Dispatches from the Fury Road: Proserpine

Cane toads and karaoke seemed like a good idea at the time.

We’ve spent the last two days staying at Airlie Beach with our gig just down the road in Proserpine. It was an opportunity to achieve some important goals. First up is to get your washing sorted. Sure, the laundry area looked like the type of place bad things happen after dark, but just over an hour later, your clothes were ready for the second half of the tour.

Then it was time to get some exercise. Travelling from town-to-town feels like you’re doing a lot but check your steps by the end of the day and you’ll be devastated with the result. The “distance covered to exercise” ratio is severely lopsided, regardless of the fatigue you’re experiencing. A bit of light jogging and walking is a priority unless I want to return home a double act.

The theatre at Proserpine is new and beautiful. The original theatre was knocked down by Tropical Cyclone Debbie in March of 2017 and five years later this marvel was erected. Backstage the Green Room smelt like it had been just opened out of the packet, and the audience were as fresh as their surroundings. A fun gig in a fun town. Nothing beats a playful crowd who give you permission to mess around with your performance.

The previous night our tour manager Shannon and I had become obsessed with a sign at a bar declaring Thursday nights were all about cane toad racing and karaoke. I didn’t really have any interest in the cane toads section of it as I surmised it would be cruel and stressful for the poor little buggers who never wanted to be here in the first place. On the other hand the poster made us laugh so we figured by the time our show ended, we’d miss the awful part of the night and we could belt out some tunes.

I remember when karaoke was first introduced at the Ambassador’s night club in Adelaide and it was hilarious. Watching a procession of punters giving their favourite songs a go was wildly entertaining. Reactions ranged from the “Hey, that wasn’t too bad” to “oh dear, but good on them for having a crack”. Then it seemed to turn with singer after singer hitting the stage and going full Mariah Carey in the hopes a producer was out there in the dark, waiting to pluck them into stardom. Personally, I blame Australian Idol for the shift.

We returned to our hotel, dropped off the car, and headed down to sing some songs. Immediately the night turned. The bouncer was gross. A nuggety fella who looked like his Tinder profile would read, “I love cars, working out, and the philosophy of Vin Diesel”. He flirted with girls who just wanted to get inside and meet people their age. I’m guessing he thought he was being cute but I reckon the girls thought he was having an aneurysm. He also flexed his authority by making patrons walk around the “correct” side of the divide before entering the establishment, even though there was not enough people to declare it a crowd. It was a gathering at best.

The venue inside was a seething mass of testosterone addled lads, and young women you hope will outgrow them soon. One young fella walked past the bouncer and made an okay hand gesture, the symbol that is used by right wingers to troll the media and liberals. The bouncer smiled and reciprocated like they were part of a “special secret nobody knows but us sad losers” club. Not for one instance did we think they’re a part of an uprising. Both men looked like they’d have trouble coordinating what time to meet for lunch, but it does give you a little sense of the flavour in the air.

To be honest all of this might have been easy to rise above for our group, but the rings you had to jump through to request a song was too much. First you had to download an app and then that app would link to your Spotify page which in turn would open extra pages with boxes to tick where you would waive your rights and they could pass on your information wherever they deemed fit. No thanks! All I want to do is belt out Spandau Ballet’s “Gold”. I can do that back at my hotel in my undies while I pack for the next part of the road trip. Which I did. Apologies for the visual but I had a nice time.

Let’s finish on something more uplifting.

For breakfast I found an outdoor cafe that had exactly the standard menu I was hoping for. While I waited for my much needed heart starter to arrive, I watched a girl sitting not far from me attempt to take the perfect photo of her breakfast burger. I have no issue with people who take photos of their food, but she was taking so long to get the perfect shot even Annie Leibovitz would have told her to get on with it.

Just as she had finally settled on the perfect shot, a seagull flew down, grabbed her whole burger, and escaped into the sky. It happened so quickly I swear the woman’s hands held the empty air where her breakfast had sat just a second before. As she looked around in shock I averted my gaze out of respect. It’s the same move you make when you see someone trip on a step, or sneeze snot all over their face, or tells you they’re a fan of Chris Pratt.

The waitress kindly brought the woman another breakfast and this one she managed to eat without being harassed, especially after she moved to a table under cover. I told this story to the Proserpine audience last night and they laughed that knowing laugh which suggests that wasn’t that seagull’s first rodeo. In hindsight it did look pretty plump, so it must be eating all manner of meals here at Airlie Beach.

I’m still laughing as I write this. The combination of swift seagull action combined with the shock on the woman’s face was priceless. The only way it could have been better is if the seagull, with burger in beak, had somehow managed to shit on that bouncer as it flew off towards the blue sky, ready for snack time. I’d gladly give him the “okay” signal for that special moment.

Justin Hamilton

Airlie Beach

2nd of May, 2024