For a couple of years I’d been playing Sunday lunchtime solo gigs to rooms full of car club members out for a spin or tables of families celebrating a birthday or anniversary. I had traversed the whole band experience of the seventies and eighties and was finding my way in the unfamiliar territory of ambient solo artist. At times it was challenging, but over time, and with the encouragement of publicans Ian and Jennifer Keddie, I felt I was evolving—towards what I wasn’t sure. The gigs gave me the opportunity to gain confidence and develop a bit of stage craft as well the impetus to learn new material, write songs and then test them out in front of a friendly audience. But after a few years one thing had become obvious: to progress any further as a musician and performer I needed to improve my less than Claptonesque guitar skills. Luckily and just in time, I crossed paths with Jeff Burstin.
As the guitarist and co-writer with both Jo Jo Zep and the Falcons, and The Black Sorrows amongst others, Jeff was someone I had admired for many years. I had been lucky enough to see his skill at close hand when my various bands had played support to the Falcons in the 1970s. We had friends in common, but I’d never actually met the man himself. Then one day the planets aligned and my life changed. I was working at the Victorian Office of Housing as a media officer come speech writer. A colleague, Yvonne Simic, happened to be Jeff’s neighbour at the time and I asked her if Jeff gave guitar lessons. ‘I want to learn some guitar tricks and flicks, just to make life a little more interesting for myself.’
A couple of days later I was sitting in Jeff’s Abbotsford kitchen trying to learn how to play to correct fingering for the G chord. We persisted for a couple of weeks and I made some progress, learning a few important new skills, like the shuffle feel to Dylan’s ‘It Takes a Lot to Laugh, It Takes a Train to Cry’. G, C, G, C G, C … got it! During and after lessons Jeff and I chatted and learnt we had a lot in common: we were the same age, as were our kids, we both were nuts about Bob Dylan and The Band, politically we saw things in a similar way. And so, we became friends. Then, quite unexpectedly, something extraordinary happened, he offered his services: ‘If you ever need a guitar player, I’d be happy to oblige.’
I didn’t need to be asked twice. The very next Sunday I mentioned to Ian at the Flowerdale that Jeff Burstin was available to play with me now and then and asked if he was interested. Luckily he was—and so Jeff and I played a few lunchtime duo gigs at the pub. These went well and generated a few more Melbourne-based gigs that included supporting Ross Hannaford’s Diana Kiss at the Esplanade Hotel on a series of Monday nights, as well as other little pub gigs around town.
One Sunday, Ian asked if we could put a band together for a special ‘Christmas in July Sunday lunch’ at the pub. There was no question about it. Jeff called his old drummer mate Gary Young from the Rocking Emus and Jo Jo Zep and the Falcons, and bassist Wayne Duncan—also ex-Rocking Emus and for a short time a fellow Black Sorrow. With us all together, The Hornets were born. I was singing in a band with Jeff Burstin, Gary Young and Wayne Duncan … are you kidding? I was literally in heaven.
For the next few years The Hornets played bars, festivals and venues all around Victoria and in that time I got to know Gary and Wayne very well.
Gary is a great, musical drummer. He’s full of energy and has a brain crackling with ideas (more of that later). But over the years I learnt that he has two pet hates. The first is the drums—not drumming but the setup, the pulling down and lugging of drums. He will do anything to avoid such tiresome tasks. Jeff has a story about a recent Jo Jo Zep and the Falcons band meeting discussing a series of reformation gigs in Sydney and Melbourne. The band members were asked for their opinion about the tour and how it should run, including equipment and accommodation requirements. When it finally got around to Gary, he paused, looked around the table and said, ‘Look I’ll do it but I don’t wanna touch the drums. I’ll play ’em, but I don’t wanna set ’em up, pull ’em down—nothing. I’ll just walk on, play and fuck off!’ I guess a lifetime of drumming will do that to you, so a special drum roadie was specifically hired for the tour—job done.
Gary’s other pet hate is hanging around at gigs. He is never late, but he turns up at a time that allows him just enough slack to set-up his minimalist kit—kick drum, snare, high hat, one splash cymbal and maybe a floor tom—and be ready to play just as the second hand sweeps the appointed hour for show time. For the next couple of hours Gary is in his element and fully focused on the job at hand. There are no explosive fills or flashy rolls; Gary’s a songwriter and guitar player so he uses his drums as an instrument to bring texture to songs, as opposed to simply playing a rhythm. He was with The Hornets for four years or so, and while he was with us his drumming added nuance and musicality to our set list. He could play a straight ahead ‘Four on the Floor’ style that drove a song along that great rock and roll highway, or he could swing, play a country feel or even jazz improvisations. But his great skill was playing inside the song, wringing out of it every bit of colour and texture, his accents ushering in choruses and chord changes.
But once the final song has come to a climatic end and before the splash cymbal had finished shimmering in the stage lights, Gary’s job was done. As the final thank you to the audience was being delivered over the PA, Gary had his snare in its case, the kick drum on its side and the hi-hat disassembled and in his traps bag. The most common question after a Hornets gig was ‘Where’s Gary?’ And the most common answer was ‘Gary went ages ago.’
‘Hanging post-gig with Gary Young’ is a phrase never used in Australian music circles.
One night we played the Northcote Social Club. It had been a reasonably slow Friday night, the room half-full of people listening politely but not really engaging with the music. Then just as our final set kicked off, a flood of people came through the door. Halfway to home the dance floor was packed and the joint was rocking. Jeff urged the band on by calling for up-tempo versions of ‘Route 66’ and Dylan’s ‘Everything is Broken’. Then, just as we were due to play our final song, Gary stood up from behind his drums and came to the microphone. Gary has a beautiful smoke-and-whiskey-cured voice, a radio voice, a voice that demands attention and he demanded the assembled audience listen to what he had to say. ‘Now listen, you cunts, we’ve been here all night playing our guts out, so where have you all been? Now this is our last song and I don’t want to hear “More, more, more!” at the end of it … Cause ya not gonna fuckin’ get any fuckin’ more! Okay?’
At which point he returned to the drum stool and counted out the start to ‘Baby What’s Wrong With You’ … one two three four BANG! And at the end there were no calls for more, just stunned, nervous silence. Marvellous!
Wayne was a whole other kettle of fish. Over the twenty plus years I played with Wayne in The Hornets I came to understand that he was a gentleman, a gentle man, and a unique bass player. ‘The master of the lost art of the walking bass,’ as Ross Wilson so accurately described.
Over the countless gigs we played together I noticed a couple of things about him. Firstly, women of a certain age loved him. Maybe it was that pixy face of his, or his cheeky smile. Wherever The Hornets played women lined up in front of the band with their copies of Daddy Who?…Daddy Cool, or whatever else, clutched to their eager breasts, their hands gripping permanent marker pens hoping for a kind word from their hero. Wayne always obliged. Secondly middle-aged men also loved Wayne and liked to do things for him, like lump out his amp at the end of a gig, or buy him a beer in the break. Even the Premier of Victoria liked to perform acts of kindness for our Wayne.
One memorable sunny Sunday afternoon, The Hornets had played the St Andrews Hotel and I dropped Wayne at his Avenue home in Surrey Hills, just down the road from the then Victorian Premier, Jeff Kennett. As we drove up the street, I noticed a rather large man wearing an ill-fitting tracksuit pushing a Victor motor-mower up and down Wayne’s front nature strip. As we pulled up outside the house, Wayne fell out of the front seat still clutching a traveller in his right hand, he looked up at the Easter-Island visage of Kennett and said something like ‘G’day Jeff, thanks for doing this mate. Would you like a drink?’ And offered the Premier the half-full/half-empty bottle of warm chardonnay,