THAT TIME I WENT ON TOUR WITH THE WAIFS (1998)
A ramble With The Waifs by Jen Anderson from Weddings, Parties, Anything

I've got to know the Waifs pretty well since we first met in early '96. Mick Thomas from the Weds introduced me. He'd seen them at the Clifton Hill Hotel a few times, where they’d managed to score a coveted residency, after being in town for only a few weeks - a typical Waifs maneuver, as I was later to find out. Mick was excited, and kept banging on about them until I finally dragged myself down to the pub to see for myself. I was very impressed. Mick said that they had supported the Weds some years back and he thought they were the worst band he'd ever seen. So things had obviously improved since then. Anyway, we both ended up producing and engineering their first album, Shiny Apple, at my house. It was a quick and raw collection of tunes that captured their sound perfectly, and gave them a product to sell to their quickly growing crowd of fans.

And then I realized something quite odd. There had not been one mention of trying to attract record company interest with this new recording. They had a highly successful launch at the Royal Derby in Melbourne, and didn't invite one single industry stiff. This intrigued me. I couldn't work it out. I mean every young band you ever talked to in those days thought that securing a record deal was the ultimate. The ticket to fame and fortune. But these guys didn't seem to give a toss. So was it arrogance, good business sense or just plain naivety that kept the record companies off their guest list? I witnessed a lot of CDs going home with punters that night, and no record company saw a single cent! Looking back now through a retrospective lens it’s apparent that they were spearheading a new movement of independent artists who were just beginning to realise the awesome marketing power of the internet and word-of-mouth. But back then I was intrigued, and I wanted to know more about this band, where they were coming from musically, personally, and business-wise. So I grabbed the opportunity with open arms when they asked me to come on the road to Western Australia and play violin with them for 4 weeks. 

They rang not long before the tour and warned me that touring conditions might not quite be what I was used to with the Weds. No Tarago, no loading and stage crew, no single rooms in nice motels. No drink rider. Well, I could cope with all of that except the rider, so they promised to look into it. It just hadn't occurred to them that they could get free drinks as part of their contract… another typically quaint Waifs thing. Forewarned with this last bit of information I thought it would still be fun and a bit of an adventure, so I signed on, and decided to take the laptop and tap out a journal of events as I saw them....

So here I am, waiting at Perth airport, sitting on my rather hefty mound of luggage, a temporary Waif, a temporary abandoned Waif with lots of excess baggage! There's nobody here to pick me up and the whole airport is getting that shutting down for the night kind of vibe..... I'm just about to give up and get a cab when Donna comes bounding across from the car park, full of smiles.

'Oh, shit, must have made a typing error in my itinerary! Sorry!'

Never mind.

We head for the Swanbourne Hotel, our accom. for the night. I've played the sweatiest  gigs of my life here at this pub with the Weds - it's a favourite haunt of ours. But I've never actually bedded down here. This should be interesting.

We get inside and I realize the whole upstairs of the place has been turned into a backpackers joint. I'm staying in a youth Hostel! Bloody hell, and all my life I've managed to avoid these institutions. Still, they all seem pretty nice - James from New Zealand, a rugby-shaped bull of a man,  languidly oversees the place. Man, he could chop firewood with that forehead of his, it’s so mean and tough looking. Then there's half-cut  Helga, who drinks all day and works downstairs by night dishing up really bad pizzas to unsuspecting patrons. She arrived one day and just never left. Lots of others sitting around smoking and eating. They only shape up for the nightlife.

James shows us to our room. Donna offers me the double bed, which I'm tempted to take,  but determined not to be spoiled and soft I bravely opt for the bunk, lower section. Shit, I just don't remember the last time I slept in a bunk!

I try to have a sleep in but we're in a backpackers so that turns out to be impossible.

Meet up with the rest of the band as well as their new drummer who is playing this leg of the tour - Dave Macdonald from the Ragabillies

The gig's sold out at the Swannee. Just on dusk at the end of our sound check the P.A. blows up. The guys are still soldering bits onto and around it as the support band valiantly ploughs through a set with just enough volume to cut through the first couple of rows of the drink-warmed crowd. Shame, cos Friends of Brian are good.

Luckily, by the time we are on, all is well and we play a steamy set to a very appreciative crowd. They know all the words. Well, to the old album anyway. And they have a good go at trying to mime the new songs as well.

Drinks etc, ensue in opening-night party style.

Perth Airport, 5:30 a.m.  1 hour's sleep. This is rock at it's worst....

We get picked up at Kalgoorlie airport by the guy who did the sound for the Waifs last time they were in town. Apparently it was so bad during that show that they ended up turning the foldback wedges around so the audience had something to listen to. So this time there's a new guy booked. The most experienced in town, we're told. I learn something new about the Waifs - they haven't quite got the production side of things down. They are living through the precarious changeover period when success is imminent but more money must be poured into their show to keep up with the growing momentum. I mean to have a reliable sound guy is a gem. Not complaining mind you...

We get shown to our accom. - it's a converted donger out in the back yard of the pub. (That's a long-haulage refrigerator) And I thought the backpackers was novel... what will be next, I wonder. Billeting?

So the five of us are all seriously tired and we fall asleep in the converted fridge for awhile, until it starts to feel like an oven.

We're woken up by the old, supposedly terrible mixer, knocking on the fridge door with a triumphant smile of revenge on his face. He tells us the new guy has fallen seriously ill and can no longer make it ... looks like another interesting night, cos there ain't nobody else in this town.

I go into the pub around lunch time to get some hot water for a cup of tea. The barmaids are all wearing school uniforms. This strikes me as a bit odd but I can't quite figure out why until I wake up a bit more. Later in the day, round sunset, I decide to take a photo of the main street from the meridian strip in the middle of the road. A busload of blokes pulls up at the stoplights and goes apeshit. Apparently wolf whistles are still kosher in Kalgoorlie. I know I’m not looking too flash after so little sleep, but testosterone wafts through the air, and charges the atmosphere. Think I'll wear long pants on stage tonight....

Well last night was .... not bad really. I say that because the front row listened and we didn't get anything thrown at us. Not one of us girls was requested to show tits either. That could have been because all three of us fall under the Playboy regulatory tit size that usually elicits such interest, but I prefer to think it was a sign of respect.

The drummer in the support band had a kit bigger than Virgil Donati's, with a double kick pedal, and scaffolding large enough to hold up a two storey building. Many Marshall amps were nonchalantly strewn about the stage. The Banana Spliffs launched into a gutsy set of tired and true covers, highlighted by an extremely laboured version of House of the Rising Sun. It was a loud act to follow...But we braved the stage when it was our turn, and the sound man, must have been practising hard since the last visit, cos really the sound was more than respectable. I found myself changing 3 guitar strings for the girls on my songs off as there was no stage guy. Normally one of them just stops singing to do it so having me around at least makes the flow of the show a little better.

We fly back into Perth, with a show at Freemantle in the evening. The show is sold out and a memorable gig ensues. A top night of music. I reflect how lucky I am to be hanging out and playing with these guys...

 A well earned day off! Perfect weather, so to the beach, swimming, sunbaking and then off to do some op shopping which actually turns into a bit of boutique fashion shopping and a serious personal budget blowout. I just try not to think about it, and instead dine at a very expensive restaurant with a few friends and come home hungry still. That's nouveau cuisine for you.

Donna spends the entire day off catching up on business, with only a mobile phone as office equipment. She packages up C.D.s for mail orders and shop consignments, collates mailing lists, follows up calls, and makes sure that everything for the next leg of the tour is set in place. She seems to enjoy the mad challenge of running a business that is just about to take off out of her control - says she finds it relaxing. I certainly don't feel relaxed looking at her and the workload she is currently wading through, and wonder how much longer these guys will be able to keep running like this. Surely they will either implode or need to get some outside help so that they can expand and move on. But for now, things seem to be working just fine.

Down to Albany, home of the Simpson sisters. I am instantly surrounded by many Simpsons and ushered into my own private caravan suite,(yes - billeted!) I'm made to feel truly welcome. Jim and Pat Simpson glow and buzz and bustle around their daughters and I suddenly get a valuable insight into why these girls have such confidence in themselves..

It's all beginning to merge and blur, as things do after a while on the road. Jim, the girls' dad, takes me for a ride on his 1959 Triumph, which is way cool. I like their dad very much. He's a professional fisherman, and works all night out on the water. Their mum is a humming dynamo who spins round the house and always seems to be everywhere at once. She helps with the bands' bookwork and fan mail, and has set aside a room in her house as an office to keep everything on track.  She is also the official press keeper, and has every review and article ever written about the Waifs lovingly cut out and glued into scrap books. And she has an embarrassing collage of her kids and the band stuck up on a notice board. It makes me think of my own mum, and all the other mums around the world who are so proud of what their kids are achieving.

Off to Bunbury, a typical non-descript country town with a typical country pub and in it a typically tiny performance stage. Still, we manage to squeeze onto it. The sound guy seems to have missed the last decade in production evolution and is very keen to pursue the gated drum sounds and big reverbs of the 80's. He seems a bit miffed when I ask him to take the endless echo off Vikki's voice, but begrudgingly does so. Girls are so bossy, you can hear him thinking. The crowd is warm and happy, so the night goes well.

We share the rooms upstairs with the usual sad and forgotten men that you find in these places, as well as a visiting cricket team, hell-bent on partying. Not much sleep to be had.

Moving on to Margaret River, with a leisurely drive and swim before we arrive at the Margaret River Caravan Park. All my resolve about not whinging somehow evaporates when I see the conditions of the two caravans that are to be our home for the night, and I complain with attitude for a while.

They smell of mildew and old beer and sweat and hard living, and I just can't understand why a band who is obviously doing so well on the road still would want to stay in such low budget accom. They don't need to for God's sake. But then it dawns on me that it’s precisely because of decisions such as these that the band has a healthy bank balance. And they are true travellers. Their home is wherever they lay their head. I hang my own head in shame as I realize how soft I've become on big budget tours...

After the gig (another fine show) we come back and party on in one of the vans. Donna and Vikki are both fired up and there's nobody funnier than those two when they are on a roll and have an audience. We laugh and drink well into the night

The next lot of days off drift by, just hanging out around Albany. I'm living with the girls' family, still in the caravan in the back yard of their place. Donna keeps on powering through every day with business details and I realize that it is she that really does keep the ship afloat. The others do bits and pieces - Vikki is starting to get a NSW and Victorian tour happening and Josh has been put in charge of keeping the P.A. stuff together. From my vantage point it all looks a bit messy really. I'm still mystified by the way they turn their chaos into order.

The Weld Hotel, Albany. A classic 1970's rectangular room, with a long bar up one side. Completely devoid of character.

This is the Waifs' homecoming gig and I get the impression they are really starting to be viewed as famous in these parts. This doesn't necessarily open all doors for them as the town is a bit suspicious of fame. The guys are worried because they are charging  $10 at the door and they don't think the locals will reckon they’re worth it. This turns out to be wrong however, although dosh is handed over reluctantly if there’s any connection with the Simpson family at all  - knowing of a Simpson’s aunty’s cousin’s husband appears to be good cause for claiming free entry.

Support band the Recliners perform a fine set of blues-tinged tunes to a very timid crowd, who cling to the bar at the side of the room like they’ll sink if they move. Slowly the numbers swell as people roll in from the front bar and hand over their ten bucks. The front bar is the place where the local bikie gang  'God's Garbage'  hang.

Back in the main room and you can feel the alcohol starting to warm this lot up. The girls suck on Sub Zeros and the blokes favour the UDL Bourbon. Slowly they leave the safety of the bar and move to cover the centre of the room, and by the time we come on, the drunkest are so loose and groovy that they're ready to dance.

There's also a front row of screaming pubescent girls. They clap and cheer throughout the set and are still yelling for more when the obligatory flouros are turned on at midnight to signal a rude reminder that time is up at the establishment and the staff want to go home.

Afterwards Donna and Vikki are inundated with old schoolmates and relatives, and their hometown gives them the best welcome that they know how. The girls say they feel a bit hollow and empty after it all. Maybe they had expected to feel a bit more triumphant about their homecoming, or maybe it was just the realization that life in the sleepy town carries on the same without them.

Day 19

Back to Denmark, a small community with a new-age feel,  about forty minute's drive from Albany. We’re playing in the Scout Hall tonight, and it's one of those great hippy gigs where dogs and babies mingle with the guys and gals who come from out of town, and there's lots of pot smoking going on outside, and everyone smiles a lot and really loves listening to the music. Couldn't ask for a nicer audience really.

Day 21

A few more days off in this neck of the woods before we start heading north for the last week of my run with the guys. I suddenly find a big burst of energy and start cycling round town and doing laps in the pool. One fine day I go with some friends for a big long bushwalk, followed by some wine-tasting and purchasing and further imbibing at a couple of excellent small wineries. Next day I go scuba diving to have a look at a diving wreck off the coast of Albany. This is the most un-rock tour I've ever been on. I'm actually going to come home healthier than when I left! 

Day 22

We drive the 400 kms back to Perth and doss down for the night back at the Swanee Backpackers. James has launched into a hive of activity whilst we've been away, and completely repainted the joint. I start to warm to him, and hey, I'm almost beginning to like staying at these kind of places.
 

Day 23

Another one of those horrendous early starts. Up at 4 a.m. to catch the milk run up to Karratha. We are playing two nights at the Karratha Tavern. It's hot. It's steamy. I love this weather, and I love the barren red soil and knowing the threatening desert is just beyond the hills surrounding town, waiting for the moment to reclaim its territory.

I'm expecting much the same kind of gig as we played at Kalgoorlie, and in some ways it is, but there's something quite different about the people in this town. For a start there seem to be a few more women around. And the crowd really listens and they love the show. They seem a relatively docile lot, particularly as most of them have just come off a fourteen-day straight run in the mines. Only one glassing that catches my eye anyway. And I have to laugh when I see one of the Coffin Cheaters singing along with great gusto to Gillian, a song about Josh's mother. My amp is a cow and misbehaves badly.

Day 25

Up ever so early and on our way before sunrise to make the 830 km trip to Broome in time for the last show that I am to do with the guys. To be travelling along, still happy from the night before's intake of substances, and watching the spectacular awakening of the day in the outback, is one of those special memories that I will always treasure about this tour. The road is straight and empty and with a decent hire car around us we just fly up the highway. The boys travel in the personnel carrier (which I was imagining to be some sort of huge tank thing, but turns out to be a very handy landcruiser.)

When we finally arrive we are just about tripping from lack of sleep but we manage to get a couple of hours' kip before getting ready for the gig. And what a gig it turns out to be! Outdoors, which is always a treat, and especially in Broome, where the air is warm and sweet. And the crowd treat them like royalty. It feels like more of a homecoming than the gig in Albany, probably because the guys have spent so much of their formative time here, before heading over to the eastern seaboard. After such a wondrous last gig with this incredible little enclave of musicians whose destiny is so clearly earmarked for fame and fortune, we all retire to featureless rooms and lumpy hotel mattresses. The sweet smell of frangipani lingers in our nostrils as we drift off to the sound of faceless drunken stragglers and the pounding kick drum of the inevitable late-night disco.
 

And so ended my short sojourn with the Waifs. Of course our paths have crossed many times since, and I have watched in wonder as they climb each ladder of national and international success in such seemingly effortless style. But I was there at the start of all this, and I bear witness to the incredible ground-building hard work and tenacity that blossomed into their well-earned fame. Many years later when Vikki drops by one day I ask out of curiosity about the time they played with Bob – THE Bob..I mean, the pinnacle of any muso’s career would surely have to be touring with, and performing on stage with Bob Dylan - he is as close to God as you can imagine. But even this gob-smacking event only gets a shrug of the shoulders in the re-telling. I guess I just have to put it down to another typically quaint Waifs thing…