My Super Fun, Happy Weekend of Joy: Rose Sees Crowded House

Never one to treat myself (other than with wine, cake and a stroll through my mansion), when Ben first suggested I catch Crowded House for a one-off show at the Sydney Opera House for which they were reforming, I thought little of it. “Who me?” I asked, drawing a ciggie from my white tee sleeve and a hand through greasy hair. “I ain’t nothing to nobody, mister. Nothin’ but trouble.”

“’Choo talkin’ ’bout, motherfucka?! You gotta take life by the balls or dey gon’ eat you ’live!” he spat from under dirty dreadlocks. And so it was agreed upon. I would traverse the treacherous skies to Sydney and risk our savings for a chance at joy. And if I was to find a new, better life up there, I could never return and that would also be ok (an unspoken clause which flashed briefly in his eyes).

The truth of the matter is, I bloody love Crowded House and when I realised Ben wasn’t kidding, I didn’t need convincing. When I was 8, my mother started listening to Woodface after the death of a family friend who I adored, so for me this album is emotionally laden. My siblings and I used to sing the more playful tracks together, directing the line, “Here comes Mrs Hairy Legs” to our unkempt mother. I loved Neil Finn’s soulful, somehow savoury voice and came to appreciate the band’s politely suggestive lyrics. While modern songmen will f@#k you in the club, Crowded House ask that you “read me like a book that’s falling down between your knees, please,” striking an improbably chord of chivalrous lust. To summarise their inventive analogies would be to “try to catch the deluge in a paper cup.” They sing of the bliss and torture of domesticity, perfecting the art of making the ordinary extraordinary. They’re just the best you’re gonna get and to argue otherwise would actually be rude, at this point.

The two shows sold out in 2 seconds, but my sister snapped up a Flight Centre package for the two of us and our brother and the time finally came for us to pack our 7kg luggage. Never having brought only carry-on, I took my packing very seriously to avoid a fee (or, you never know - heavy jail term) and even removed unnecessary cards from my purse. My pyjama pants didn’t make the cut but my siblings and I used to share a bath, so I figured it would be nostalgic. Bec and I lamented our abandoned high fashion but agreed it might be lame to be the only people arrested for smuggling in shoes up our butts. As I placed my bags upon the airport scales, shaking with fear and looking for the nearest exit, my perfectionism peaked when the total weight was revealed at 7kg exactly. It seems these scales were provided for our convenience only, however, as no one officially weighed our bags; So, I was traveling to Sydney pantsless while  Bec and Johnny snuck-in their 8.5kg brick sacks! I tried to find somebody to bust them, but the staff seemed more concerned about ‘real security issues,’ whatever that means.

I’d planned a healthy weekend for some demented reason and even told myself, “I won’t need alcohol to have fun." This literally lasted until 10 minutes before boarding when we saw our first bar and couldn’t pass up a beer.. at 9:30am. We drank CC and champagne on the plane and sung “I’m So Fancy” so many times that the other passengers knew t’was so. I pledged our souls to Satan if he’d only crash us on the way home, and we arrived safely in Sydney.

The next point in my notes for this blog was simply, “Johnny eats a pigeon.” Yep, that line jogged the memory! We had lunch (and more booze. Why not?) at one of those skin and bones Chinese joints with the more traditional, scary dishes, and Johnny ordered  sky vermin like a matter of course. When quizzed, the gentleman only answered, “You’ve gotta try everything.” We’re in Sydney, mate, not an exotic country. The poor street bird came out with crispy head and all, which was fortunately not on Johnny’s list to try.

The big event that evening was to be held outdoors with the stage facing the Opera House, and general admission included the steps and standing room – or, ‘old people mosh pit.’ Arriving shortly after the gates opened, we were surprised to find most of the prime seating already taken and found a spot along the front steps. Our view would eventually be obscured by the standing crowd but we realised we’d done quite well as we watched people pour in for hours and fill some out very average positions. Right before show time, a baby boomer dressed wholly in white, like a shining beacon of arseholedom, asked whether she and her daughter could sit between our feet.. I said she was welcome but demonstrated that we wouldn’t be capable of tucking our legs up any higher, and she took the opportunity to sit right on the bottom step and spread her food and drinks across the walkway. Bec was furious that we’d made the effort to arrive early and someone could still squish us in for the rest of the night. She refused to budge her feet, which the entitled woman tried pushing aside, and gave our new friend what my husband has famously termed a ‘Bec look.’ The ladies behind us witnessed this interaction and encouraged Bec to kick White Woman’s drink over. When the old girl managed to do this herself, we were satisfied that justice had been served.  She later shoved through the standing crowd and disrupted some other early patrons, and we were able to sit-dance freely.

The opening act was one Kirin J Callinan, who I’d never seen before but will certainly remember with his tight orange tank and grey slacks combo, dangly earrings and, most notably, magnificent mullet with bleached tips. The music was unusual instrumentally as well as vocally, Kirin speaking some lyrics, singing melodically and occasionally dipping into a deep, metal tone. Thrusting and almost prancing across the stage, we initially wondered, “Where the hell did Crowded House get this guy?!” but were quickly won over by his confident grin, cheeky banter and complete commitment to his unique style. I did have to giggle over his last bizarre, acapella track written from a toddler’s perspective, which he also performed shirtless. I particularly liked Embracism: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q_gtwhDklaQ.

We’d enjoyed the supporting act, sure, but when those beautiful bastards Crowded House stepped out (or, ‘the Ch,’ as they’d been named while we waited), the rumble of applause was put to shame by a pandemonium of cheer. They launched straight into Mean to Me, which happens to be my top pick these days, followed directly by my other most played track of late, World Where You Live. It was at this point that I looked up at a twinkling star and thought I could climb into space and happily die. The boys’ voices were still like honey, their energy palpable and their suits a symbol of ongoing professionalism - for indeed, they truly ‘brought it.’ Neil was the stand-out in purple and had a jovial rapport with the crowd to match. He involved his fans by leading us in harmony and it was simply unreal to be singing along in person with my favourite band. They shared that typical Aussie/Kiwi offbeat humour - as we joined in with Neil, Nick called out, “All the Catholics!”

For our concert-going experience to really feel complete, we agreed we’d need to join the standing crowd and made a dash for it close to finish time. Bec squeezed us through the groups while Johnny yelled from the back, “Get closer! You’re a girl, they’ll let you,” and I absorbed all the unimpressed glares from the middle (an innocent hostage, I swear!). I realised we were just like that a-hole who’d pushed in front of us, but it had to be done. (We stopped halfway in, so we were only half bad.) Tim Finn made a surprise appearance at this point and the encore was a perfect selection of Don’t Dream it’s Over & Something So Strong. I felt I was floating on air as my physical body crunched over the plastic bottles and wrappers like popcorn when we left.  

We spent the next day wandering around Elizabeth Bay and laying under fig trees, like people who don’t have any kids. We lost Johnny in a Kings Cross toilet at one point (lengthy dunny stops being his thing, not hooking up with Cross types) and began to wonder if he’d somehow walked off unnoticed. It was one of those always-gross electronic toilets with a big metal door, which Bec noted would at least automatically open after 10 minutes if he was stuck. A mysterious alarm sounded for about 30 seconds, which turned out to be the toilet goer's cue to finish their business. We watched in hysterics as Johnny’s door roll wide open and was followed by his hand trying to close it, again! Oh, man.. Get your shit together, Johnny. Literally. 
We stayed with our cousin Lal and her partner Amshu that night in their beautiful apartment overlooking the bay. Lal had kindly sourced us some bedding, which Johnny chose not to use. He'd planned to blow-up his own mattress when he got back from meeting a friend but we found him sleeping on the flat plastic in the morning, ‘padded’ with 2 sheets. Haha, open-toilet, no-bed Johnny. Lal and Amshu took Bec and I out for Thai and vino and were just bloody lovely hosts, might I add. On the plane home in the morning, we held hands cryin’ like Thelma and Louise, but we landed without a hitch and returned to our lives (changed forever. Long live the Ch!).