Another Beer, Another Minute by Steve McCabe
The Seedy Dive area of Dunedin was just as my brother had written me - "Send Out the Clowns" billboards at every corner, backstreet beer shops every which way you turned. A few blocks from the train station we walked past the famous George St. "All The Beer You Can Drink" Hotel (as far as I know the only establishment of its type in the world, and sadly closed down during the recession in the early 90's - it is now a parking building). We didn't know it, but this was to be the last week we would be able to go out and get a drink together in a Public Bar without causing some kind of riot.
The All the Beer You Can Drink bar was a jumpin' place back in '83 - and was frequented by not only the usual lowlife, students, drug-dealers and gang associates you would expect to find, but also representatives of every strata of Dunedin Society from the Mayor's office down to brewery workers on their lunch break. It didn't take us long to hep to the scene, and within an hour we were completely, helplessly drunk. While Stu was on one of his frequent trips to the Men's Room, Bob and I decided we had soaked up enough courage to phone Maureen (not her real name) at the Empire and ask about getting a gig at her pub, the Empire. We drew straws, 2 out of 3, loser makes the call. Bob lost out and made the call. When Stu staggered back we broke the news. I seem to recollect him running back to the Men's room very fast. I don't think I've seen a man run that fast before or since.
We spent the next three days in the All the Beer You Can Drink bar, writing songs and trying them out on the punters there. The writing process in those days went a little like this: Bob would hear someone saying something to someone else, we would take the third word they said, write it down and write the second word they said after that. We would then take all the vowels out, except for the 2nd one, and think of a sentence that began with the letters that remained. Of course, computers were in their infancy back then, all we had was a 50's Olivetti typewriter which clattered away to the other punter's bemusement.Once we had the first line, we would find a word that rhymed with the last word of the first line, and construct a sentence that related to the first line. Usually by this time, some sort of story-scene would be set, and the actors in our heads would act out the rest. Sometimes we would be yelling lines out so fast Stu would have to take over the typewriter to avoid the scene becoming disruptive. Stu encouraged us to experiment with the William S. Burroughs "cut-up" technique of authoring, but when we tried that all we ended up with was a bunch of garbled, nosensical sentences.
So, after the third day we had our songs ready, and we went down to the Empire during the day to check out the P.A. and get a 'feel' for the place. Shortly after we walked in, I saw Maureen looking my way and talking on the phone in hushed tones, but thought little of it at the time. My feelings on public performances at the time was that this band should treat each gig as the first night we had performed. From my experience as a (gig) punter, I had noticed that bands always seemed more exciting and enthusiastic at their first gig, and, despite nervousness and fluffed lines, the power they seemed to feel aproached infinity. I wanted that feeling to enanate at EVERY gig, not just the first. That meant a fresh set of songs for each gig, and usually a music stand for the words, so we could remember them. The Empire seemed a pretty OK place, if small, so, after a cursory "Testing, two, two, two!" into the mike, and the obligatory shot of whiskey (we were in Dunedin, after all) we left to spend the rest of the morning in the All You Can Drink bar. I caught Maureen's eye as I walked out the door and I knew something was up.
The All You Can Drink bar was unusually quiet. For the first time, we could actually hear the typewriter clattering away - it was quite eery! It filled up around 3 o'clock, and the first twinges of nervousness started to mull their way through our dulled senses. There was a 'buzz' going around about the gig, and we smirked to ourselves as we heard people saying things like "I heard they drink chicken-blood on stage" , to which some smart-ass topper reply "Oh they do - I've seen them up in Christchurch - Goat's blood, too, and cheese!" We were feeling pretty mellow, when I looked around the room and saw something that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end like a platoon of soldiers on a parade field; She was wearing a false beard and a kilt, and was talking in a thick, deep Scottish accent, but I'll swear to this day that it was Maureen! I tried to put the thought out of my head as we drained the last droplets of beer from the bucket and we stumbled our way down the road to the Octagon, were we ordered fish and chips for dinner.
Still trying to get the thought of the bearded, kilt-wearing Maureen out of my head, we ambled up the stairs to the Empire. to my relief, Maureen was nowhere to be seen. The punters were already starting to trickle in as we set up our gear. At this time, our 'gear' consisted of an electrified 3/4 size acoustic guitar (with two extra strings, a 'B' and high 'E' string, for extra brittleness and treble, and to reinforce any guitar solos I might want to perform), a 'real electric guitar (Bob's - he borrowed it from a friend at the music shop) and Stu's mirrored-silver finish drum-kit.
The gig went off. After waiting for the applause to die down, we begged the audience for a beer break, which they begrudgingly allowed us. The crowd went back to their seats, and then I saw her - Maureen, talking with two policemen and pointing my way. If you have ever visited the Empire, you will know what I mean when I say it is not easy to slip out of in a hurry. there is just one entrance, it is by the bar and it leads to a narrow set of steps which step out onto the main road. The image I had of Maureen in the kilt flashed through my head, and suddenly, I connected the dots.... the surreptitious glances, the phone-call, the mysterous bearded Scotsman so obviously out of place in the Women's Lounge - I had been set up, framed, sold up the River! I was a patsy, a ring-in, a roper! But I was trapped in the Empire with no place to go, so I tried to play it cool, but even now, I could see the two blue-heelers plodding my way.
"How old are you, son?" the copper went through the motions.
"I'm s-s-seventeen, s-s-sir!" I piped in. "Alright, out you go", he said, his unusually long arm pushing me gently but firmly.