Dig. David Nichols S.

lurking in every corner, is packed solid, and on Saturday nights 600 or more will be found slumped on the steps or milling round the dance floor. North Sydney’s sober purlieus have been enlivened of late by Here, a brash discotheque that is open until well past midnight; the Manly Pacific Hotel is crammed on Saturdays for the Questions, and the P.A. Club at Prince Alfred Hospital jumps to the Castaways group; along the North Shore a string of wine bars and discotheques rivals the more urban attractions of the Hawaiian Eye, the Whisky a Go Go, the Vibes, and Beethoven’s. None of these places can match the Melbourne discotheques, headed by Sebastian’s and Bertie’s, which have superb bands and facilities and feature the liveliest singers in the country.⁴²

      In 1970, the Bulletin returned to the Whisky a Go Go, which it declared to be Sydney’s most successful disco, ‘a fitting place for the rhythmic pulsations to be shared in the no-touch, do-your-own-thing that has become the disco job pattern.’ Jonathan’s, an old cinema on Broadway (a road south of the city centre which turns into George Street, central Sydney’s main thoroughfare) with silver walls, ‘plush lounges, shaped Perspex lighting and a sound system of infinite complexity.’ Its ‘ten-man resident group, the Complex, threw away its Sergio Mendes bag and delved deep into the eclectic cornucopia of the “new” rock. The ties and jackets rule was relaxed.’ Other discos, at this time, were Stagecoach, Caesar’s Palace (which Keays describes as ‘a seedy late-night dive in the heart of downtown Sydney.’⁴³ It was the venue where Chain recorded their debut album, Chain Live⁴⁴), and Caesar’s In Place.⁴⁵ The Masters Apprentices were also welcomed at Ward Austin’s Jungle ‘and countless suburban dances from Hunters Hill to St Ives and Clovelly.’⁴⁶

      For Keays, Melbourne similarly presented ‘an endless procession of suburban dances. These were held in Mechanic’s Institute Halls, Masonic Halls, Scout halls, town halls – in fact any hall that would allow rock ’n’ roll music.’⁴⁷ Halls would take on temporary names as venues: Broadmeadows Town Hall was the ‘Palace’⁴⁸ and later the White Elephant and (as mentioned earlier) Beaumaris Civic Centre was ‘Stonehenge’. Keays later adds Lion’s Clubs to the list of potential venues.⁴⁹ The large number of venues around the city and its hinterland meant there was plenty of work for bands; however, it also meant that bands had to travel widely – and fast – between shows:

      We would do three gigs a night most Fridays and Saturdays no matter what state we were in – stoned or Queensland . . . It was a mad dash to make them all. Each dance featured three bands and there was no margin for error.⁵⁰

      Mike Rudd, who saw enough of this life in his own professional career in the Party Machine and others, can also stand back and critique the practice:

      When I first went as Joe Public to Sebastian’s and saw the Loved Ones, I was just knocked out. I thought they were the best thing I’d ever seen. But they’d do the same thing – they’d do half an hour at Sebastian’s, and then off they went, and they’d do maybe two or three spots a night. And that actually killed that band. They cite that as the reason, because they had half an hour’s worth of material, that’s all they did.

      The groups’ equipment was, by necessity, relatively portable, according to Rudd:

      They’d be using their own equipment, but it’d be tiny. It’d be very similar to what bands are doing today, mostly, which is carrying a little portable amp. The PAs were even portable, but the PAs would be there because they’d be act one or two or three on the night, and they wouldn’t mic anything up. Those were the days! . . . I actually enjoyed those days. Soundwise it was at a reasonable level, you couldn’t get above a hundred watts anywhere, doing anything, so audiences and musicians weren’t being deafened as a matter of course.

      Well the Thumpin’ Tum was a tiny place, Sebastian’s was tiny, the Catcher was reasonably large and they probably had a slightly bigger PA than most places, but the technology just wasn’t there, you didn’t have three-way or four-way PAs, it was just column speakers – that was it, that was as dangerous as it got.

      THE LOVED ONES AND ‘THE LOVED ONE’

      The late 1960s – hippiedom, psychedelia and associated elements – remain iconic and fascinating to many members of the generation which experienced them firsthand and many who have come to them since then. The era has, not surprisingly, been the focus of numerous books and films, both fiction and factual. Iain McIntyre’s Tomorrow Is Today is a particularly valuable and in-depth overview of Australian pop in its wider social context between 1966 and 1970, and is strongly recommended for anyone with a particular interest in that scene. This chapter strives to avoid replicating material from that book, but it is so good that some duplications cannot be avoided. McIntyre’s praise for the Loved Ones – shared by Mike Rudd, whose late-70s band, Instant Replay, did a version of the Loved Ones’ ‘Everlovin’ Man’⁵¹ – as an undeniably original and irresistible Australian group of the 60s – is one of these.

      The Red Onions Jazz Band was briefly discussed in chapter 2 as an example, perhaps, of a jazz collective that walked and talked like a pop group, with its Dadaist humour and unique personality. In October 1965, with their second album, Wild Red Onions, still unreleased, three members of the group – Gerry Humphrys, Kim Lynch, and the orchestrator of the coup, relative newcomer Ian Clyne⁵² – went into the studio with former Wild Cherries guitarist Rob Lovett for what was ostensibly another Red Onions recording session.⁵³ To the surprise of their label, W&G, they emerged as the Loved Ones, with a new sound and a new song – ‘The Loved One’. ‘I suddenly found that to me, quite realistically, my roots were in blues,’ Humphrys told Nigel Buesst, ‘so I rapidly learnt to play the harmonica . . . it was R’n’B with baroque classical influences I find it very hard to put a tag on.’⁵⁴ ‘The Loved One’, patched together in the studio and a perfect example of seemingly artless high complexity in music, was perfect. Humphrys included handclaps in the verse because he felt that without them ‘people are going to get lost’.⁵⁵

      The unusual and non-intuitive nature of the Loved Ones’ material is best demonstrated by Humphrys’ obvious inability to mime to it during the group’s many television appearances: he anticipates exultations that aren’t there and consistently mouths the wrong words.⁵⁶ Yet it’s clear that Humphrys was the heart and soul of the group, which peaked quickly and died within two years, the victim of its own inexperience and overwork. Clyne had been sacked early in the piece, for being too organised and ambitious, while W&G’s unwillingness to invest in the band, along with the various demands of fame and fortune, proved to be a drag on the group’s creativity, to name but three bummers. In Nigel Buesst’s 2000 film about Humphrys, Lynch complains of having ‘no time to refresh or write new material, half-hour spots . . . the band was stagnating, frankly.’⁵⁷

      Many a time with the Loved Ones, the original inspiration just sounded so much better. That’s why, in the end, we used to compose in the studio. That’s the way I find I can work, personally, Of course it’s a bit of a bind for the musos, because they like to be a little more secure.⁵⁸

      ‘The Loved Ones was basically a revivalist group’, Humphrys told Daily Planet in 1971. At one stage we had three records in the top ten. Once we had become successful, we were obliged to play only our records. It was all too commercial, and I got out. It took me two years to recover from that incredible scene.⁵⁹

      The Loved Ones split in October 1967, though they reformed briefly in early 1968 for a 3XY ‘pop happening’ where, it was reported, they wore ‘clothes designed by up and coming gear designer Helen Hooper’ and attended ‘a select orgy in her honour.’⁶⁰

      Writer Barry Dickins met Humphrys in 1969, by which time he was working as a set designer for TV’s Channel 7. He remembered him as ‘a man who made me laugh as soon as I looked at him . . . a Cockney bloke with enormous black eyes and remarkable long black hair and dimples. Gerry Humphreys [sic] and I started working immediately, making a papier maché walnut some 70 feet in length. It was