Rehearsals commenced in the Ormond Multi Media centre,
now gone, now hotelised into the Morrison, in a huge rehersal room with an eriee echo,
echo, echo. There was no one there but the band. Vin and Dip played football across the
dusty floor of a disused storeroom along the hall. Nobody watched but the echo, echo,
echo. And Rory, becasue he was there and in need of some attention. As they choked sounds
from the ether, suns exploded seventy million years after their light first left in search
of new life. It was a comforting thought.
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Das Madman wrote 3
songs. The songs now are gone. Gone as Lassie and Hi Ho Silver are gone. Did they have
names? Yes. There was Song 1, Song 2, and the other song. Rory and Simon hit things, Lisa
sang. Vincent made noises. Against their better judgement, the Band took shape. It was
like a disaster failing to happen.
John was there. John had a rhythm that
made all the cats in the neighbourhood leave home squealing and horny. It was like that.
Like watching an epileptic orgasm. You could feel dirty just by being in the room with
them. The sit and curse and smoke and later drink till everything Vincent said made crazy
sense. Now all they needed was a gig.
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Duly there was the gig. The gig may or may not have
been a success. It was not anything anyone there had heard before. Simon, like a feckless
bastard quotes from Blixa Bargeld: We can, but… Everybody drinks a lot, and drifts
off. People proffer uneasy compliments, as if they are not sure if it was any good, but
they are too scared not to. The band fall into the chilly evening, rum and coconut butter
to keep them warm.