As the youngest of three children, my musical taste was greatly influenced by my (much) older sister. She was 22, I was 11, and we loved Belinda Carlisle. We loved Kylie Minogue. We loved Michael Jackson.
But as the mid 90s crept up on me and I entered highschool, everything changed. My new friends were listening to Pearl Jam, Nirvana, and The Smashing Pumpkins. They were wearing flannel, the boys were growing their hair long, and the girls embraced the “heroin chic” look. Grunge was at it’s peak even though the king Cobain himself had died just a year earlier. I remember one kid who turned to me in the very first class of Year 7, and said to me dead seriously, “the world is a vampire“, as if it were some sort of code. If I had been down with the right tunes I would have replied in similar form, “set to drai-ai-ain“, and been initiated into the halls of coolness for the next six years. But no locomotion or moondance could have prepared me for that.
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In my epic struggle through the hard and bitter quest that was surviving highschool, I realised I had to get up to speed on decent music fast – had to find something that I could relate to, something that felt like home in a tumultuous world of peer pressure and puberty blues.
…And then she appeared, in a bright blue dress, on the TV in our loungeroom. Shirley, my original muse, sent to rescue me from the musical ignorance that had afflicted me for all my life!
As she strutted around the set in her heavy eyeliner and black boots, I knew I’d found home. The lyrics wormed its way into my introverted little heart, and became my mantra for those awkward years. Before now, I’d never really “loved” music – sure, it was nice, but I’d never bought music of my own before, never been lost for hours in the back of a record store, never saved all my pocket money to buy that one album… until now. Finally, I understood – the way music should drive you, the way it should move you, the way it should pick you up when you feel defeated, alone, misunderstood, filled to the brim with hormonal, teenage angst.
Garbage, often looked down upon for riding the coat tails of the earlier grunge bands at the very end of an era, is anything but. Formed in 1994 by drummer Butch Vig – famed for producing the groundbreaking diamond album “Nevermind“; bassist Duke Erikson – the creative genius who not only co-wrote the songs in his distinctive style but was also instrumental in the cover design of their first two albums; guitarist Steve Marker – who is reknowned for first spotting Shirley; and of course the goddess herself, singer and front-woman Shirley Manson.
From left; Steve Marker, Shirley Manson, Duke Erikson, Butch Vig
Not only did they become my friends and refuge, but also my inspiration. I wrote furiously during those years (albeit the prose of a typical teenage girl), and today still find motivation to bang out a blog post listening to their art.
Then, in 1996, they announced their first Australian tour. I was only 13, and remember seeing the ad in the newspaper. Having only released the one album at the time (the best album, in my opinion) it would have been an awesome gig – if I had been old enough to go. They toured again in 1999, but again, I was only 16 and unable to attend. By the time I did get to a gig, I was 22, and the band had hit a slump in their career.
Not many people know that their debut self-titled album went double platinum in Australia, the UK and the USA, and that they performed the James Bond theme song for The World is Not Enough. But somewhere between the 90s and 00’s, they lost their way; “Beautiful Garbage” and “Bleed Like Me” lacked the something special that “Garbage” and “Version 2.0” had. They were pure, polished pop, created for the masses and designed for the charts – there was no grit, no texture, no depth. Despite this fact, I decided to see them live anyway.
“Garbage” went double platinum around the world – the cover art was conceived by bassist Duke Erikson
The 2005 gig was disappointing. The first point of failure was the venue; Hordern Pavilion is a bad choice for any band – the sheer size of the place is simply devastating to the acoustics. Then, about halfway through the set there was a technical glitch, and Shirley had to spend the next half hour entertaining the crowd with song requests – but they were so obscure she didn’t know the lyrics. Afterwards, I hung back hoping to see the band, perhaps steal an autograph or photo – I would have done anything to meet them in person! But as the cleaners rolled in, we were marched out by the officials, and left empty handed and heavy hearted. It was just after this that the band announced that they were going on hiatus – not the best end to a pretty shady couple of years.
But 8 years later they were back – and in fine form! Not Your Kind of People was closer to “Version 2.0”, a delicious clamour of electronica and grunge. It was February 2013 when my husband surprised me with tickets, and boy was I glad they got it right this time.
The Metro is the perfect venue for them; small, dark, and intimate; packed with fans young and old, all waiting with baited breath. The band slips onto stage like wolves in the darkness – suddenly with a brilliant flash the set lights up, and the willowy silhouette of Shirley erupts into song. She is draped in a sheer black dress that floats around her; in the strobe lighting she looks like a mermaid underwater. My heart catches in my throat as they launch into Queer. The familiar, fuzzy guitar fills up the theater, her soft, husky, lingering voice carrying over the top of it as if to soothe against the whine of the instrument.
The hairs on my arms prickle instantly, though I’m anything but cold. My body warms up from the inside-out, and I can’t help but move to the music as they smash into Push It, one of the sexiest songs of all time.
Meanwhile, Shirley sheds her robe to reveal a fitted black dress, arm bands and boots – an almost military uniform reminiscent of her 90’s style – as if to say, “bugger this, I’m going back to where we started!”. Butch doesn’t miss a beat on the drums, the sound reverberating off the walls into my very bones – and I don’t miss a single word, screaming out the lyrics in unison with Shirley, like a hopeless fan girl. I don’t care if the people around me think I’m a crazy old bat, or if they are offended by my writhing. #1 Crush quickly follows, and it is definitely not the song to be still to. My husband wraps his arms around me as I close my eyes and let the siren song wash over us. But it’s not over yet – I squeal with glee as they crack out favourite-after-favourite, including the ageless I’m Only Happy When It Rains. A perfect combination of old and new, as if they were treating us to the future track listing of their “Greatest Hits”.
I’ve never felt more elated in my life (except from our wedding day of course)! After almost 20 years, I’ve finally had the chance to experience them in the flesh, with not a single flaw to be seen or heard. It was certainly worth the wait – though I hope I won’t have to wait another two decades to bask in their magic again.
Look at that smile – have you ever seen a bigger one? 🙂
