West Head, a VW and a message from God

 

I stood in the darkness looking out over the smooth, inky waters of Broken Bay, the streetlights on the headland at Palm Beach reflected below. I could make out the silhouettes of moored boats, some with illuminated cabins. “There are people in those yachts,” I thought, suddenly overwhelmed by the sheer mass of humanity. It hit me that every one of those folks has their own hopes, fears, and dreams for the future. We’re unique, but in some ways the same.

 

As I gazed at the streetlights across the water, the realisation came upon me: those lights spelled out a message from God, a personal communication from the creator to me.

 

I lingered a little longer in the shadows thinking about what I’d seen before walking back to the low stone wall at the West Head lookout where my friends sat passing a joint back and forth, chatting in low voices. My turn came around, I took a deep drag and held the smoke in my lungs before slowly exhaling. I didn’t tell my friends what had happened. It seemed too personal, too private. I knew it was a message just for me.

 

Earlier that night me (Hyperstation), The Wonder and Eliminator jr had met up at Eliminator’s dad’s house in Manly Vale, on Sydney’s Northern Beaches. His dad was cool, a professor at UNSW and a fine artist. It was a weatherboard home with a pool that, either through design or simply by nature finding a way, had been transformed into a giant fishpond.

 

We often met at the Manly Vale house. His dad didn’t mind us smoking weed or listening to loud music. It was a safe place away from the prying eyes and disapproval of our other parents.

 

The plan was to head into Surry Hills to the Hopetoun Hotel to see a band we’d heard rumour of, and read snippets about, in the street press, called Distant Locust. The word was they were like Einsturzende Neubaten, a German industrial band known for using chainsaws on stage and repurposing roofing iron for percussion. Blixa Bargeld, a sometime guitarist for Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, was a founding member.

 

As we got ready to leave, Eliminator said “I’ve got something for us,” smiling as he opened his hand to reveal a small ziplock baggie containing three tabs of blotter acid. “It’s good, and I reckon it’ll get us sorted out,” he said, kind of as an afterthought.

 

The Wonder and I didn’t need to be asked twice. The three of us dropped the tabs and smoked a joint for the road. This was long before roadside drug tests became a thing, and in those days we often drove stoned. I think we all thought we drove better when we were baked anyway.

 

The Wonder had a white VW Beetle, the running boards drooping slightly due to the rust underneath. He took the wheel and we got underway. I don’t remember the tunes we played on the way in, but it was probably a Sonic Youth tape. The three of us had named our friend group “The Trilogy” after the three-song suite that closes Sonic Youth’s 1988 double album masterpiece, Daydream Nation. We still go by that name today.

 

As the VW laboured up the hill from the Spit Bridge, The Wonder missed a gearchange, accidentally shifting into neutral and letting the air cooled flat four motor rev out. “I think the acid is kicking in,” he quipped. And he was right. Those tabs were coming on.

 

The Hopetoun was a tiny hotel, but it had live, alternative music most nights of the week. It wasn’t really possible to swing a cat in there, the audience topping out at maybe 100 (tightly packed) people. We got there and waited for Distant Locust to start. This was long before YouTube or the internet became a thing, so the only way to find out about a new band was to read about them in a street rag and then go to a gig.

 

They weren’t anything like Einsturzende Neubaten; they were better. Distant Locust wasn’t a traditional rock band – there was no six-string guitar and no drummer. Instead, they consisted of a Rickenbacker-wielding bassplayer, another guy on Korg synth, a vocalist (who sometimes augmented things with a kazoo) and a programmed drum machine.

 

The intensity of the music blew me away. Songs like Fearful Pleasure and Gates of Paradise were apocalyptic, the sound of the world ending. Too soon it was over, and we wandered outside, milling with the rest of the audience who had spilled onto the footpath and into the street. We bought some ice-creams from the corner store (7/11 wasn’t a thing then) and contemplated what to do next. We were tripping, the night was young, and we had just had the musical experience of a lifetime.

 

We’d also been joined by a stray, a feller named James who was quickly christened “Brother James,” again in honour of another Sonic Youth song. He was keen for whatever we were up for, and someone – probably The Wonder – suggested we go to West Head.

 

The Wonder had been sinking schooners of Toohey’s Old and, in those days, I didn’t touch alcohol. Weed suited me better, was better value for money, and sometimes gave me insights I would not have had when I was straight.

 

It wasn’t until a few years later, when I became a journalist, that I learned to drink at the feet of the grizzled hacks and wizened sub editors who would mentor me and teach me how to write good copy.

 

University will never teach you how to make an opening paragraph sing. As a cadet, I realised writing was a trade, just like carpentry, and something you learned through doing. And it was something you either had or did not. 

 

I’ve worked with dozens of writers and reporters over the years. Some of them could move you and make you feel something with their opening line. They were that gifted. Others could get the right information, but their copy was akin to a five-year-old’s Lego model of a car. The wheels were there, but that’s about it, and it was up to the sub editors to turn it into something readable, a thankless but critically important task that’s often ignored in this internet-driven age.

 

I always knew I was good and had talent. Sub editors who I respected and whose feedback I valued had told me my copy was good. Despite my lack of self-esteem in other areas, I had an unwavering belief in my ability to string a sentence together. But I was, and remain, ever mindful of the need to keep learning and honing those word-carpentry skills. I also never forgot my fave high school English teacher once telling me: “Josh, you write beautifully. But it’s often style without substance. You need to work on this because it’s a weakness, and you need to practice and keep developing.”

 

With The Wonder unable to drive, it fell upon me to take the wheel and get us to West Head. We probably played more Sonic Youth on the journey back out, and I remember as we drove down the pitch-dark access road to the lookout, the VW’s dim headlights forming meagre pools of light ahead of us, seeing giant penguins in my peripheral vision walking in lockstep beside the car, Antarctic guardian angels making sure we got to our destination safely.

 

About 4am, we decided to call it a night. I needed to get home, I was supposed to be helping my dad put new roofing iron on the garage-shack out the front, the idea being that once it was watertight, I could move into it, using it as a teenage retreat. I duly did this and The Flat, as it became known, turned into another safe place, out of prying parental eyes, where we could pull cones, chat and listen to music. 

 

I don’t know what became of Brother James. Presumably he got home safely, wherever home was, but I never crossed paths with him again. The Trilogy would see Distant Locust a bunch of times after that night, and I still listen to them to this day.

 

And that message from God? I don’t remember what it was. Religious experiences on acid are not uncommon, along with ego death. I’m a firm believer in the transformative potential of drugs to change the way we think, to alter our perspective and give us new insights. The trick, as with many things, is not to let it become something you do too regularly. If it becomes a habit, it becomes a dependency and a liability, and you lose what made it so great in the first place.