with it's still-killer line, "If Jesus had an ego, he'd still be alive today." And he played a fantastic version of the Divinyls' "Back Against the Wall", which featured some of the most contextually astute lines of the night. The temper of the times, indeed.
Whilst Garrett's voice was rich and strong throughout, it certainly took him a view numbers to warm up. Let's not forget, this was his first full gig of any kind in seven years. Even for an artist with the experience and reputation of Garrett, that's still got to have brought on a few nerves. But the crowd was warmly appreciative throughout, and almost in unison, as Garrett began to relax (and move about as only he can), the crowd began to sing and chant. No, not an Oils gig, but there was still that special something in the air that only Garrett has the power to bring.
And what is it exactly that Garrett brings? Well, sheer physical presence, for one thing. A taut, towering intensity. A sinewy sense of command and control, that looks threateningly close to exploding at any moment. For a sixty-three year old, he looks and sounds absolutely fantastic. His voice, which actually sits more in the baritone range than anywhere else, showed it can still holler and roar with real conviction, as it did, most movingly, on the self-defending personal anthem, I'd Do It Again. A ripping tune, it was on this more, more than any other, that Garrett truly came alive; blasting the crowd with a defiant, life-affirming justification of getting in there and having a go, regardless of whether or not you (or anyone else) judge it as success or failure.
By the encore, he was in his element, and that brought out the one Oils tune to cap what had been a fantastic first show. The unmistakable throbbing bass and acoustic tremble of "The Dead Heart" began to uncoil. And the crowd began to sing. (We all know what they sang.) And Garrett reminded us that protest songs, if well judged and carefully written, don't have a shelf life. For better or worse, 'The Dead Heart' is as powerful, moving and relevant as ever.
And it's why we need the Oils back. We need a band of conscience and commitment. We need a band who play with heart, with thought and with passion. To get us moving. To get us thinking. To get us feeling.
Peter Garrett proved last night that he is still a considerable force, with as much power, and passion, as ever. Along with his top-shelf solo album, I'm going to be playing a lot of Oils over the coming months.
2017? Can't come fast enough.