Last night in the capital we played the tiny Phoenix Bar with Hank Denfield, aka Den Hanrahan the singin’ shearer, not to be confused with Jeff Gibson the other singin’ shearer. Uncle Burnin’ Love and Sasquatch Elliott had opted, for family and finance reasons, to fly down and meet us in Melbourne on Friday, thus avoiding the onerous three day drive and potential vehicular mishaps such as have been known to occur on this dark and lonely stretch.

Hank hasn’t played with us in a coupla years but still managed to reach into the abyss and rip out a barrage of fine steel and gittar lines to prettify up such ballads, dirges, epics and emetics as we threw at him.

At halftime the Shake Your Money Maker crew of Adam Bell, Vanessa Barbay and Rob CanCan edificated us with some exquisite psychobilly, recalling phantom yores of that dusky reverb clang when it was all over the radio.
A small but lusty mob of onlookers drank pints, cheered and even danced in the miniscule recreation area front of stage and the Reverend Al Fisk’s mum was on hand to see her son’s fifth show with the band.

Today we drive south to Melbourne, just Jones and I. Into the inferno lands.

We probably won’t play the Phoenix Bar again. like many venues in this philistine country, it’s decided bands are making too much money off their backs, making punters slake thirsts at their expense or some who-how, and have cut the dividends they’re prepared to pay. That’s what kept us away from Tamworth this year, and that’s what will kill good original music in this country. Unless people are prepared to pay for what they want, you’ll just get the desperate and the covers of those who got through in the years before the crut and the gombeen took over for ever.