Tarago Diaries #59 – Cockatoo Island
Observations from the Hunters gig in Sydney’s Cockatoo Island.
Author: Mark Seymour.
Date: 24 February 2022.
Original URL: N/A.
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You gotta take the ferry. A short ride out into the middle of Sydney harbour to what was once the old WW2 naval base, still festooned with ancient rusted cranes and empty ship yards.
Dockside is right at the end of the drive south through Hunters Hill, arguable the richest place on earth. I was told that once..
but seeing is something else.
There was a man waiting dockside, dressed in black and wearing a lanyard. He kept sayin’ ‘livin’ the dream’ with a smirk on his face as we, the rock entourage, descended the stairs
It was like he’d been told to say it..
Or maybe not..
Without detracting from the gravity of the occasion, I’ve long since abandoned the idea that my job is weird.
It is after all, a job.
Even in professional rock music, nothing is ever what you expect. In fact, expectations are dangerous full stop. Rolling with whatever… is infinitely preferable to complaining about the cold cuts, dodgy fold back, inappropriate bunting, or whether it was wise to park a gig in the middle of the desert, on a barge, or on the back of a truck half way up a logging track.
You go to where the audience is. That’s the whole point. You’re trying to reach people.
I’ve seen rockstars squawking. I’ve done it myself. And it ‘aint pretty.
That way lies the accusation amongst crew, security staff, promoters and other hard-working industry creatures that you may well be
‘a bit of a dickhead’..
Besides, there’s nothing worse than a false sense of entitlement. One drive through Hunters Hill and you realise, there’s plenty of it around. More than you could ever imagine..
unless you live there.
but this was H&C after all so generally things were shall we say, running smoothly.
Nothing shabby about the solo career of course, but when it comes to the big end, there’s way more money to iron out the creases.
And clearly enough to pay for the ferry.
So as we scooted out across the water, the whole ferry thing was looking pretty friggin’ cool..
I mean, I don’t know if you’ve ever floated on Sydney harbour..
Many haven’t of course. There are millions who never will either but I can tell you now, the end of civilization will be the last thing on your mind..
What’s more, I doubt it would loom large in the minds of the anointed either, who get to gaze out on the pristine sparkling water on a permanent basis
‘Oh Sweetheart, look at the lovely boat bobbing by..’
through the double-glazed windows of your cliff top heritage listed Georgian mansion.
So as to the whole ‘livin’ the dream’ thing..
You get to live near what looks good if you can afford it. That’s how cities work. And once you’re there…
Actually, ‘livin’ the dream’ doesn’t even touch the sides.
Not even close.
Driving through it, it’s not so much a dream. More like an alternative universe.
Mind you, there are places on earth that are as equally magnificent..
I’ve driven through them too, thinking the same thing. People must aspire to this, from a long way out or back. Like years in advance..
I want to live in Hunters Hill!!
REALLY?
See, when you finally ‘arrive’ appearances do count. They’re a window into the darkness of your soul.
But you’ve got to wonder, the magnificence can only penetrate so far and then..
Oh the humanity. That hard-bitten core, the bit that aspires, that will go the hip and shoulder, the sneer at poverty.. the mocking judgement of those who missed the fucking boat for whatever reason.. to strike the killer blow just hard enough to stand out from the common herd..
As though it really matters
One way or another, You get to PAY for it either way mate.
Still, there’s no end to the avarice required.
In every mansion an attic. And in every attic a portrait covered in sores.. concealed beneath an old Victorian blanket..
Oh yes, the dream is so utterly celestial no one actually gets to live it.. not really. You’d be hangin’ on to your bubble of privilege for grim death.
Here lies Camelot, beyond the realms of everyday struggle.
You may well gasp but remember, no one leaves here alive.
They’ve got to bury the bodies somewhere..
And somebody knows where they all are.
By the way..
The gig went very well
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