by Tex Perkins
And why is man absent? Well, that brings me to the second mind-blowing concept introduced to me by this film: The Apocalypse! The idea that all this could end was heavy and it frightened, but also thrilled, me. A post-apocalyptic world was free of responsibilities – no school, no cops, no rules! Everything looked cool, all ruined, wrecked and rusted. You don’t even have to wear clothes on the planet of the apes! No wonder Desmond Morris’s book The Naked Ape later became my bible.
Just for being in this movie Charlton Heston became my favourite actor. I didn’t realise at the time just how bad an actor he was because his movies – science fiction and religious epics like Ben-Hur, El Cid, The Ten Commandments, The Omega Man and Solent Green – had other things going for them.
But it was Planet of the Apes that owned my soul.
My interest in apes began early. My long arms and heavy brow led many to call me ‘Monkey Boy’ or ‘The Ape’. Usually calling someone an ape is a derogatory thing but it’s never bothered me. I love apes.
To embrace my inner ape was to connect with my true nature and ultimately it explained, even justified, my darker tendencies. Two sides to the one banana pancake.
I was a clown of a kid who was always trying to entertain in some way. Always seeking the joke, gag or a prank in whatever was going on. There was a family tradition where I would get in my father’s overalls and stuff them full of pillows becoming this giant pillow-child busting moves on the front lawn so I could be seen by passing cars. I’d waddle around the yard pretending to trim the edges or something, trying to get a look on people’s faces as they drove by.
When I was about eight, I was taken to the Brisbane show (the Ekka) and given a full-head gorilla mask which I wore all day. Never taking it off, drinking my Coke through a hole in the mouth with a straw, I jumped out at people, attempting to frighten them – not uncommon behaviour at the Ekka.
On the train ride home I changed my strategy. Rather than leaping out at people I would quietly sit near them and wait for them to glance up. Did this kind of behaviour lead to a career on the stage? I dunno, but I’ve always had a love of mischief and still seek it out and embrace it in any form.
For me it’s not necessarily about being watched and being entertaining, but more about creating some sort of unexpected situation. Situationism is an art movement often using performance appearing in normal life rather than a stage. Sometimes a mixture of social experiment, performance art and pranking, it could involve almost anything. Throwing unusual elements into a public space, stepping back and seeing what happens sounds good to me. From Situationist to Entertainer is an easy step to make. I wanted to make things happen. Still do.
The Boondall Drive-In cinema was half a block from my house. This place was hugely important to me all the way through my childhood. From being taken there in my pyjamas aged five to see Chitty Chitty Bang Bang to sneaking under the fence with my mates aged ten to driving ‘borrowed’ cars and fooling around with girls aged fifteen.
The drive-in was an almost magical place to me. There I saw everything from Jaws to Dawn of the Dead. I first saw Apocalypse Now and The Deer Hunter at the drive-in.
The drive-in knew how to make an event out of the showing of movies. Even now I’ve still never seen anything like the double bill of Mad Max and Stone, both Australian-made and both attracting an audience just as scary as the characters in the films, with every bikie and rev head in the northern suburbs turning up. Interaction with the action on the screen came in the form of horn honking, the revving of hotted-up engines and the odd donut and burnout. Muffled screams and laughter emanated from inside a hundred panel vans.
Me and my mates took this all in from the kiosk, where we scoffed Jaffas and plotted mischief. On another night myself and three other boys from the neighbourhood crawled through the hole in the fence under the big screen. We’d done this many times before when we wanted to sneak in to see a movie, but tonight was different. On this night we all stood in front of the screen swinging burning steel-wool pads tied to lengths of string. A waterfall of burning metal embers showered like a million sparks in front of the drive-in movie.
A hundred horns honked angrily at us from out of the darkness. But we kept right on swinging until the security guard chased us all the way to the fence, grappling at our feet as we made our escape. Now that was fun. Being chased by the security guard at the drive-in was a local sport all boys who grew up in Boondall took part in over the years.
When I come back to Brisbane these days to visit my mother I often drive past where the Boondall drive-in used to be. Just as many houses cram into the space where once cars did. You know those suburbs where the houses have the same coloured roofs and are one of only two standard designs? It’s incredibly depressing to look at, but I still have waves of nostalgic feelings wash over me as I drive along that road. Good feelings.
Nothing bad ever happened to me at the drive-in.
Being Catholics we went to Mass every weekend and we all sang. Except me. I was convincing enough when I mouthed the words. As a young child I embraced church like most kids my age do. Then, inevitably, I started listening to what they were saying. Firstly I just got bored with it – there was a zoning-out period around the age of ten where I thought, I wish I could be . . . anywhere else.
Later on I really took in what I was hearing every Sunday, and started questioning it, suddenly aware of the hypocrisy that was everywhere around me – at school, at church – these unquestionable institutions started to seem . . . questionable.
Around this time, music, mostly words with melodies, started arriving in my head, like they were transmitted into me from an outside source. The first time I can remember this happening I was still in primary school and my mind was wandering.
In one town there’s sundown
And in another town there’s morning rise
This basic lyric rattled around in my noggin for weeks, for no reason at all. It wasn’t part of a school project. I hadn’t thought, ‘I’m gonna write a song’. It just appeared. I told no one of course. It wasn’t very good.
The next time I had occasion to exercise this skill was part of school work. Homework to be exact. The task was to write a poem in the classic style of the Australian bush balladeers. Henry Lawson and Banjo Paterson.
My own composition ‘Wentworth Plains’ was the story of a stubborn old prospector who, despite everyone’s disbelief that Wentworth Plains would ever yield any gold, toiled away for years regardless. I can’t remember how any of it went, but the last line describes his skeleton being found with a large gold nugget clutched in its bony fingers. I was pretty happy with and it and showed it to my father, who suggested a few small changes.
‘Plagiarism!’ cried Brother Shithead after reading it. ‘You didn’t write that! You’ve copied it from somewhere!’ Brother Shithead couldn’t pinpoint where I’d stolen my work from, but he told the class and his colleagues, ‘That idiot Perkins couldn’t have written this,’ and graded me zero out of 10. This was despite the whole point of the exercise being to write ‘in the style of’. Yes, yes, a sign of things to come.
As a kid I rode my bike everywhere and it opened the world up for me. I had independence and could be anywhere. For me that meant places other than where I said I’d be. I’d tell Mum that I was going to the 6 pm Mass, then I’d ‘go down the bush’ as we used to say. This was the area beyond the train line and had bike tracks weaving through to the creeks, swamps and mangroves. I’d ride my pushy through the bush with my slug gun for an hour, then head home and be there at the same time I’d arrive if I’d been to Mass.
In my childhood loner-years it was just me, my pushbike and my air rifle. It’s amazing to think of that now. A 14-year-old riding around on a pushbike with a gun. That just couldn’t happen these days, could it? But back then I’d ride into the bush and spend hours shooting cans, old cars and bits of tin. I shot a bird once and instantly felt the pointlessness of it. I never shot anything living ever again. But
I have to admit, being a Queenslander I’ve killed many cane toads. Mainly with a golf club. It was my civic duty.
My first bike, a MALVERN STAR threespeed dragster (not the bike in the story, which was a one-speed with foot brakes and angel bars).
One time while cruising through these bush bike tracks near Cabbage Tree Creek with my two best friends (my bike and my gun) I came across what looked like an old washed-up (literally) dinghy. Well, that’s what I told myself anyway. It was old and a bit shitty but there were no holes and it looked like it would float. Hmmm, a boy with his bike, gun and boat?
Nobody will miss it, I thought. I threw the bike and slug gun in the boat and began pushing it towards the water. I thought I’d take it up creek and stash it in some secret location of my choosing. As soon as I got into slightly deeper water I noticed it was crowded with jellyfish. I mean it was thick with the horrible things. More jellyfish than water. There were no oars so I used a bit of driftwood I’d found nearby to paddle and steer my new craft through these treacherous waters. I needed to head up the creek and luckily the tide was moving where I needed to go. So all I had to do was get out far enough and away I would float. I started drifting up creek which took me straight past all the fishing trawlers that worked in that part of Moreton Bay. As I was passing the last one, an angry voice broke the quiet.
‘WHAT THE FUCK!? THAT’S MY DINGHY . . . HEY YOU LITTLE CAAARNT.’
A group of fishermen were having beers together on the back deck of the trawler at the end, and one of them was on his feet pointing and screaming at me. For a moment I think he considered diving in, swimming over and murdering me. But one look at the water chock-a-block full of jellies and he quickly reconsidered. So we just stared at each other as I floated past, just metres from each other. So near but so far. I reckon I’m lucky they didn’t have a gun. More abuse from the other fishermen followed as I drifted off up the creek, shored the dinghy and escaped back into the bush on my bike.
When I was on the verge of turning 15, after a few years of going to the creek and not to Mass, I finally worked up the guts to say to Mum and Dad that I wasn’t going to church anymore. I told them I just wasn’t into it.
It was one of those situations where being the youngest had its advantages. I’d seen this conversation go down before with my brothers and knew there was a bit of flak coming after the initial delivery of the message, but that it was worth it in the end. I just had to go through it once and then I’d never have to go through it again. So that’s what I did. Mum was disappointed and Dad was angry . . . for a minute. Then we all, very sensibly, moved on.
I retained some appreciation of spirituality from my time participating in religious activities, or at least it got me thinking. But even at 14, I knew that if there was a God it wasn’t the one they were selling me. ‘I’m not saying God doesn’t exist, but I know that your god doesn’t exist.’
There’s a seven-year gap between myself and John, the next youngest, so the four others had this unity from having grown up together that I never felt. My sisters had moved out of home by the time I was nine or 10 so they weren’t around. It was my brothers who had the most to do with the way I am – not only my tastes but my tendencies. I’m talking about not only things like sense of humour, mannerisms and accent, but also the dark stuff. My brothers were the first to nurture my hurt and hatred. Back then John enjoyed tormenting and torturing me. I had taken his place as the ‘cute little guy’ in the family, and he didn’t think I was worthy. He hated what he thought I got away with.
I think Mum and Dad parented the first four kids with a harder old-school attitude. By the time I came along things were a bit more relaxed. The recurring thing I heard from John to Mum and Dad was: ‘HOW CAN HE GET AWAY WITH THAT? I WAS NEVER ALLOWED TO . . . BLAH BLAH BLAH.’
I didn’t really get away with much. Just little things. I got sent to a slightly more expensive school. Mum and Dad were older and maybe there was a little more money around. Perhaps John resented that life seemed easier for me than it was for him. But it’s always like that – the eldest kids in a family pave the way for the youngest.
It’s no secret my parents were hoping for a daughter when I was born, simply because daughters are a lot easier. Their experience with Lyn and Beth was a lot nicer and neater, they helped out more around the house. The Perkins boys were messy and violent and got into trouble.
My father wasn’t a tough guy, but that era of men didn’t know how to be affectionate. I remember that when I’d hug him he was always very stiff and would hold himself in a strange way. He would almost withdraw from it and it was always awkward. So I would almost force it on him – ‘Give me a hug you old bastard’ type of thing. It wasn’t his fault. Dad was just a product of his time; those men weren’t greatly affectionate. There were many moments when I sensed his disappointment in me but I think that softened as the years went by.
Dad.
WELCOME TO MY NIGHTMARE
Sometime in 1978 my father was once again transferred to another city because of his job.
This time, rather than uproot the family, he decided to go up to Townsville alone. And a few months later during the Christmas holidays my mother went up to visit him.
That meant leaving all us boys ALONE AT HOME. I was 13, my brother John was 19 and Rob was almost 21. Mum would be gone for a few weeks so it meant I would be all alone with my big brothers and they would be taking really good care of me.
Early one Saturday morning after Mum had left, my brother John came into my room and said, ‘Get out of the fucking house today and don’t you dare come back until 4 o’clock . . . or I’ll kill you,’ and handed me twenty dollars.
‘NOW!!’
‘Okay, okay, where will I go?’
‘I DON’T FUCKING CARE DICKHEAD. JUST GO FAR AWAY AND DON’T COME BACK UNTIL 4 PM.’
I should point out, ladies and gentlemen, that twenty dollars was a lot of money to a 13-year-old in 1978. This was a good deal and I happily accepted the terms. FAR AWAY and 4 PM. Got it.
Within five minutes I was out the door and on my way to the bus stop. I would bus it down to Toombul Shopping Town and see what took my fancy.
Hmmm, first I’ll buy a cream bun and an iced coffee from the bakery. That should set me back about 80 cents. Then I’ll go to the newsagency and buy the new MAD magazine. That’s another dollar fifty. Then I’ll head on down to Toombul Music and . . . who knows?
Toombul Music sold stereos, musical instruments and records and cassettes. Don’t get the wrong idea here. Just because they had all those things doesn’t mean this was some groovy record store where the kids hang out and vibe on tunes. No, Toombul Music was not cool in any way. But this was the only music emporium I knew, and the place where I began to dream rock dreams – imaginings brought on by staring at and into a record cover.
I nearly bought Boston’s Don’t Look Back that day just for the front cover. Gerry Rafferty’s City To City album was a consideration, it’s got ‘Baker Street’ for fuck’s sake! The Grease soundtrack? Narrrr. Wings’ London Town? Hmmm . . .
Then my eyes fell upon it. Welcome to My Nightmare by Alice Cooper. This album had been out for a few years and was considered a modern classic. Only recently had it been replaced by Meat Loaf’s Bat Out of Hell as the big-selling mainstream ‘concept’ album of the day.
But even then I didn’t get the Loaf. Not much music makes me upset. His does.
So, perhaps based on his recent appearance on The Muppet Show, I went for Alice! And I’ve never regretted my decision. It cost $8.99 brand new and I still enjoy that album to this day. I’m not listening to the same actual album from that day of course. I would’ve lost/left that, somewhere sometime in the ’80s. Even though I realised even then that this album actually marked the end of Alice’s golden age – School’s Out, Billion Dollar Babies and Love It to Death are better records, I love Nightmare. The title track is sleaze funk at its best, ‘Only Women Bleed’ is a twisted feminist anthem and if
you can’t quote every word of Vincent Price’s ‘Black Widow’ monologue, you’re just not a fan.
It was my entry into another world, and this time I was going in alone. Nobody else in my family would join me on my Alice journey. This was my decision. This was MY record bought with MY MONEY – money that I had earned by doing a good job of NOT being at home until after 4 pm!
I looked at the time; it was 11.30 am. Four-and-a-half hours to go. I killed another two hours reading my MAD magazine and eating a pie very slowly. By 2 pm, I was going crazy. I had about seven bucks left, and wanted to put it towards my next record purchase, probably Bowie’s CHANGESONEBOWIE.
I don’t know what possessed me, but at 3pm I decided I would call home and see if it was okay to come back a little earlier. The phone rang, and it rang for a while.
Suddenly, my brother’s voice came on the line, ‘Hello?’
‘Hey, it’s me, can I come back yet?’
In the background I could hear Rod Stewart’s ‘Da Ya Think I’m Sexy?’ on the stereo.
‘FUCK OFF,’ came John’s reply, and he slammed down the phone.
John must have been taking private dance lessons, I guess, so I decided to stay away for a little longer than 4 pm. When I came back closer to 5 pm, ‘WHERE THE FUCK HAVE YOU BEEN?’ was my greeting.