Tex

by Tex Perkins

  ‘Oh really?!’ said Kim Salmon.

  ‘You’re just stoned!’ said Spencer P. Jones.

  It’s true, I was, but let me tell you, he was good.

  When I spoke to Charlie later that night, he was full of homesick tour-weary whingeing. ‘I’m so sick of rock’n’roll,’ he said. ‘I just want to go home.’ Fair enough, I know the feeling. They were nearing the end of their run and we were just starting. Eight weeks in a van can wear you down.

  About a year later back in Australia I was asked to do some acoustic sessions on ABC radio. There was a lot of it about at the time, the whole ‘unplugged’ thing was hot. They wanted me to team up with Don Walker, songwriter and keyboardist of the very famous band Cold Chisel.

  I didn’t know a lot about Don’s post-Chisel work, but I had heard he’d recently been working with none other than Charlie Owen. ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘But get him to bring that Charlie Owen fella.’

  We met and rehearsed at Don’s place in Kings Cross. Don was a tall good-looking gentleman with a country undertaker’s vibe. He was slow talking, and possessed an Australian accent with so much drawl no one could ever doubt where he came from. Don would always be smoking a cigar. These were the days where you could smoke just about anywhere and you’d always know where Don had been – you could smell him a mile away.

  The radio session went really well. So well that straightaway it seemed obvious we should do more. By now Charlie was playing dobro slide guitar as well as electric and acoustic. I had a few new songs that weren’t quite right for the Beasts or The Cruel Sea and of course Don had a bag full of his own so we decided to record an album.

  Tony Cohen was the obvious man for the job of recording us and we asked Shane Walsh to play double bass and Jim White of the Dirty Three to play drums. The last, but very tasty, ingredient was Garrett Costigan on mournful, but beautiful, pedal steel.

  The music we made was a blend of folk blues and country, I guess. But not Tamworth or Nashville country – this had an urban feel. The songs felt like they came from the back alleys of Kings Cross and the characters in them walked straight out of a TAB and into a strip club. It was grubby and world weary, but with the occasional moment of purity of heart.

  Don sang a few of his songs, I sang a few of his songs and also a few of mine. It turned into a good balance. More than once people have compared the dynamic as similar to Kris Kristofferson and Willie Nelson singing together. But it’s not just our voices; Charlie’s ‘voice’ is his guitar playing which is just as lyrical as our vocals.

  Tex, Don & Charlie’s Sad But True is one of my favourite albums that I’ve been involved with. Everyone enjoyed making it, and it received a warm reception from the public and critics alike. So it’s hard for me to explain why it took 12 years for us to make a second album. I guess time slips away from you when you’re not careful. Admittedly, we all had plenty of other things to do. But still, 12 years? Come on.

  When we finally did come together to record the All Is Forgiven album in 2005, we were fortunate to be able to assemble the same band. Despite Jim White living overseas, he was in town just long enough to contribute his unique drumming to the album. Of course we had to have Shane back – he wasn’t a fancy player but his understated style was an important part of the sound we again were after.

  All Is Forgiven is also one of my favourites. It felt good for me to be playing with these guys again and I’m sure we promised ourselves it wouldn’t take us so long to record another one.

  Then in 2010 Shane died of a heroin overdose. It was a sad and tragic demise for a much-loved rascal of a man.

  Charlie, Don and I played in the Grey Street chapel where Shane’s funeral was held, but after that farewell the thought of playing without Shane seemed too painful to even consider for a while so the next album would have to wait. How long? How about 12 years?

  That’s right – Tex, Don & Charlie have recorded an album again, and again with a gap of exactly 12 years between it and the last one. Not that we meant to, and not that it really means anything, but I realised we have only released albums in the Chinese years of the rooster. That’s weird huh? No?

  Anyway, this time we asked Steve Hadley to play bass and Charley Drayton played drums. STAND BY FOR MASSIVE NAME DROPS. Steve’s played with everyone from Stevie Wonder to Archie Roach and Charley’s played with everyone else (including Keith Richards).

  BOOOOM BOOM BOOOOM.

  And of course once again Garrett plays pedal steel like no one else. These guys were perfect as our musical accomplices.

  The album is called You Don’t Know Lonely and I think it’s another beauty, worthy to sit alongside the other two. See you in 12 years, fellas.

  SAD BUT TRUE

  TEX, DON & CHARLIE / 1993

  A three-day session with Tony again, recorded at Metropolis studios in Melbourne. One of my favourite records, everyone brought the goods for this one. Charlie, Don, Shane Walsh, Garrett Costigan and Jim White – I think I’m the weakest link here. I still hadn’t learned how to sing at this point; still, it’s a great collection of songs and Charlie’s dobro is the key element. Tony really knew how to record Charlie’s guitars and although people said he wasn’t a singer I think Don’s vocals are more interesting and authentic than mine and stand the test of time.

  RECORD LABEL: Red Eye

  CORE BAND MEMBERS: Tex Perkins (vocals/guitar), Charlie Owen (guitar/dobro), Don Walker (vocals/piano/organ), Jim White (drums), Shane Walsh (double bass), Garrett Costigan (pedal steel), Warren Ellis (violin), Kim Salmon (Jew’s harp).

  MONDAY MORNING COMING DOWN . . .

  TEX, DON & CHARLIE / 1995

  Originally recorded live as a bonus disc for a second run of promotion for Sad But True, we realised that would mean a whole lot of people who bought Sad But True when it first came out would have to buy the album again to get Monday Morning Coming Down. So we insisted that it be released as an album unto itself. So basically it’s a collision of record company logic and artist morality. It probably shouldn’t exist at all, being comprised of most of the previous album and a few wobbly covers.

  RECORD LABEL: Red Eye

  CORE BAND MEMBERS: Tex Perkins (vocals/guitar), Charlie Owen (guitar/dobro), Don Walker (vocals/piano/organ), Jim White (drums), Shane Walsh (double bass), Garrett Costigan (pedal steel), Kim Salmon (Jew’s harp).

  ALL IS FORGIVEN

  TEX, DON & CHARLIE / 2005

  This took about 10 days with our old mate Phil Punch who I hadn’t worked with for 15 years. Same band as the first TDC record, 12 years later. Another that resides in my top self-rated albums. ‘Whenever It Snows’ is one of the few well-written songs I’ve ever been involved with. Don successfully brought the humour and the sleaze with his killers, ‘Another Night In’ and ‘Harry Was A Bad Bugger’.

  RECORD LIBEL: Red Eye

  CORE BAND MEMBERS: Tex Perkins (vocals/guitar), Charlie Owen (guitar/dobro), Don Walker (vocals/piano/organ), Jim White (drums), Shane Walsh (double bass), Garrett Costigan (pedal steel), Kim Salmon (Jew’s harp).

  YOU DON’T KNOW LONELY

  TEX, DON & CHARLIE / 2017

  As usual, 12 years after the last one, we released the third TDC album. We’re like the Halley’s Comet of the music biz. It was hard moving on after Shane’s death but we finally decided to go ahead and begin work on a new album in early 2016. This time Steve Hadley played double bass and Charley Drayton played drums. These guys nailed their contributions and I really believe we have an album worthy to stand alongside the other two. This time I thought it was my responsibility to bring the sleaze, so I did, with what I think is the best song I’ve written for a while: ‘A Man In Conflict With Nature.’ I think I sing all right on this album, but Don’s singing has matured a lot since we started 24 years ago. Charlie brings his class to all the songs he graces and Garrett once again splashes the ethereal treacle of his pedal steel wherever we need some mystery and emotion.

  RECORD LIBEL: EMI

  COR
E BAND MEMBERS: Tex Perkins (vocals/guitar), Charlie Owen (guitar/dobro), Don Walker (vocals/piano/organ), Jim White (drums), Shane Walsh (double bass), Garrett Costigan (pedal steel), Kim Salmon (Jew’s harp).

  FOOTY

  In 1993 I saw the famous photo of Nicky Winmar, the one where he pulls his St Kilda jumper up after a game against Collingwood and points to the skin of his torso.

  It was a spur-of-the-moment gesture to the Collingwood supporters who were racially abusing him at the time, as if to say, ‘I’m black and I’m proud.’ That photo was all over the major Melbourne newspapers that weekend and soon was being talked about everywhere.

  That photo drew me in like a magnet. I realised that yes, the photo was all about racism, but for me it was more personal. It was one man against a mob – an ugly hateful spitting mob. Nicky was standing defiantly, not in anger but in pride.

  Gandhi couldn’t have done it better.

  Digging deeper, I learned how Australian Rules had originated from a game played by Australian aborigines. Marngrook involved the kicking and catching of a wombat skin stuffed with grass and it had been played for thousands of years by the blackfellas.

  This game was older than the pyramids. That blew my mind.

  Apart from maybe music and art, it’s possibly the oldest cultural activity still going. If the blackfellas have been here 40,000 years have they played marngrook for 40,000 years?

  Quite possibly. I mean, why wouldn’t they?

  I had never considered that primitive cultures had a need for sport. It awakened a fascination in me and I quickly arrived at the idea that there is something sacred and mystical, but also political about this game. That this is truly OUR game, not something brought here by the Poms but born of this land, and no other. Not even the Kiwis get it. It’s ours.

  I had developed a bit of an interest in the Swans when I was living in Sydney.

  Dale Lewis was my favourite at the time, mainly because he always had shit all over his face. In an era of guys with neat hair who looked professional – people like Wayne Carey – Dale Lewis was the complete opposite with his fallen-down socks and filthy straggly hair. I was automatically attracted to him because he looked so different to everyone else.

  Another that caught my eye was Darryl White of the Brisbane Bears. With his lanky lackadaisical demeanour Darryl was all arms and legs as he recklessly launched himself at every contest. Now here was a guy I could relate to!

  But even though I had jumped on the bandwagon of the Swans when Tony ‘Plugger’ Lockett was playing for them, I was never what you could call a Sydney supporter. I came from Brisbane so maybe I should have been looking at the Bears.

  After my marngrook epiphany, I started watching Aussie Rules games when I was around people from Melbourne. They had a much different attitude to footy than people from Sydney and Brisbane. People in Melbourne might go to the art gallery and then to the MCG and watch the footy, then go to a nightclub or see a rock band that night. They’ll do that all in the same day and see no conflict or strangeness about that – which there isn’t. They’re all art forms that express different parts of the human psyche.

  I wasn’t yet a committed follower but just as I had felt my way into the rock’n’roll world, I was looking at football and trying to find out where I belonged. Everything became clear when I moved to Melbourne in 1995 and lived in St Kilda. It all just seemed to fit into place that St Kilda be my team. This is my turf and this is my team.

  The 2010 AFL Grand Final – or should I say grand finals – were something else of course, especially as a St Kilda supporter. I had very mixed emotions watching those games, especially the first game, which ended in a draw.

  I remember that with a few minutes to go we were up by five points and we were playing well and had the momentum. And I had this moment where I realised that we were possibly going to win the Grand Final – the first time St Kilda had done that since 1966. We had won just one premiership in 150 years and once again it was against Collingwood.

  Obviously I was thrilled about this – but what was interesting was that I had this other thought, that after we won, everything was going to change. The whole culture of St Kilda and the club and its supporters would never be the same again.

  I’d initially got onboard with St Kilda partly because of where I was living in Melbourne, but also because of its history of NOT winning. That was a big thing for me. I find a culture based on struggle much more attractive than the culture of a club that’s on top of the ladder and won the most premierships. A lot of people are born into their allegiance to a club but a lot of people would pick Essendon or Collingwood – Carlton or Hawthorn – just because they have a history of being successful and being big teams and doing well.

  For me the attraction to St Kilda was the opposite of all that. It was the history of St Kilda and the fact that it was based on difficulty and always being the underdogs. I was attracted to the fact that they’d never won another Grand Final because I thought when it did happen it would be that much sweeter. Being a St Kilda supporter is both character building and soul destroying at the same time.

  And here we are, about to win a second premiership and I had a moment when I was realising that all that culture is going to be wiped clean if we win. Everything is going to be different. We, as St Kilda – the club and the supporters – won’t be the same people anymore. We won’t be who we are at this moment. I knew that everyone in and behind the club wanted this win desperately but at the same time I had this strong sense that all the things that we built our characters on would be gone. All that culture of adversity and struggle was going to be wiped clean. We’d be just another team that has won a couple of premierships.

  I’m a Catholic. I look for suffering. It’s what defines me. I’m joking, but seriously, it’s all about the struggle. If things come too easily I don’t respect them. I think about my friend Bob Murphy, captain of the Western Bulldogs AFL team, in that context and what he’s gone through, and of course his experience is arguably much worse than mine. His team won, but he couldn’t play. That must be the strangest mix of emotions. A collision of joy and regret. But I’m sure he’s not insane enough to have had those sorts of thoughts with the Western Bulldogs.

  That moment I had at the Grand Final was very much like one of those cinematic moments when all the sound dies down and there’s just the inner dialogue: ‘Are we going to win? . . . Shit . . . We’re going to win . . . What happens then? . . .’ Outside my immediate vision was all blurry and I was pondering these issues while watching the game being played right in front of me. Then Collingwood got a goal and then it was, BACK TO REALITY. Phew.

  I realise even thinking this stuff is seriously fucked up on one level. The very notion that I didn’t want St Kilda – my team – to win is insane. But there was this part of me that was seriously worried that we were about to lose our culture.

  The Saints are one point down with less than two minutes to go, Lenny Hayes kicks the ball 60 metres deep into the forward pocket. A true ‘last ditch effort’, the kind of physical feat that’s usually followed by triumph. It was heroic, it was epic . . . it, didn’t bounce well for Milney. Through for a point. Draw.

  And of course I was back for the replay. That was soul destroying. Except that it kept my theory intact. Even though I had those thoughts, the actual game was excruciating. I try not to even think about it. They got four unanswered goals in the first quarter and they were on a bit of a roll, and then Nick Riewoldt had the ball kicked to him alone in the goal square and no-one seemed to be around. He casually turned towards the goal and jogged in to kick what should have been a certain goal. Heath Shaw came out of fucking nowhere. He must have been 20 metres away and suddenly he’s THERE and Riewoldt is on the ground.

  We were gone in that moment. It showed how up the Pies were, and how . . . whatever the fuck we were.

  And that’s the last thing I’ll say about footy. I promise.

  ARIA NIGHTMARE

  My
most famous public meltdown was at the ARIA Awards in 1994.

  Well, not so much a meltdown as a volcanic eruption.

  The Cruel Sea had just won a whole lot of awards for The Honeymoon Is Over – five of them in fact. We’d won Single Of The Year, Album Of The Year and Best Album, Best Group and Song Of The Year, so everyone was pretty buoyant and ready to party.

  In those days they’d give you your award on the night so afterwards you’re walking around high as a satellite holding all these large pointy hunks of metal. I changed all that.

  So we arrive at an afterparty, thrown by rooArt Records at a warehouse in Ultimo and I’m holding two of these awards. Someone offers me a drink. Not having a free hand I spin and drive the ARIA award into the wall behind me, turn back and gratefully accept the drink. The ARIA award stays in the wall as I begin talking to Kev Carmody, the Aboriginal Buddha figure. Things are momentarily calm.

  Then I look across the room and there’s some guy wrestling with Kristyna. He has handfuls of her long blonde hair and is trying to drag her to the ground. She later tells me that she’d been watching him staggering around the room physically molesting women. He was a menace.

  At the time I didn’t know any of this. I just snapped. I launched myself across the room and started belting into him with whatever I had in my hand – which just happened to be a stubby and luckily not a very, very pointy and potentially lethal ARIA. This was not something that I put though any kind of thought process, this was pure animal instinct.

  Suddenly it’s chaos – like the disco shoot-out scene in Scarface. People are screaming, bodies and bouncers flying everywhere, blood is spurting and folks are scattering, all with a disco soundtrack and moving coloured lights from a mirror ball. In the middle of this melee there’s a pile of writhing bodies and I’m at the bottom of it.