It was a Saturday night on Sydney road. The Brunswick end. Oh the joy of living in such a post code. Such choice when it comes to places at which you can be faced with a plethora of live music seeing options. This Saturday I was lucky enough to see not one but two bands fronted by extrodinary female talent.

The first band was Death by Death Ray and the second was Dirty Harriet and the Hangmen. Death by death ray were also in posession of a frenetic and skilled female drummer so they received double ticks for that one. Megan the pint sized vocalist tore at your ear drums and grabbed you by the pubes with her loud uncompromising and impressing yelling abilities that were powerful and awe inspiring.

It is always so charming I think to witness a tiny girl release a mountain of emotion into a microphone. Behold I thought standing there speechless and flabbergasted that people were walking past the small stage and heading out to the beer garden. My new talent crush. My feeling were cemented when the band launched into a cover of The Bronx tracK: Shitty Future. Megan apologised in advance for,

”Butchering one of my most loved songs.”

She need not have bothered as the rendition was punchy and energetic in its own right. Inducing one gentleman to exclaim into his beer glass in wonder as the guitars faded out.

”That was amazing.”

”Hey we do not even know you.” Megan dead panned into her microphone with surprised pleasure.

”Thanks so much.”

After a brief interlude. An interlude during which people purchased more beer and gazed at human shaped pretties with yearning and little confidence. I went to the toilet to find that the bottle of what I thought to be gin, lemonade and green cordial, had spilled all through my brand new bags interior making a sticky puddle form in the bottom covering all my belongings. I sculled what was left in the bottle and attempted to soak up most of the mess with toilet paper.

When I finally emerged I felt a bit sick as there had been far too much green cordial and lemonade in that cocktail of disaster. I told my friend this.  He was waiting grinning at me .  He had had made up the contents of the plastic bottle. Once I told him of the mishap, He looked at me confused.

”There was no gin in that.”

He said. I just thought you wanted a yummy drink.”


”What I wanted was to get tipsy on the cheap.” I retorted.


”Do you not know the extent of my alcoholism at all?!”


I stared up at him in disbelief and a rising sense of nausea . I had just gulped down a pot sized glass of straight cordial and lemonade.

The next band was starting to approach the stage and sound checking guitars and microphones. Dirty Harriet and The Hangmen began their set. Tash, was the vibrant front women of the collective. She had vixen and feline type allure coupled with a sexy fun personae. Clad in floral leggings, black singlet and cardigan and black heels she was a post modern Betty page with curves and glossy dark hair and a mouth painted redder than a 1950s pin up. She bantered with her band mates and the crowd with the confidence of a girl straight from a Bikini Kill song, such as Rebel girl.

Indeed as I watched her perform, I did find myself wanting ‘to be her best friend’. We would drink in seedy bars and retort with hilarious jibes, when approached by men. We would talk music and she would do my make up and make me resemble a rock a billy dream. We would listen to records and have debauched slumber parties.


Tash could sing she could wail like Beth Ditto and Brodie Dahl, about desire about lust and about wanting. She was delightfully vulgar as she pretended to perform fellatio on the microphone and use her whole body and limbs , twisting and gyrating on stage like the visual and audio joy she was.

She was not being provocative because she thought this was what would make the boys like her. She was not trying to sexual that which did not need sexualisation. She was a babe on stage playing the crowd like we were human playthings. Her attitude reached to the very front of the pub where young boys and girls clad in dresses and high heels, t shirts and jeans, were lining up out side to get inside.

She was also sweet and complimentary about the band that preceded her.

” How great was the lead singer of the last band.” She said in sincere wonder. ”I have a new girl crush. If I was a lesbian, she would be way out of my league.”

Bold and bodacious babe launched into a raucous and ribald tune that inspired much head shaking by me and much bouncing around by the ever increasing crowd. Her warm and sensual vocals could have soured better had it not been for some slightly neglectful sound engineering. Someone should have turned the girl UP! She stood at times with her legs wide apart, leaning with her microphone held tight to her mouth. She was sass personified. The set was only 40 minutes and my heart sank when the band finished.

Generic and god awful Bon Jovi was blasted through through the bar. If there was one thing that needed tweaking in this situation it was the crowd that the two bands were playing to.

There were a lot of overly made up girls who may have been prettier had they been smiling instead of dragging drippy looking guys around who resembled abandoned warehouses if you looked into their eyes.

Megan stood with a pretty blonde girl whose bob was so straight and swishy I simply had to ask her to please give her head a shake for me, so I could witness the swish at its hieght of beauty. Megan it turned out when not on stage was not much taller than I. This made me incredibly happy as it was so rare for me to be able to hold a conversation with anyone at my eye level. In conversation, Megan spoke in a relaxed and even tempered way , which made her ferociouse vocalizing on stage even more extrordinary. It was not until I was about to leave that I spied Tash sitting on a bar stool smoking a ciggarette at the bar.

”You were amazing.” I said after standing there a moment watching her exchange words and hugs with a large man in a dark blue polo shirt. She turned her attention and her killer smile onto me and immediately I was put at ease.


”I know you,” Tash  said. ”I am sure we have had long chats at The Art House. ”

I did not recall. I had frequented the now shut down , Art House. Often times incredibly drunk and the live music had always been punk; leather jacketed men and women jumping around and taking their lives into their own hands by going up the creaky stairs to the smoking area. We chatted like long lost lost best friends for 20 minutes, phone numbers and hugs were exchanged.


It was then time to take my sticky and soiled bag home for investigation of damage. The street lights fell on my friend and I as we walked the dilapidated foot path past the The Brunswick Hotel, past the medical centre. He reached out an arm and pulled me to him so he could steal a kiss on my cheek.


I giggled to myself as I walked.


How the hell was I going to get the toxic green liquid out of my bag lining?.