RENÉ SCHAEFER reports on The Tote’s final gig which saw 24 bands intimately connected to The Tote’s 29-year history perform across two stages on January 18. Photos by ROBERT CARBONE.

When proprietor Bruce Milne announced the sudden and irrevocable closure of The Tote, the devastating news sent shockwaves through Melbourne’s music community. Ground down by punitive new Liquor Licensing laws, financially ruined by reduced trading hours, temporary trading suspensions and mounting legal costs, and emotionally drained, Milne was forced to capitulate. The wowsers in Victoria’s State Government, who have been hell-bent on tarring culturally significant music venues with the same brush as King Street beer barns, appear to have won.

Sometimes it takes a disaster of these proportions to shock people out of their complacency and make them realise that their culture is under threat. As Milne repeated over and over in the media, it may be too late for The Tote, but the fight continues to save every other rock pub in this city before it’s too late.

Anger, frustration and deep sorrow were the sentiments shared by the faithful who crowded The Tote over its final weekend. As the reality of The Tote’s demise sank in, everybody rallied around Milne and the pub’s dedicated staff. There were hugs and tears and endless debates in the front bar, calls to action in the beer garden and reminiscences about people’s shared history in the band room.

It is no exaggeration that The Tote is as important to the history of Australian rock’n’roll as New York’s CBGB’s was to punk. This history was reflected on the many framed and signed posters that crowded the pub’s walls, which wisely had already been removed in the lead-up to The Tote’s marathon farewell show.

In an almost super-human effort, within three days of Milne’s announcement, The Tote’s booker Amanda Palmer called on 24 bands, which were all intimately connected to The Tote’s 29-year history, to make this send-off a special one. Instrument rental company Billy Hyde supplied backlines for the main stage and the upstairs Cobra Bar, while other local pubs kept supplying the bar with alcohol as stocks dwindled.

Before the doors opened for the last time, just before noon, Milne summoned his loyal staff around him to thank them for contributing to making The Tote the special place it has been in Australia’s cultural landscape. A phalanx of documentary cameras was ready to capture this historic event and emotions ran high as punters started to drift in. Initially, the atmosphere resembled one of the famous lazy Tote Saturday arvos, as a handful of early birds lined the bar. It was a stark contrast to the wall-to-wall frenzy of the preceding weekend.

Before bands kicked off, a special ceremony was held in memory of a slew of rock musicians who have sadly passed away, such as The Powdermonkeys’ Tim Hemmensley and, more recently, Rowland S Howard. In a touching gesture, Noni Dowling scattered some of the ashes of her partner Sean Greenway (GOD, The Freeloaders) on the main stage.

Then it was time to get the mayhem under way. In front of a gradually swelling crowd, Eddy Current Suppression Ring played a manic set of their trademark melodic garage punk. Frontman Brendan Suppression displayed the rambunctious energy he is renowned for, dipping in and out of the audience and seemingly defying gravity as he scaled the rafters. Behind him, the band were having a ball, unencumbered by the audience crush that is a common feature at their headline shows.

The Guttersnipes were a fitting inclusion on the bill, recalling the glory days of the regular “Rock Against Work” weekday gigs at the Tote in the early ’90s. They may have been a bit rusty, having played their last show four years ago, but songs like ‘Pyromania’ still bristled with old-school grunge energy. Their classic single ‘It’s Over’ was entirely apt for the occasion and rapturously received by the long-term fans at the front.

A quick dash upstairs was necessary to catch Kamikaze Trio. As every regular Tote punter knows, the architecture of this intimate room only permits a limited number of people to see bands, as the performance area consists of a box-like room, which blocks the view to anyone not situated directly in front of it’s floor-level stage. Those who managed to get a prime position witnessed a fine set of punk rock mayhem, including Greg Ginn-like guitar wig outs from frontman Sam Agostino.

Meanwhile on the main stage, multi-coloured streamers transformed the room into party central, as Dynamo blasted through an up-beat set of stomping rock. The band, which included a three-piece brass section, soon got people dancing to their soul-inflected party anthems and there were good vibes aplenty. In parting, guitarist Phil Gionfriddo informed the crowd that working as a cleaner at The Tote had been the best “shit job” ever, and it was impossible to doubt him.

The Bombshells played some great Australian punk rock in the Cobra Bar, continuing the musical tradition which is most closely associated with The Tote – fast, melodic tunes, delivered with heaps of energy and attitude. By no means is this the only genre associated with this venue though. The Tote has always prided itself on its inclusivity, and so in contrast, Dave Graney and The Lurid Yellow Mist played a set that was redolent with slinky sleaze, insistent faux-funk grooves and darkly menacing songs such as ‘Bodysnatcher Blues’ from the band’s most recent album Knock Yourself Out.

Back in the Cobra shoebox, The Dacios were determined to destroy what little hearing regular gig goers still have after years of abuse. If any band is going to keep the tradition of balls-to-the-wall raging rock swagger alive, it’s these guys and girl. Seeing The Dacios in full flight is like being taken for a ride by a speed-freak Hell’s Angel on a chopped hog without brakes - you just have to hang on for dear life.

The same could be said for fellow ex-Tasmanians The Nation Blue. What Tom Lyngcoln does to a guitar should probably be illegal. Throwing himself around the stage in complete abandonment in between shredding his vocal cords, he was in constant danger of colliding with microphone stands, amps and drums, or toppling into the audience as he slammed his instrument into the ceiling and headbutted it until his forehead was bruised. Not to be outdone by Lyngcoln, the drummer and bassist played like their lives depended on it. This was punk rock at its finest.

As the very tight playing schedule started to get a little out of synch, it was impossible to catch all the acts. Hence I missed Dan Kelly’s Dream Band in order to catch The Onyas. Bass player Richard Stanley had flown in from Cairns for the occasion, but a lack of time to rehearse did not diminish their ability to play a set that many considered to be one of their best ever. The Onyas do things with minimum fuss. They are tight and fast and loud and that’s the way we like it. Guitarist Macca, who went shirtless for the occasion, dedicated a song to recently deceased US rocker Jay Reatard in a rare divergence from the tributes to The Tote that dominated the day.

“Sometimes it takes a disaster of these proportions to shock people out of their complacency and make them realise that their culture is under threat.”

Legends Of Motorsport brought some much-needed levity to the stage. It’s impossible not to love their high-octane growling guitars and cheesy organ lines, all the while Richard Fyshwyck sings about Mumbai taxis and staying motivated in his public service job.

Another highlight was Deaf Wish, who thrive in cramped little rooms like the Cobra. The way they achieve this is by turning their amps up as loud as they’ll go and going absolutely mental. Guitarist Pete was taking some time out from working behind the bar and relished the chance to blow off some steam as Deaf Wish powered through chaotic versions of ‘Green Flame’ and ‘Mum Gets Punched In The Face’ before the band collapsed in a heap.

Needing some time to recuperate, I missed several bands, such as Spencer Jones and The Escape Committee, Beaches and Digger and The Pussycats, but was back on deck for Hoss on the big stage.

Without exaggeration, frontman Joel Silbersher is a pivotal figure in Melbourne’s rock’n’roll history. As a precocious teenager in the mid-’80s he formed GOD with fellow teen tearaways Matty Whittle, Sean Greenway and Tim Hemmensley. While GOD didn’t set the world on fire, the band’s association with Bruce Milne’s label Au Go-Go spawned the classic 1988 single ‘My Pal’, which has over time risen to anthemic status, rivaling the likes of ‘(I’m) Stranded’ by The Saints. When the band split up, Hemmensley went on to front The Powdermonkeys, while Silbersher started Hoss. Poignantly, the wakes for Greenway and Hemmensley, who passed away in 2000 and 2003 respectively, were held at The Tote.

Rumours had been circulating that Hoss might perform ‘My Pal’ on this auspicious occasion, but as the set drew to close, the crowd’s hopes were dashed. Instead, Hoss set the stage for an emotional speech by Bruce Milne, in which he acknowledged the overwhelming outpouring of grief and support that has come from the music community over the last few days. He once again emphasised the need to oppose the draconian and indiscriminate laws with which the State Government is crippling venue operators and artists alike. He also took the opportunity to thank his staff in public, eliciting tears and a thunderous round of applause when he called Palmer to the stage. Milne stated that none of his employees should be on the dole for long, as they are the best in the business.

Among the inevitable front bar discussions and toasts which followed Milne’s speech, I passed up a chance to see The Town Bikes and stupidly missed all but the last few notes of The Stabs. By all accounts The Stabs pulled out all the stops, ending with Brendan Noonan crowd surfing while still playing his guitar, before thrusting it into the Cobra Bar ceiling and leaving it dangling by its headstock while feeding back.

Not much was known about Precious Jules, but it soon transpired that it was a new group for the legendary Kim Salmon. Comprising of just drums and Salmon on guitar and vocals, the new songs harked back to some of his early influences, such as glam rock and the proto punk of The New York Dolls. Salmon’s vocal delivery was reminiscent of some of The Surrealists’ more rousing moments. A cover of Dee Dee Ramone and Richard Hell’s ‘Chinese Rocks’ turned into a mess of repeatedly fluffed choruses, before Salmon launched into The Scientists’ classic ‘We Had Love’.

At this point I gave up on seeing bands in the Cobra Bar, as negotiating passage from one room to the other became increasingly difficult. It’s a shame really, because following a set by Johnny Casino, the Cobra was turned over to awesome retro bands The Exotics and The Breadmakers, who perfectly matched the bar’s tiki hut theme.

Instead, it was time to time-travel back to the early 1990s, when The Tote was synonymous with bands like The Meanies and Spiderbait, before they became hugely popular. Nostalgia was rife as The Meanies plowed through a set of golden oldies. Bass player Wally Kempton later returned to the stage for a rousing rendition of Spiderbait’s hit cover of Leadbelly’s ‘Black Betty’. Spiderbait were a last-minute replacement for Cosmic Psychos, as news was received halfway through the day that Psychos bass player Ross Knight had injured himself while doing bench presses. Apparently he quipped that maybe it was time for him to be put down.

Mostly, Spiderbait performed as the duo of Whitt and Kram, as bassist Janet English was reportedly unwell and couldn’t make the trip. The fact that Spiderbait jumped at the opportunity to perform speaks volumes about the goodwill of all the artists who agreed to play. Organisers had deliberately chosen not to divulge the exact line-up until after tickets had sold out, in order to keep the focus squarely on The Tote rather than attract people purely because their favourite band was playing.

As a packed bandroom waited in anticipation of The Drones, the final band ever to play The Tote, there was a strange sense of sadness and excitement in the air. In the front rows there were Tote employees past and present, supporting each other at a difficult moment. Then the band tore into a ferocious set of primal blues and noise, that was fuelled by a righteous fury. Stage left, Dan Luscombe writhed with his guitar like he was wrestling live snakes; Fiona Kitschin, who pulled pints at The Tote back in the day, belied her calm demeanour with sledgehammer bass riffs; the dapper Mike Noga belted the living crap out of the drums; and Gareth Liddiard snarled and spat his way through the set, his guitar constantly feeding back under the flurry of notes. It was truly intense.

The crowd worked up to a frenzy, not really wanting this night to end, and wondering how The Drones could possibly bring it to a climax. The answer came as the band shuddered to a halt in a rain of guitar noise. “Joel Silbersher, wherever you are, you can make your way to the stage now,” yelled Luscombe. The penny dropped as Silbersher clambered onto the stage and the crowd erupted as Luscombe struck up the first notes of the greatest riff ever written. Yes, The Drones were playing ‘My Pal’ with Silbersher on vocals.

The audience became a seething mass of flailing bodies and pointing fingers as everybody joined in on the chorus: “You’re my only friend/ You don’t even like me.” The band played the song utterly faithful to the original, but with an intensity entirely their own, while Joel’s trademark growl was full of spite and spit. The mosh pit was so intense at this point that the sub-bass speaker at the side of the stage was pushed all the way to the wall by the crush of the crowd.

As the song came to a cacophonous conclusion, Silbersher launched himself into the crowd, which raised him above their heads and bore him aloft for what seemed like minutes. As he was passed back onto the stage, a huge cheer went up, which soon turned into a chant. Tote. Tote. Tote. Nobody wanted the night to stop and the only way to prolong the moment was to keep cheering.

But it had to finish, and there were tears and hugs aplenty as people shuffled out of The Tote for the last time, realising they had just witnessed the end of an era and an event that will stay with them for the rest of their lives. One bizarre final sight was a punter taking to the legendary sticky carpet with a Stanley knife and cutting himself a perfect square as a memento.

RIP The Tote. We will miss you.

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