The Needle and the Damage Done hits the road
10th February 2009
The Needle and the Damage Done Tour Blog
In which our heroine, Fiona Scott-Norman, throws her bags and weighty hyphenated surname over her shoulder, and with Kat - her trusty sidekick/tech/and occasional Japanese schoolgirl impersonator - takes the ‘The Needle' on the road. Is regional Australia ready for a smarty-pants comedy show which romps through a top ten of the worst records in the world whilst taking potshots at religion, racism, and John Laws? Or will we be run out of town with an award-winning vanilla slice lodged firmly in our tailpipe? Only time, gentle readers, will tell.
February 6th - In which we are confronted by a most curious cheese.
To UPWEY
Despite the insistence of Mr Ben Bennetts, a friend, fellow artiste, and kind supporter of ‘The Needle', we have decided not to print ‘The Needle And The Damage Done' tour shirts. Admittedly, it would be impossible to underestimate the allure of a t.shirt with ‘Upwey, Moorabbin, Sale, Shepparton, Colac, Portland, Horsham, Echuca, Kyneton, Werribee, Orange, Queenbeyan, Mildura, Williamstown, Manning, Laylock, Parramatta, Mullumbimby, Castlemaine, Illawarra, Newcastle' (and that's just the first leg mind you), listed on the back, and if the demand is there we shall reconsider.
I am, however, all for merch, and am floating some alternatives. What are your thoughts on a ‘You've Never Been Trucked Like This Before' John Laws mug, Tony Barber memorial leg warmers, and a ‘My Pal Foot Foot' fake tattoo? If you have any suggestions, correspond freely below.
Our first gig is in Upwey, at the Burrinja Art Gallery, which is a charming venue with a ‘Gumnut Babies' aesthetic, and a performance space which could more properly be described as an abandoned 1970's dining room/aerobics studio.
We are made to feel most welcome, and informed that we have been allocated an antipasto and red wine rider. This augers well for the rest of the tour, and we look forward to being showered with regional comestibles.
Kat and I fall upon the antipasto like starving wildebeest during our break, but are thrown by what appears to be a wedge of terrine - a meaty pink slice dotted with rough hewn chunks of something darker - but it turns out to have the texture and flavour of a brick of Hubble Bubble chewing gum. Enquiries yield the information that it is a ‘triple berry fruit cheese', and for the continued solvency of whichever local provedore is responsible, I trust that it was an experiment inspired by a romantic evening and a berry surplus, and not their major product line.
Can you spot it? Lurking between the brie and pickled vegetables, looking like TERRINE.
The good people of Upwey, to a man, try and sit around the boundary of the large venue, rather than in the seats set in front of the stage. I fear they may have been traumatised in the past by a rough sort of comedian who made fun of their hand-crafted cardigans. I lure them forward using free toffees as bait. They enjoy the show in a restrained and wary fashion, like captivated woodland creatures ready to bolt if I make a sudden move.
Quote For The Day from two 14 year-olds who came up after the show.
Teen One - "We just wanted to tell you the show was awesome".
Me - "Why thankyou. Anything in particular grab your attention?"
Teen One looks at Teen Two. They commune in silence.
Teen One - "No. It was all awesome."
February 7th - Where Fiona and Kat get terrifically lost and learn a salutory lesson about reading maps.
To MOORABIN
It is as well that we are starting off the regional tour gently, for Kat and I, in a navigational triumph that makes Burke and Wills look like amateurs, manage to take an hour and a half to get from my house in Balaclava to the Kingston Arts Centre at Moorabin. This, as the local bagel maker could tell you, is a journey which should take ten minutes in peak hour.
Alas, these girl adventurers are convinced that the Kingston Arts Centre must surely be in Kingston, and in a primeval part of their brain are heading to Jamaica. Also, as you would be well aware, the temperature that afternoon hovered around 47 degrees, which, frankly, turned me into Daisy from The Great Gatsby; reclining delicately in the passenger seat, fanning myself languidly, and thinking about highballs, crisp linen shirts, and handsome men. I was no help to Kat, who at that point had unbounded confidence in the Sat Nav on her phone. Note the past tense; we are now taking the Sat Nav with a grain of salt the size of the Grampians. We were literally within 15km of Portsea before realising that we'd overshot the mark by about 100km. I know. Stop sniggering.
The evening went exceedingly well for us. The show was sold out, the venue staff were gorgeous, the audience practically levitated with joy and enthusiasm. We were also taping this particular show for use in a tv commercial (stay glued to your screens after midnight, I'll be there somewhere sandwiched between ‘20% off tractors' and ‘Dial 0055 hot asian totty'), and it couldn't have gone better. In retrospect it was a kind of magic bubble that burst the next morning when I picked up the newspaper and discovered that half of Victoria was burning and the death toll was rising. It's a very strange sensation to realise that you're embarking on an extensive tour of a region that has just plunged irrevocably into pain, confusion, and grief. Fingers crossed they're going to need a few laughs, or this is going to be a month of tremendous awkwardness.
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