Unfinished Melbourne: Day 4

Soundtrack: “Unfinished Sympathy”, Massive Attack

Today was kind of a rest day, in that I had definite leg tireds so hoped to not walk so much. I decided that if I wasn’t going back to the old breakfast favourite cafe, I’d be totally promiscuous and not even go back to yesterday’s spot. Instead I crossed the laneway to a place offering middle eastern style eggs. These came out in a scorching hot dish, swimming with meatballs in a tomato sauce, along with some creamy labneh. With a couple of fingers of crusty bread on the side it was a decent way to start the day. Probably not every day, though if they could make the dish work and still deliver runny yolks I’d be in heaven. The coffee was decent as well. I noticed the cafe also does a pay-it-forward coffee scheme, so I dropped five dollars into that.

At dinner on Saturday I’d had a book recommended, The Malt Whisky Murders, by Natalie Jayne Clark. As this was recommended by folks who know good books, I thought it wise to acquire a copy before I left town and forgot. So began the quest.

The first stop was The Emporium, a shiny vacuous mall whose lower floors are full of brand name shops selling expensive trinkets and baubles to folks with far too much money. Or at least they would be selling if there was anyone there, but on a Monday morning my footsteps were almost echoing through the deserted halls. I could feel my soul being slowly drained the longer I spent strolling on the tiles and riding the escalators. I was only there as it promised a branch of Readings, one of Melbourne’s well regarded bookstores. Things didn’t bode well from the outset, as the path to the crime and mystery section was blocked by a salesperson standing right in the middle of the aisle, assisting a customer. I stood patiently waiting as the customer kept asking for books and themes that they didn’t have. I’d managed to squeeze past by the time the customer requested books by Jeffrey Archer, and when the assistant replied they didn’t have many of his books, I couldn’t stop an audible “Thank god for that” escaping my lips. If either heard they didn’t respond, but I quickly scanned the Cs and saw I’d be departing empty handed, so I fled.

I headed north to the main Readings store in Carlton, hoping they’d be the end of the quest, but sadly it wasn’t the case. They had a bunch of books of various genres that seemed interesting, a couple of neat titles in the music section, but nothing I needed to immediately own and carry back across the Nullabor. They also had books that saddened me to the core, autobiographies by greedy white men seem to be in no short supply. Similarly it sems the estate of Anthony Bourdain appear to be flogging his corpse through new versions of his books as well as sticking his name on several other works. Disheartened, and with possibly irreparably soul damage — afterall I had gone to two bookshops without buying a single thing — I hopped on a bus and headed to Rock, Salt and Vinegar where the interwebs promised me deep fried cheesecake in an open store.

The interwebs frequently lie, and such was the case again. If this was some Campbellesque journey I would surely have been joined by a companion by now to aid the quest, guiding me to a secret place of deep fried cheesecake, but it was just me who boarded the tram back to the CBD. I’m noticing something about folks on trams this visit I don’t think I’ve seen before, when folks get to a vacant seat they’ll sit on the aisle, not the window, as if challenging anyone who also wants to sit down to think again, before generally begrudgingly letting them through rather than just shuffling their ass over. I don’t know why, but I’ve seen it regularly. Maybe I show as an out of towner by actually choosing the window seat.

Having been promiscuous enough, I headed back to the Spanish influenced Degraves Cafe for a pared down version of yesterday’s breakfast, a tapas serve of bombas and a cafe bonbon, a whole lotta bo happening there. Bother were delicious, the pick-me-up I needed. Fortified, I thought I’d try my luck with Dymocks.

Melbourne’s central Dymocks is surprisingly a rather decent store. In Perth, Dymocks seems to be on its last legs (then again we are full of rednecks) but Melbourne is going strong, both in terms of patronage and selection. The store is bright, well laid out, and inviting. In comparison, Readins feels like you need to have a university student number in your present of past to shop there, or at least a couple of turtle-neck skivvies and a selection of hipster knitware. Dymocks welcomes all (though I didn’t check if they had any Jeffrey Archer). The crime and mystery section was located, and there, on the bottom shelf, tucked between some larger tomes, was the book. With Ms Clark’s book in hand a weight lifted from my soul.

After a blog stop and rest at the hotel, it was time for the main reason I was here: Massive Attack. Some of Bristol’s finest, curators of some iconic 1990s songs, activists, artists, alleged close personal friends of Banksy, and generally talented folk who talk the talk and walk the walk — a couple of years ago they put on a festival that was so green it almost generated power. Last week they unfurled a Palestinian flag in Singapore and were promptly told never to come back there (side note, if I’d gone to that show my airfare would have been cheaper than my Melbourne flights). Regular readers may recall I saw them with L in Stockholm on the Baltics tour a couple of years ago, and they were amazing then.

This show promised to be as amazing, if quite similar (they haven’t released any new albums since). And I didn’t care, because they were bringing Elizabeth Fraser to sing. I’m pretty sure I described hearing her sing “Song to the Siren” last time as a beyond bucket-list experience, so to get to hear it again must make me one of the most fortunate people to have ever lived.

I originally picked my hotel as it was convenient to Southern Cross Station (Spencer Street for the older readers) as well as a simple tram ride to The Forum when I came here to see The Breeders. As it turns out, it’s also a single tram to the Rod Laver Arena, so I got to the venue well early. Near the MCG, this is the heart of Melbourne tennis country, home of the Australian Open, and next door to the Rod Laver arena is a similar stadium named after a former tennis legend-turned loony conservative cult leader, I guess you can’t always have all the good things.

After giving a rather unsavoury glare at the asshole who cut in front of me in the merch queue (as well as the staff who saw this and still served him) I bought my overpriced t-shirts and headed to the food. While Massive Attack have been known to insist on vegan only food at concerts, it doesn’t appear to be the case here as the offering appeared to be the venue’s regular fare. I had low expectations, it’s stadium food afterall, so figured I’d be okay with a burger and chips. And they were okay, not up there with the Butcher cheese burger, but happily free from brioche. I also got a bottle of water, and the server went to lengths to advise me they operate a lid-free policy, all bottles would have their lids removed at point of sale. If it was a glass bottle of beer I’d kind of understand it, but a plastic water bottle was beyond my comprehension. I just smiled and nodded along. Maybe next time I go to a gig there I’ll try to fuck with the man and bring my own lid (I’m guessing the detector wand they scan everyone with won’t detect that). Then I took a seat and waited for M and P to arrive.

I found the Welcome to Country a little weird, for reasons that I hope make sense. I love events having a Welcome to Country, and have been to enough that in Perth these are a familiar thing, generally starting with “Kaya wandju” and talking about “Whadjuk Noongar boodjar”. So it was weird to be presented with one in a completely different language, welcoming me with a “Wominjeka” to Kulin country. Seeing something so familiar, yet so different, yet still completely correct, it took my poor old mind a little while to get around it all.

The support was DJ PGZ, and he played some good grooves. We were seated up high, so couldn’t really do much more than some chair grooving, but hopefully the standing folks were getting down.

Massive Attack were predictably incredible. They don’t tend to move a lot on stage, instead letting the music and visual backdrop do the work. It’s a mesmerising wall of sound, of a group of musicians just getting down to it. Behind them runs a curated display of ways the rich and powerful are fucking up the planet, it’s not for the faint-hearted, yes Massive Attack are political so if you’re there because you like “Teardrop” well you’re in for a bit of a surprise. I think the folks sitting next to me were, as they just seemed clueless, the folks at every gig who I wish weren’t, there was the arriving late after Massive Attack had already started (apparently Melbourne folks are notoriously crap at that), the inability to shut the fuck up during the performance, the getting up and down all the time, and the videoing songs with the flash on — dude, you’re 200m away from the stage, it ain’t gonna do anything except piss off your fellow attendees.

In spite of my justified misanthropy, the performance was awesome. Similar to previous, but if the formula is so good why mess with it? With vocalists Horace Andy, Elizabeth Fraser, and Deborah Miller in amazing voice, they play the songs that use them best. “Song to the Siren” gives me goosebumps every single time, even while I just type this sentence. Deborah Miller may have been even better on “Unfinished Sympathy” than last time. By the time the final notes of “Teardrop” faded I, and everyone in the arena, had experienced something pretty special.

I bid farewell to M and P, and squeezed onto a tram heading to the city. Talking with a few folks on the tram, it was generally agreed that the only way the show could have been better was the addition of Tracey Thorn doing “Protection”, and “Karmacoma” with Tricky (I’m sure that 3D and Daddy G hang off every word of this blog so they know now what they have to do). Fortunately it seems the Victorian public transport folks put on extra trams for events, so it wasn’t the longest wait for one, and almost too soon I was back in my room for one last night.

In addition to it being a twice-in-a-lifetime night, it was also a once-every-five-years night, national census. Time to participate in Australia’s statistical selfie, this time from a different state to my place or residence. Every hotel guest staying tonight was given one on check-in, possibly also a pen but I had to ask at reception for one as I might have lost it. With half a reheated HSP in one hand, I dutifully filled out all of the questions, a little disappointed that none were “Did you go to an awesome Massive Attack concert this evening?” but at least I could say that no, I didn’t go to work today. The hardest part was probably having to remember how to write in block capitals (“adult letters” as they are known in Obi’s house — lowercase are the child letters) and to colour in the little bar answers while staying within the lines.

My statistics dutifully recorded, my heart still full of amazing music, I half-heartedly looked at my packing and decided to set the alarm a little earlier tomorrow to sort it then. And yes, dear reader, today was indeed an alcohol free day.