There were obviously people there that had much more of a history with The Tote than me. For some, it had been their lives. For me - and no less significantly than any other person - it was one of the main representatives of a certain period in my life, and of the people from that period.
For most of the day it seemed like another tote gig - it had some of the same faces I'd been seeing at shows since I was 18 (hey to that orange afro guy), I conducted the same familiar walk to the front bar for between-sets beers, and, a fairly recent addition; I went through the same stomp up the stairs to Le Bar d'Cobra. I didn't feel nostalgic at first - I didn't have time. After the euphoria I experienced after realising I had managed to get in (a friend of a friend had pulled out, and I only found out on the door that I would actually be allowed admission), I heard the lady on the door mutter something about "Eddy Current", and made it from the front door to the back room in about five leaps and as many seconds.
What I saw as I entered was beautiful. Brendan Suppression hanging from the rafters, half way through a rendition of Precious Rose (I think? anyone?). The grin that appeared then didn't leave my face for most of the day - moving with the crowd between The Cobra Bar and the back room to catch The Meanies or The Stabs, soaking up the atmosphere in the beer garden, or leaning against my favourite pole with one hand in my pocket, beer in the other, and realising I might need earplugs as The Nation Blue sparked up.
There were over a dozen short and sweet sets I'd see, but even towards the end, the purpose of the day still hadn't really sunk in. It was like an awe inspiring mini-festival of some of the best rock around. At various times, I was forcing myself to take mental note that this was the last time I (or anyone) would be inside The Tote. The continuous and regular tributes were enough to remind you, but it still wasn't really sinking in. In the early afternoon I sat on that raised platform bit just near the beer garden entrance and attempted to sort through my memories of the place - trying to remember exactly who I had seen there, and when, and what I'd say if someone asked about my favourite show, etc. Sure, I've seen some amazing bands there, but when it came down to it, all I could remember were the people I had been with or met as a result. As a teenager; with my high school band, to play a gig organised by my first girlfriend; and again a year or so later when the Sub FM station manager asked us to play with him (and the Crayon Fields! - at least one band that night went somewhere). In my early 20s; when I would be the recipient and delivery man of countless rounds of Carlton, and new acquaintances became good mates through our shared musical delinquencies. And more recently; after arriving back from close to three years in a foreign culture and, as I stepped across that sticky carpet, finally feeling like the reverse culture shock had dissipated.
Still, on the day, times for reflection were few and far between. Maybe the purpose of it was to summise it's history, but for me that history was still being contributed to. There was too much to enjoy, and even to the very end The Tote still managed to introduce me to new bands and cool people, just like it always had.
For me, it really wasn't until the last set that I began to realise what was happening. The Drones took the stage, and for a band that I would normally reserve the highest of my modest accolades for, the sombre wash that fell over me was more akin to receiving terrible news than to having one of your favourite bands take up their weapons. You could see it in their faces too - after witnessing a veritable roll-call of some of the most revered bands across the venue's 30 year history, the task must have seemed enormous. I'm sure they didn't even realise it themselves until they took the stage. Or maybe they lost sleep over it. Either way, what a weight. They were to be the last band to play The Tote.
After the guitars had snarled, the bass and drums had throbbed and crashed, and Gareth had spat and convulsed his way through some of the best Australian songs of the last decade, it came to the pinnacle. Up until then there was still semblances of business as usual - the beer garden still had people in it, smoking, drinking and chatting away. There was still heckling. Conversations between the punters were still taking place, and beers were still being purchased. But as Dan Luscombe's guitar fed back and maintained it's steady shriek, and he called out for Joel Silbersher, a silence fell over the crowd. Beers were either already bought or forgotten about. The last of the people streamed in from the beer garden and took their positions. The crowd began pushing forward and started to sway as one. And then the static gave way to that riff, and the silence erupted into one of the most memorable roars of my life.
Unforgettable.
At the end of the last song - 'My Pal' - I will always remember looking around and seeing a bunch of grown men that look like bikies in tears. It was hard not to feel emotional - everyone there had been affected by what they had witnessed. Joel, after delivering a heart wrenched version of his band GOD's 1980s underground hit - crowd-surfed the pit like he was floating on water - the emotion of having his old band mates ashes scattered on the stage at the start of the day, in addition to that final moment, must have been overwhelming. Gareth strode past me and straight into the embrace of one such bikie look-a-like, both of them in tears. As people came to the realisation that it was over - everyone at a different pace and in their own time, it seemed - the crowd slowly spewed out into the front bar. I didn't hang around for a beer afterwards - I never really did and I felt I should stick to tradition. I just took a deep breathe, trying to absorb some of it, had one last look, and left.
The aftermath
In the days afterwards, (and even, apparently, from mutterings on the day itself) there have been rumours that it wouldn't really be the end of The Tote. All that emotion needn't go to waste though - in it's essence, it was never about the closing of a pub anyway. It was about the end of an era, and the beginning of one where we see the flavour and shape of venues, particularly in the CBD, take on an uglier and unfamiliar veil. It was a rebuff to the current state of liquor licensing legislation that is causing the closure of other smaller, charismatic venues across the whole state. And at the very least, it has provided a much needed opportunity for this city to reflect on the direction we're heading, and to start thinking about what we can do about it. This holds true whether The Tote reopens or not.I hope it does reopen - I will certainly continue to go there, and I hope that other young people discover great friends and music as a result. I also hope that it acts as a wake-up call to those who can make a difference - we really have something special in this city, and it needs and deserves to be protected.
The last song - My Pal by The Drones with Joel Silbersher
