Smoking with the Cosmic Psychos
As some HPers know I’ve had to spend a good bit of time in Australia and New Zealand recently and for the most part nothing particularly interesting or fun happened with the exception of getting to see the legendary pub/yob/punk band The Cosmic Psychos in Brisbane.
After a particularly stressful day of dealing with pencil necked bureaucrats pissing and moaning I decided to grab a meal of deep lard fried gristle, a gassy lager and chips that seemingly had been dragged through the Gulf of Mexico for a week or so. Once the insurgency in my gut declined in intensity I noticed that my fellow patrons in the den of intestinal abuse in which I was lounging were excitedly jabbering about some gig so I casually strolled over to spy the flyer they were drooling over and noted it was for local anti-heroes The Cosmic Psychos. One of the fans who looked a bit like a collision between a quarter ton of pork and a couple of tectonic plates looked up at me with a toothy grin and said I looked like a cannibal’s leftovers and ask what happened. I replied I lost a fight with a penguin which after a slack jawed moment caused a torrent of laughter and an invitation to go see the band play.
We stepped out to begin our journey and discovered that our transport was a glorious Holden GTS Monero muscle car fitted with a monstrous 500 C.I. Cadillac engine with an intake plenum as big around as a pint glass, a bunch of vintage Predator injectors and an ancient GMC blower. After a bit of gratuitous weenie smoking (a hot rodder term, look it up) we picked up hitchhiking little red headed hottie wearing a Peter & the Test Tube Babies ( what I wouldn’t have given to have a girl like that 30+ years back!) before we continued on our way after stopping at my hotel to grab my Furat champaign narghile and some smoking supplies. Our host suggested we grab some beer and I ask what sorta lager he wanted which prompted our lithesome little seat cover to blurt out that only poofters drink lager so I grabbed a couple of cases of Sheaf Stout and a bunch of dry ice instead. After about 30 or so pavement shaking, deafening minutes we grabbed some gyros and a fellow that looked disturbingly similar to Erik Stoltz in Killing Zoe and a freshly bathed ant eater on a leash which oddly enough didn’t surprise me at all.
The next half an hour was filled with the not quite melodious sounds of Vice Squad and Peter & the Test Tube Babies (those are great old Brit punk/oi bands for the youngsters out there) and the little spinner arguing with the Erik Stoltz look-a-like about the virtues of Holden Vs. Ford and why Bored rocks out better then The Lime Spiders. We arrived at the venue to be greeted by the wonderful sensory combo of heat haze, wailing feedback, a few hundred sweaty drunks, old grease and Dr Tim’s Ale knowing that a night to be remembered was getting underway. We all had a blast singing the classics like “Go the Hack”, “20 *** Screamer”, “Come On K*nt”, “Can’t Come In”, “The Man that Drank too Much” and a hundred other songs not fit for the civilized world. While all of this was going on the anteater was being used as tool to help pull betties for the Erik Stoltz look-a-like which was odd because the critter was more interested in sucking up bits of pork pies and probing the mysterious links between amplifiers and power sockets. Eventually that ended in a bit of agro as a marshal cabinet toppled over onto a nearly comatose Australian Land Manatee that proceeded to chase the insect hoovering critter around the club toppling pints and causing a fuss that struck me as not quite unexpected or disturbing. As it turned out the furry explorer was safely retrieved by his owner and the show continued without anything more then a punch up and a bit of fumbled attempts by some yobs trying to probe the mysteries of the little hitchhiker that for some reason chose to stick close to me.
After the show my compatriots had a delayed departure as a result of car trouble and since my help wasn’t wanted I fired up my little Furat champagne narghile and sat back to enjoy the pleasures of some Nakhla Bata and Sheaf Stout which attracted the attention of the band. After answering the usual questions I got to spend a pleasant time passing around the hose and chatting about the days of Aussie punk gone by, the virtues of stout, the evils of college pop and penguins and why Holden is better then Ford. I was more then a bit surprised that lads had an affinity for moassel and provided good company with no antics at all. Most of all, I was surprised to find out that the band really does work on a farm and drive tractors.
Feeling a bit tipsy I was delighted to discover that my transport was back in order and that the little spinner was oddly enough totally sober and willing to drive. We did end up offering a lift to a girlfriend of hers that had a spat with her thug paramour. As it turned out the young lady had a liter milk jug filled with a lovely warm dokha that had a distinct hickory taste to it. She passed around a very large brass medwakh that I suppose held about 25 grams worth of tobacco and had a little water filter. Speeding along in the wee hours of the morning listening to Bored on a very loud car stereo and an even louder engine while smoking dokha while next to a sleeping a anteater and a very cute hitchhiker struck me as a scenario right out of a Douglas Adam’s story but I suppose it’s just the way my life runs.