There were no NYE rock shows in Mordor.

In the southern hemisphere it’s summer. That means there should be all these outdoor parties, music festivals and band competitions requiring impartial judges returning from foreign rock reporting postings. Well, there should be.

One of my first nights back in town led me to a dodgy portside bar, the kind of place frequented by pirates and scallywags. You see, that way it’s always sure of a good time. The main drawcard were the four bands on the bill for the evening, including The Hi-tone Destroyers, the bassist of which played drums in my very first band.

I’ve been away a few years now, and I had been looking forward to getting back and seeing what was happening on the local scene.

The Hanoi scene, as technically proficient as it is, has little in the way of variation. If you tire of rock or pop, and have had more than you fair share of lonely hearts crooning chart toppers at the Z-café, then you are fresh out of luck in that town my friend.

Stepping into the Wunderbar, I was greeted by a message courtesy of a lit sign above the door, “Helen says smoking is worse than sodomy”.

Helen is our Prime Minister and her message tells us that we are no longer allowed to smoke in bars, cafes or anywhere else indoors for that matter. It has something to do with health codes for employees in bars, and after my first night in a smoke free bar (although a smoker myself), I must admit that I am sold on the idea.

The back room of the bar was where all the action was to transpire, but few people were in there, choosing to standing in the blasting southerly wind that blew freezing rain onto the balcony outside.

As the bands played, almost the entire room emptied out for a snout, and with a chance to catch up some folks I hadn’t seen in years, I managed to miss all the six string action by being dragged in and out by various chums.

As the evening wore on, I began to miss the big shows I had attended in Hanoi, where one was already outside to smoke, not to mention the massive speaker stacks and the good natured security guards who would let me backstage sans press pass, a camera being enough ID.

Back here I found a bunch of guys doing exactly what I’d left them doing seven years earlier.

They’d tried their peculiar style of rock and roll in Australia too, but that had lead to nought, and so they were back at the Wunderbar, chatting with pirates and ignoring the scallywags.

They talk of a shortage of venues, thanks to the electronica wave that washed bands off the local landscape a decade earlier. They speak of the burnt out DJs from the 70’s, now retired to NZ for a bit of peace and quiet, who promised that the DJ fad would die like disco and the age of the guitarist would thrive once again. But much like the return of flares, they’ve been talking like that for over a decade.

Ultimately, they talk of work on Monday, of being school teachers and graphic designers. One talks about how “teenagers dress like dicks these days”. His brother, who is dressed all in leather like a latter day Lemmy (of Motorhead fame) nods and says, “Yeah. Like dicks.” At least he’s warm though, this wind whips right through my Hanoi dress code.

But what I did hear of the music reminded me of the fountain of creative energy that flows in even the most backwater burgs. Often, when there is nothing left to do or say than what can be written with the letters A through G, pockets of talent hold on beyond the musical pirates, away from the dicks, awaiting the return of flair.

So I’m still seeking a pocket full of rock, hoping to find some over the coming weekend at the best remaining venue in my hometown. Actually, now I think about it, the only remaining live music venue in this one horse hometown.

The Good Life