HTRK AND THE BIRDS OF PASSAGE

Piper and I are soaring down the West Gate Bridge with the sinking sun coursing in through the windshield. I’m slinging her mandarin segments and trail mix, trying to decipher the map with her ridiculously gigantic sunglasses falling down my nose. The grand rites of love, family and our respective regional upbringings reverberate around the 2004 Toyota corolla, and we bond over the bush and Michelles patisserie. I turn up the music when it dies down, and as fate would have it, HTRK belts out from the stereo so the emerging stars listen eagerly. We're running late. This is not due to my undecipherable navigation, but because the traffic was really really bad. 

A little later, I am fighting with the blue eyeshadow I packed. I look like a clown. Piper sympathises as she pulls on her tights in the corner of the tin shed rental. Because I love her, I approve of LMFAO as our getting ready soundtrack, blistering through an iPhone speaker and making me a bit teary-eyed, fuelled further by the sting of my bargain bin eyeliner. At the Theatre Royal, we’re all thrown together at lightening speed for fear of missing the opening act of the evening, THE LEWERS. In addition to their lure, it’s clear that the Castlemaine getaway entices a certain city-slicker-weekend-warrior. My hunch is secured by the inner-north naarm battalion that emerges on the ballroom floor, but it’s nice though, in a way. I am an artic tern joining its flock in the Antarctic Ocean. The only risks of predation on the course of this long migration are running into a bygone hinge match at the pub next door and not having anywhere to hide. I remember no one will recognise me anyway if I am face painted to this Prussian degree.

Nar, it's chill. mating rituals are ceded on the Journey south anyway.

(courtesy of cannon992.com)

We’re perched up on a couch, knocking back another prosecco as THE LEWERS take the stage. The ballroom gets toasty, and the sounds that start to trickle into the air guide me into a musical coma. I sink deeper and deeper into the couch, so much so that I can no longer see my fellow terns. Through the thick wafts of denim and lint, I hear the unmistakable intro for Kalopsia. The slide guitar + drum machine are savoury and sweet, and Celestial Dogs has a feverish quality to it. Even from the depths of the sofa’s belly, I’m charmed by their Sydney-side manners - apologising profusely for fucking up the start of a song. Their politeness reminds me that Melbourne lacks morals, and I feel a bit homesick for the NRL. Pastoral paints my reminiscent walls a soft bright yellow as the wailing melodica fights for our attention. Each member of this band is another colour in their stained glass window - slotting together perfectly and letting the light in for their congregation.

When interval arrives, I crawl back up through the leather and put Piper down for a nap on the sofa. I tuck her in with our jackets, and set off to find my flute teacher, Hank. He isn’t really my flute teacher anymore, because I bet all of my lesson money on one night at the Crown. For the convenience of my readership, I’ll embellish his character with his musical prowess and silver hustle. We’re seeking darts, and lamenting the eternal construction next door to his house. Outside on Castlemaine’s polar front, he explains that his sense of self is eroding because of it. I listen and look on with my best therapist eyes, suggesting we make a short film about the torment. This would provide a means of processing, documenting and becoming friends with the skull-vibrating hum of the Rotohammer (it’s average Db levelling at 97.8). The other tar-sucking tagalongs are flapping back into the ballroom, so I finish laying out the semiotics of our peace plan and feature film. The frenzy alerts me that HRTK are about to change my stupid bird life forever. 

Anticipation aches through the several thousand bones stood silent in the theatre, awaiting the fleeting presence of Jonnine and Nigel. Starving and starstruck, we look on hungrily from the black sky. They are pelagic invertebrates sparkling in the darkest undulations of the antarctic ocean. I’m smiling at them like a kindergarten teacher as they set off with Blue Sunshine, gentle and slow. Jonnine orbits the stage with timeless kind of grace, nonchalant as the fixtures glow red upon her like the northern lights. Nigel strums the essence of Kiss Kiss and Rhinestones on his guitar, and I am thrown into an unknown sentimental emotion - but I settle on gratitude. I never thought I’d get to see them play. Puddles on my Pillow, spills out across the water like an oil spill and rocks Piper to a gentle slumber on her sailboat sofa. 

“Give your love to me give it all to me, under blue mouldy light… Ocean floods my bedroom floor”

Gorgeous. The whole world waits for HTRK. 

The next morning, we are having breakfast at Togs Place when YUTA MATSUMURA materialises before us. My hangover grants me special powers in confidence, I so blurt out a compliment. I think one of us tells him to “Rise and Grind” after he explains his busy touring and recording schedule. He is so lovely - and I show Piper the Red Ribbon album on the long journey back to the concrete nest. When we land in North Melbourne, I make sure I have all of my feathers and wave goodbye from the front porch. Our wings are adequately stretched and studded with rhinestones.