NIMBIN

NIMBIN  A TOWN MADE OF DREAMS AND NIGHTMARES

So much for hope and democracy in the land of musical dreams.  The band failed to ever get back together and the most I ever saw of them was brief encounters in the clubs and bars.  Even if we had wanted to follow through with the reputation we had started to build there were a number of other factors which might have caused our demise.  To start with Fed Art was closed down in a highly emotive clash with the authorities which would have deprived us of a place to rehearse.  The second was the fact that my PA system had been so severely thrashed it would have been cheaper to replace to whole rig rather that trying to repair it.  The bands decision to ease back mid flight on our busy gigging schedule was the thing that killed the momentum and brought our thrill a minute runaway to a screeching halt.  Just as fast as we had come together our quest for musical glory collapsed under pressure like a crumbling house of cards.  The Rock and Roll locomotive we were riding went skidding off the tracks in an orgy of pointless indulgence and the collective fantasy was crushed in a pile of shattered musical dreams.  All of the young lovers were blown apart as the band fell from notoriety and the girls went off looking for a new source of fun. There were no stupid tears or broken hearts for Sylvia and myself just a clinical and detached understanding that each of us was free to pursue other options. We parted as friends and more world wise companions as we drifted back to the singles scene, licking our wounds and consoling our bruised egos.  After the last applause had subsided it took a bit of getting used to being just another punter.  I soon found out to my absolute dismay that the music industry doesn’t give a flying fuck what you used to do, they are far more interested in how hot your product is right now. The thought of starting my career from scratch was too daunting an idea to even contemplate, so I just decided to let the winds of chance blow me wherever they wanted me to go.  In my pathetic attempts to maintain the appearance of a winner I ended up selling the broken down PA rig to a local music shop for about a third of what it had cost.  With the sale it ended my time as an enterprising business man and gave rise to the pledge that I would leave the nuts and bolts side of the music game to those best suited to the job. The PA had been a technical nightmare from the word go due to shoddy craftsmanship but on reflection I can see that it wasn’t a complete waste of time.  In the two years I had been hiring it out the rig had probably paid for itself twice over and it had provided the perfect means by which I could be a part of the Australian music scene.  In the time I was there however in the role of a stage roadie and then a high energy frontman I saw enough to know for certain that following strict and demanding schedules is definitely not my style.  With no PA to hire out anymore and no income from gigging to rely on, I found that most of my waking hours were spent distributing party aids in the pubs and clubs where I used to perform.  At great risk to my freedom I went from selling humble twenty dollar sticks of pot to more hardcore commodities like, speed, cocaine and ecstasy among my friends and anybody else who wanted to score. In no time at all I was cashed up to the same degree I had been at the height of the bands success, but there was no sense of personal gratification associated with anything I did.  I could feel my creative juices drying up like a shriveled prune but I was so disillusioned by everything that I didn’t really give a shit.

As I did the rounds of the clubs and sold my wares I made a few half hearted attempt to recruit the local musos but nothing really ever came of it.  The same magical spark wasn’t there as it had been in the early stages of the band and it felt like I was trying to recapture a magic moment that was lost in the chilly winds of time.  As much as I tried to reassure my battered ego that I was still a happening guy I found that I had no real sense of purpose without the band.  Gone were the head banging crowd who cheered me on each night and gone too was the soaring brand of self confidence I had come to know.  I had no real reason to wake up in the morning other than to get people stoned and my illicit dealings provided the only excitement in an otherwise dull existence. I eventually buckled under the weight of a serious depression which caused me to withdraw from the world and seek comfort in drugs and a darkened room.  I lay alone and permanently wasted in the squaller of my den evaluating suicide as a possible option and wishing that Sylvia was around to distract me from my morbid and defeatist thoughts.  The thing that eventually snapped me out of my self pitying doldrums was an unexpected eviction from our roof garden by the owner of the pub. They wanted to renovate the place and use it for private functions, so Pedro and I were promptly kicked out and given less than a week to move.  My melancholy disposition was replaced by the sudden rush you get when you know you have reached the end of a chapter and it’s time to move on to new horizons.

It was time for some fast decisions about weather I should stay in my big city rut or head for greener pastures in search of a new life.  The latter quickly got my vote, at which I was hit by a stirring new enthusiasm to hit the road.  It’s amazing how we can take the roof over our heads for granted and how important it suddenly becomes when your shelter is taken away.  I needed a permanent dwelling where I wasn’t subject to the dictates of others and the most logical option was my old Ford Transit that was sitting in storage over at the Black Wattle theater.  My trusty old workhorse had not been moved in the months following the collapse of the band, but with a charge to the battery and a few minor adjustments the motor fired up after the third turn of the ignition. I parked the Transit out the front of the theater on Glebe Point Road and placed the XP in the spot where it had been.  All of my home recording gear and other possessions were stacked on the front and rear seats till they touched the roof  then I threw a large tarpaulin over the whole thing.  With nothing in the van other than a mattress, a gas cooker and a few music cassettes I commenced my new life a motorized nomad. Drifting like a windswept leaf from one camping spot to another around the northern beaches of Sydney and wondering why the hell I hadn’t started doing it sooner.  From the Spit Junction to palm Beach I camped by the ocean and pursued a life that was so much simpler than the one I had escaped.  The role of a wandering beach bum suited me down to the sand as I woke up each morning to spectacular ocean views and cleared my head of the madness I had been living.  The artist within me re-emerged with time and I could be seen sketching or writing on beach fronts and in public recreation areas.  People would often come over to admire my work if I was drawing and it always came as a pleasant surprise when they shared compliments or praise.  Each time it happened I was forced to wrestle with the notion that all an artist really needs to be successful is the appreciation of another human being.

‘Art for Art Sakes, … Money for God Sakes’

After a few weeks of living in the van I learned to predict the night and morning patrols of the Council Rangers in whatever location I had stopped and I planned my movements around them.  As a rule I would arrive at an intended camping site at around dusk and I would be gone with the sunrise before the Rangers did their morning rounds.  I had started getting into spear fishing again in a big way and other than my artistic pursuits it was the main focus of my days activity.  It felt like I was turning into some kind of urban, feral, hunter and gatherer but that was ok because Iv’e always been a gypsy at heart.

One crisp morning in June as I camped beside the Pittwater inlet I woke up to frost on the inside of the windows and droplets of semi frozen condensation dripping down onto my pillow.  It triggered a moment of extreme exasperation in me and it was in the very next moment that I decided to leave Old Sydney Town and drive North to spend my days under the tropical sun.  As I sipped on a hot coffee and dried my bedding by the campfire I sorted through an old box of road maps that was sitting under the front seat of the van.  Opened on my lap was a map of the Northern Rivers and a red circle was purposefully marked around to township of Nimbin.  Another was assigned to the coastal village of Byron Bay and I swear that I actually started feeling warmer with each new circle I drew.  Within a couple of hours of my decision to leave Sydney I was on the road clocking up the miles and watching the metropolitan landscape shrink to a hazy, distant blur in the rear vision mirror. I grooved to the heavenly sounds of Santana as I motored along, only ever stopping briefly to roll a joint or take a piss, then it was back to the rushing white lines of the highway.  On the outskirts  of Newcastle while parked near a roadhouse I was deeply engrossed in a filter that I was trying to get into a spliff I had just rolled. Jimi Hendrix asking ‘Are You  Experienced’ was blaring out of the stage monitor I had mounted in the back and it scared the living shit out of me when two young faces appeared in the passenger side window.  The pair introduced themselves as Donna and Paul and they wanted to know if they could catch a ride to Coffs Harbour.  I told them it was not a problem and after I had cleared the seat of my rubbish they jumped in beside me.  The kids said they had been hitching at the roadhouse for hours and they were very thankful that I was giving them a ride.  We finished smoking the joint and then Paul pulled out his stash and rolled a monster scoob of stinky buds. 

From the bag he extracted a quite sizable cluster of glistening, bright green heads and put them into my tobacco pouch on the dash.  I thanked him in all sincerity because my stash was heading ever closer to the point of critically low and I had no idea where I was going to score in my travels. Near the township of Nambucca Heads we spotted another hitchhiker, sitting by the side of the road and we all commented on what a bad location he was in for catching a ride.   I did an illegal turn near a road bridge and we doubled back to where he was with the Jim Morrison belting out  Roadhouse Blues at almost full volume through the speakers.  The guy came running over to where we had stopped and he was very happy to have landed a ride.  Donna and Paul scrambled into the rear with their backpacks and our new travelling companion jumped in the front with me.  He said that his name was Bill and he instantly offered me money for fuel.  I said that it would certainly help as I was travelling on a very limited budget, so when next we stopped he filled the bloody tank.  Nice people.  Bill said that he had to get to Mullumbimbi by the morning and that fitted in perfectly with my plans.  At around sunset we dropped Paul and Donna off just outside of Coffs Harbour at the bus depot and after they had unloaded their backpacks from the van we bid them fond farewells. Bill and I hit the road again bound for The ‘Land of the Rainbows’, and to enhance the mood a little I put my favourite Hawkwind tape in the player. The windows started to rattle from the deep, bass oriented drones and Bill was quick to mention that it was … “Good Acid Music man”.  Our conversation had been largely centred around drugs from the word go so it didn’t surprise me at all when he produced a gram packet of speed and offered me some. The speed kicked in quickly announcing it’s arrival as quality produce and we buzzed along through the night to the sounds of Hawkwind followed by Tangerine Dream and then Pink Floyd. 

The dawn lit peak of Mount Chincogan came into view through a shifting mist as we drove onto the dirt road that led to Bills home.  Once at the end of a long, lantana infested bush track I brought the van to a stop beside an ancient farmhouse that looked like something out of a horror movie.  Bill said “Welcome to the Dropout lodge” and we were greeted by a number of people who came running out the front door.  The old vine covered cottage and the six-acre property surrounding it was home to about twenty assorted musicians, artists and children I was informed over hot coffee and toast.  Bill and his friends said that I was more than welcome to stay as long as I want and after breakfast l was showed a spot near some tall bamboo where I could park the van and set up camp.   Bill and I were too amped up on the speed to even think about sleeping so when a mid morning jam session erupted around the kitchen we were in there boots and all, yodeling and howling to fast moving folk ditties and jigs.  Our wonderful arrival at the Dropout Lodge began a lasting friendship with Bill as my official tour guide for the Northern Rivers.  I was the one with the car and he was the one who knew where all the best fun could be had, so it was a balanced situation we exploited for all it was worth.  I had been living on the property for a couple of months when it was announced that everybody was heading off to a Harvest Ball at a place called the Tuntable Community.  When we arrived our convoy was parked in a large clearing with a host of other brightly painted hippy mobiles and around them tents and tipis were erected.  It was my first ever, true festival experience and as I cruised around checking everything out, the life I had abandoned seemed a million lifetimes away.  Most of the Dropout Lodge crew were scheduled to perform at the Harvest ball in the evening and I was invited to join them on the stage.  This I happily did with great gusto and it sure felt great to be singing for a partying crowd again.  When the festivities had subsided and coffee was brewing the next day word began circulating that a large group of people were going to a protest action in the nightcap forest near Nimbin.  Bill and the others were going so naturally I tagged along.  I was assured by the crew that a full scale protest blockade would be the perfect thing to top off my first ever festival experience. 

In historical terms the Nightcap Forest campaign is acknowledged as the very first environmental protest actions in this country.  I was fortunate enough to be there and it was eye opener beyond compare.  The activists were spared no mercy by an army of hard nosed police and at every opportunity the loggers inflicted as much harm as they could on the protesters.  I was witness to countless situations where chained and padlocked activists were brutally man handled as they cut away the chains and on more than one occasion the victims were just young children.  I had run to the aid of one such brave young individual when I felt the whack of a police baton at the back of my head.  I was dragged through the dirt on my face and when I came to I was in the back of a police truck with people I recognized from the Harvest ball.  Everyone who was arrested received fines and some even harsher penalties for their role in the protest and the Judge at the Lismore courthouse said “The world would be a better place without interference from unkempt ratbags” such as we. Many of the activists went straight from the courthouse back into the forest, but the dropout lodge crew decided to call it a day as it wasn’t a safe place for the children. I stayed on the property in Mullumbimbi for a couple of more months after the blockade, but I had been told about a groovy alternative community in Nimbin called the ‘Stardust Dreaming Camp’ and I wanted to check it out.   There were about thirty permanent residents scattered around the nine acre hinterland spread in tents, tipis, caravans and a variety of other alternative dwellings such as domes and yurts.  The bloke who owned the Dreaming camp was a retired Sydney businessman who had supposedly turned his back on the trappings of wealth and power to pursue a more spiritual calling.  His correct name has to remain unpublished due to a request for privacy, so for the sake of the story I have given him the title of ‘Mr Metaphysicus’. 

                                                            Richard W Burns.

When first I joined the community and was introduced to our host he was sitting in a lotus position on top of a large water tank at the rear of his stately country homestead.  It was raining quite steadily but this detail was ignored as I was treated to a quite convincing sermon about the rewards of “surrendering our sense of personal identity to the never ending stream of consciousness”.  The self appointed guru of the Dreaming camp was a thick set guy with a hard face who looked better suited to the role of a Vietnam veteran or a rugby league player than any kind of wise and gentle mystic.  From first light in the morning until the sun had escaped the sky Mr. Metaphysicus chain smoked joints and espoused a mish mash of different philosophies to anyone who would listen.  He had an almost intimidating intensity about him and often I felt the sky might cave in if should I avert my focus from his piercing green eyes. Mr. Metaphysicus loved the idea of living a simplistic lifestyle based on the pursuit of heavenly wisdom, but it seemed he was wasn’t completely capable of turning his back on the ways of the world.  Not long after my arrival a section of the property was opened up as a tipi village which was designed to attract the hoards of young backpackers who came into the Nimbin area.  Each tipi was hired out for the sum of thirty dollars per night to the young travelers and our host was often seen counting wads of cash at the living room table.  He used to laugh it off by saying, … ‘Mere running costs’  but that failed to dim the illumination of  pulsing dollar signs that were glowing in his eyes. 

The man was a living contradiction of all he promoted in his unending dialogue with the world and I think that was the thing I most liked about him.  Early in the game Mr. Metaphysicus and I established that we were both prone to a good belly laugh at the world through which we travel.  The man was quite a songster so much of our in depth, truth seeking conversation was punctuated by merriment when either one of us, or both broke into song.  The large living room and kitchen area of the house was graced by an enormous camphor laurel, stained table which seated about fifteen people.  It served as the main meeting area for the clan and was often the setting for big community cookups.  At any hour of the day or night a colorful assortment of individuals could be found choofing away on the latest offering of Dreaming camp weed and engaging in the most mind boggling raves you could ever possibly imagine.

Taking a break from all the protest action at Chealundi.

After moving to the Dreaming camp I kicked around Nimbin for a year or so but the ever present smack vibe started to dissipate the magic. I was glad for the time I had on the Northern rivers living with the freaks and misfits but I knew that it was time to move on. My initiation into the ways of the counter-culture couldn’t have happened in a better location than Nimbin. It's an art and consciousness inspired little hamlet that sits right in the middle of the conservative, rural heartland.  A cosmically charged microcosm of the alternative lifestyle movement, that can make you feel like you are at a chooffed out love festival the whole year round.  I lived among the hippies and other North coast fun junkies for about three years after leaving Sydney but as they say, “All good things must come to an end”.  I was spurred to move on one day as I was doing repairs to the van and digging around under the front seat in search of a misplaced wrench.  I came across my old map of Australia and reflected on a circle I had drawn around Cairns at the start of my tropical escapade.  A sudden reawakening of my travel bug occurred in the days that followed which motivated me to broker a deal involving fifteen pounds of the local weed. At he successful completion of this exercise I had enough cash in hand to get the van professionally serviced and a substantial travel budget was stashed deep inside the dashboard.  My decision to get out of the Northern Rivers was inspired as much by a momentary impulse as it was by the fact my pot growing experimentations had been happening directly under the flight path of the drug squad.  Around the dreaming camp it was not unusual to be woken first thing in the morning by a police helicopter hovering low over the property and scanning the terrain.  The vastness of the North Queensland rainforests seemed like a far more viable location to nurture a crop as there is just so much fantastic, unbroken wilderness the chopper pilots have to cover. A group of backpackers who had been staying in the tipi circle found out that I was planning to travel to North Queensland and they ask if I would be interested in taking the five of them along.  I agreed on the understanding we would share the cost of fuel and maintenance for the van to which they were more than happy.  A going away party was organized by Mr. Metaphysicus on the evening before we were scheduled to leave and it took place under a spectacular full moon that lit up the valley. We jammed and partied until late in the night then in the morning with very little sleep we said goodbye to the dreaming camp crew and set off for Cairns.