Boy On Fire

The Brisbane concert was in fact the only one that I'd had any intention of going to. A friend of mine from Vancouver (well, she's Welsh, but I know her from Vancouver) was living in Brisbane at the time I originally planned the trip. By the time I booked and paid for the trip she was living in Perth and by the time I actually got to Australia she was back in Canada which made visiting her in Australia a bit challenging, but the important thing was I had a ticket for the INXS concert in Brisbane. And, happily, the entire Cairns-Townsville crowd were going to be there, all very happy and excited to be celebrating the birthday of a man we've never met nor are particularly likely to. And we'd be celebrating this bum-in-cake anniversary at an out door concert in the Botanical Gardens. In the pissing down rain.

It is curiously prophetic that I noted only a few days previously in this very blog that I had risked "life or at least sandals" to make it to the front of the barrier for the Kuranda concert - or maybe I am just tragically aware of my own clutziness - because those very sandals were sadly sacrificed at the mud-bath that was Glaston-bane. Not to make it to the front, but to return to our crew - near enough to the front - with alcoholic sustenance. Had I known that Kirk was going to be pouring out champagne for the crowd a short while later, I might not have bothered and would still be in possession of my funky Sienna Miller-like shoes. In all fairness, I can't blame Kirk entirely (or to be really fair, at all) because it was no one's fault but my own that I chose to run from the bar kiosk at the top of the grassy steepness back down to the stage area where us die-hards had jealously guarded our spots for the previous four hours. I didn't do too badly - I managed to get a good three quarters of the way down, dashing gaily, before I tripped and skidded - mud-skied, really - for around four or five feet… sadly not bringing my sandals along for the trip. They were thong-like, with an ankle strap, and somehow as I skied through the mud, both of the bits that attach the strap to the base of the shoe (through my toes) snapped at the same time so that I shot forward with what was left of my shoes trailing pathetically behind. I didn't, incidentally, spill a drop of the drinks, but I had no time to pat myself on the back (and I most certainly would have spilled the drinks if I had) because I had to figure out how I was going to walk the rest of the way with my entirely useless shoes. The answer, I discovered with entertaining trial and error, was to step by flinging each leg forward with such force that the soles of the shoes swung up to meet the soles of my feet and then stamping down quickly before they swang back again. The effect - if you will forgive my momentary political incorrectness - was of a drunken, enthusiastic Gestapo. I managed to lop-sidedly goose-step, thinking to myself how intimidatingly cool I was and if only JD could see me now he'd probably faint with lust, back to our crew where the girls cheerfully accepted their drinks and erected a feet-fort of bags to create a safe space for me to remain barefoot without risking sacrificing my toes to an enthusiastic mosher.

The show itself, predictably enough, was great; it had an edgier vibe than the slick, tight, on-fire-ness of Kuranda and Townsville - more of a sense of abandon, as if at any moment they might go "fuck it, let's play some Chumbawumba" or set their hair on fire or something. That's an appropriate thought, as it happens. At the beginning of the encore, they very sweetly brought out a birthday cake for JD, and we all sang Happy Birthday. It was actually the third time we'd sang it, but the during the first two he'd had his ear piece thingy in so I don't think he heard. He looked genuinely touched, almost overwhelmed - there is an interesting dichotomy about JD, incidentally: he morphs from sex god into little boy lost - and, thankfully, back again - in seconds, and as he looked lost for words and hugged all of the guys, we turned to one another with "aww, bless him" looks. But I digress - seconds later JD, with clearly more important things on his mind than remembering to blow out candles before sticking his arse on them, jumped on the cake. Luckily, Andrew had a water bottle handy (song writing genius, the only human who can make the harmonica sexy and fire warden!) and, well, I've always said that JD has a smoking arse…

Bless him.

The wild, party atmosphere was most certainly felt in the crowd too - rather than a load of strangers who happened to buy tickets for the same show, it really felt like a garden party of almost 10,000 where drinks were passed around and our mates played some tunes. It was one of those gigs, where, as the crowd streams out afterwards, you randomly turn to the people you are stumbling next too, start chatting about what you thought of it or the last time you saw the band, and end up drinking 'till dawn. Actually, most INXS gigs are like that - whatever else you can say about us X heads (it is difficult to make clear in text, but I say that ironically - honest!) we are certainly sociable - and Brisbane was no exception. After a brief trip to a late night Target to procure some $5 shoes, the Cairns-Townsville crew, plus a multitude of stragglers (basically anyone we gathered from the crowd or passed on the pavement wearing an INXS t shirt) convened in a bar where we bullied the DJ into playing all INXS - and when he finally rebelled and played some other, random, pointless music, gathered in a corner and proceeded to warble a medley covering the entire 30 year back catalogue. It is possibly somewhat astounding that out of the entire crowd, not one of us could hold a tune. It was, most certainly "not roit", but it was fun. I believe that we toasted the birthday boy. I know that we toasted Tim's pornstache and Kirk's taste in shoes - although I don't know why - and I know that as the lights went on and the bouncers tried to persuade us to go home I was sitting on the floor with the other Jonette (the one who'd been given the other drum stick by Tony back in Townsville) deeply discussing the wonderous, splendorous, gorgeousness that is Jon Farriss.