Almost a year ago I wrote this fairly impassioned piece regarding the state of hardcore music in this country, and internationally. It did the rounds and was generally met with murmurs of agreement. We’re now one year on and I’m currently living in the heart of the Fortitude Valley. In my limited time here I have seen the best and worst it has had to offer. I’ve woken up with used syringes and broken glass on my balcony, and I’ve experience the homelessness problem afflicting the town and the constant dangers of the 3am lockout at play. With all that said I’ve never really felt all that threatened. Then last night happened.
So I went for a nice dinner with my mother out in the ‘burbs (I had lamb shanks in a rich jus and mash, fucking delicious by the way) and came back to catch the end of a small gig at the Jubilee hotel. All pretty standard so far for an evening in the life of Thomas. The gig finishes and I accompany a friend on her adventure for a late night slice we’re forced to walk through the valley metro, out the front and onto the main drag. Already it is fairly obvious that there is something rotten in the state of Denmark, so to speak. Then I remember, “Ah… Amity Affliction”.
I’m fairly used to Police presence in The Valley but I’ve never seen them so prolific before. A few Paddy-wagons line the street and a few more out the front of the normally crowded Police Beat. The fuzz mill around as if in wait, “an overreaction surely” I think.
More an annoyance at this point than anything else, we’re swamped by neck tattoo’d thugs leering and flexing to impress the complete lack of attractive women around. We narrowly dodge the start of a small brawl between a pack of bogans and Straight edgers and continue on our way. We pick up some pizza and walk back down Brunswick street to turn into Alfred. Its about 11:20 (if I recall) and clearly the flood gates have opened. The first thing I notice walking past the front of the Valley metro again is a man angry but subdued, an open wound on his head bleeding profusely surrounded by a bevy of Brisbane’s finest.
Walking further down the street and past The Globe it becomes more apparent the extent of the ruckus. Corner after corner, be-fringed miscreants loiter, some being questioned by police, other sitting calmly with their hands zip-tied behind their back. Arrogant shouting punctuates the disquiet like artillery fire. Not drunk, happy shouting either. This is the aggressive and discomforting shout of a sober man not getting laid tonight.
Finally as we reach my turn off, I feel a small splash underfoot only to realize I’ve just trodden in the pool of blood collecting near the gutter. Looking around a police officer cringes at me and beckons us to leave. I get home, lock the door and thank all that is holy that I don’t have to go out there again tonight.
So that is a relatively unbiased recollection of my evening. Now, onto my opinion.
Get the fuck out of my town you cock nosed, arrogant little pricks. You want to fuck each other up? Go to your unfortunate venue and do it. Don’t you dare pollute my streets with your aggressive, homoerotic displays of masculinity because I will not put up with it. I don’t care that you came all the way from Toowoomba for this, you are a piece of shit for contributing to the already dangerous conditions of the Valley at night. Anyone that knows me, know that I can be quite distrusting of the police, but they’re a necessary evil and you putting even further stress on their under budgeted department hurts them, it hurts you and me and guess what else? It hurts local music.
You’re all big fucking proponents of that I’m told. Save the local scene you say? Go home and jerk off to isanyoneup.com because you’re a hindrance and a nuisance. Leaving your venue to wet your whistle elsewhere? Hurry up and do it, Snitch is just a few hundred meters away and just aching to separate you from your centrelink money so you can drink and bitch about how bad everyone else there is in the sack. To make this town more dangerous en masse by your presence alone? This is worthy of a solid kick to the nuts and/or the fleshy patch where your sack used to be before that unfortunate windmilling incident.
That’s all I have to say on the matter.
O, and go fuck yourselves.