St Kilda in the 1990s

 

St Kilda in the 1990s (by Malachi Doyle)

Dear Brother,

 

I’ve been thinking a lot about St Kilda in the 1990s, when we were in our 20s and discovering the world outside of our boys-school-raised-leafy-bayside-suburban-world of our adolescence.

Anyway, to a kid like me, it was totally EYE bloody marvelously OPENING!

We were lucky that our man Terry McCarthy was living in a share house in Park Street, St Kilda just off Fitzroy Street, right near the Prince of Wales backbar I loved so much, which was of course, now that I think of it, opposite that boarding house which the BLUNT! or whatever, fucked up & pimped out like the ladies it used but never recognized from their corporatised day jobs.

This corporate world would of course change St Kilda dramatically for the worse, but we’ll get to that. Or not, just saying that Kaiser Jeff bulldozed the soul of St Kilda to let the nazis in for the sake of their casino & grand prix. He as you reminded me, “CLEANED UP” the place. Much like, well you know well about terms like “RIFF RAFF” and “degeneracy.”

He removed the First Nations peoples’ community that used to gather around the green spaces just down the street, a bit closer to the beach. Their presence so ennobled the atmosphere of the town, which accepted people for their characters, regardless of the financial worth of their wardrobes. You would meet many First Nations people in the backbar of the Prince of Wales, along with outsiders from every walk of life: from bohemians, the racially diverse, queers and transgender people, sex workers on their nights off, investment bankers hellbent on self-destruction, as well the middle class types who enjoyed just the wonder of openness and permissivity. It was a very healing place, even if the road to health does admittedly sometimes involve the killing off of braincells in the hope of being free from painful memories.

When I listen now to the music made in the place back in the 90s I know how globally significant the place was. I had no idea back then. I never thought of ‘international standards’, I was just experiencing & being TURNED ON in every sense of the word.

 

Anyway, I’m best when brief, even if little headway is generally made. No great shame. I feel this world is too hellbent on making headway. Let’s slow down and smell the sea, as it wafts gently, summer breezes, no wait, the Winter nights were best, when after hours gatherings of the unaffectedly-interesting types stirred. It’s all become too CAREERIST today, that is what I bemoan.

The taking of photos is now so ubiquitous that our memories have become bereft of mental pictures. Fortunately, I recorded nothing back then. I was receiving things. I was absorbed. Sure I’d scribble words in my little notebooks on nights I stayed at home, and sang, when asked, at parties but that was about it. We were all reading a lot too. And talking about what we had read. Maybe every young person does this? And today being no exception? I only fear that they do not. That they are too busy finding their locations on their smartphone posts, to get truly lost in the mystery. That they are all defining themselves as “Artists” or networkers. It is so crucial to get

 

lost in the mystery,

 

else one learns nothing about how to behave.

 

Art, I think, should be in the service of better living most of the time. I feel it has become more a commodity: buying the book to take a photo of the cover, listening to a record once and claiming authority. All in the service of giving oneself a platform. Personally, everyone should, weather permitting, go barefoot sometimes. In the ceaseless quest for power/influence, one loses one’s goodness or Soul, as Kev Carmody reminds us.

 

I listen to the Beasts of Bourbon or a good Don Walker song, or indeed No Fixed Address, or see a soulful drag queen somewhere on the box and think I met beauty and truth in St Kilda –  not knowing I was seeking her there. She didn’t look as I was told. People who Looked rough, turned out in fact, to be quite gentle. Those few who had a bark, inevitably, (though nothing is foolsafe) had No bite. As Bo Diddley reminds us “You can’t Judge a Book by Looking at the Cover.”

 

Anyway, life went on, and the ups & downs of finding oneself smoothed out a bit and I found a life partner after many tries, with a big enough character to hold me and shake me and tickle me and love me & life is good now, speaking personally,

 

but St Kilda has changed for the worse.

Not as the corrupt guy says,

dog whistling against diversity,

but quite the opposite:

that it has become significantly less diverse

& in the process,

                                        less loving.