Remembering The Golden Age, And Grimy Teapots, Of Kings Cross
"It was all there, at all times, for all types. You were afforded the chance to find your scene, your people. You’d discover how the others might not be so other after all."
Our nights out in Kings Cross often started Darlinghurst, a slow, persistent crawl towards the heart of Potts Point. Rock up to Spectrum in time to catch a mate’s band play 20 minutes of soft indie rock. Head next door to Vegas for some pool under red neon lights. Hunt a kebab down on Oxford Street, hooking left towards the glow of the Coke sign.
Once past that threshold, you were consumed. We danced across three levels of bands at World Bar, teapots full of sugary mystery booze in hand. We’d hop next door, underground at Candy’s Apartment. Lead singers climbed the exposed ceiling pipes. Too-cool hipsters pretended not to watch from the smoking area that looked over the dancefloor like a zoo display. Someone from Kings of Leon would just randomly show up and start DJing, probably horribly.
Eventually we’d slink into a bench around the corner, staring at a fresh(ish) plate of nachos at Dean’s. Or perhaps you preferred a nightcap, safe in the darkness of Baron’s. Sweet relief.
This era of Kings Cross was the last time I ever felt true community. The people working the door, those behind the bar, the people in line for a bus. All familiar faces. Even the ones you didn’t know. You’d feel comfortable being around them, shooting the shit. Regardless of where they were from, what they were into. The unifying allure of the Cross brought us all in, together.
It wasn’t just us indie kids dancing in Candy’s Apartment. It was also the scene kids pretending to not be having the time of their lives at Hot Damn. The suits and preppy kids having pizza at Hugo’s and Piano Bar. The party animals raving within the laser-drenched walls of Plantation. The caricatures outside the gentlemen’s clubs dotted along Darlinghurst Road. The fair dinkum bloke’s blokes smashing schooeys and watching the footy at the Courthouse Hotel. The wonderful queer community, elevating the entire vibe of Oxford Street.
These sound like closed-off, self-contained communities. But each faction represented a different flick of colour in the Jackson Pollock painting that was Sydney’s nightlife. It was all there, at all times, for all types. You were afforded the chance to find your scene, your people. You’d discover how the others might not be so other after all.
“One thing I always found interesting about that era and that scene was the age gap,” recalls Wade Keighran of Wolf & Cub. “It wasn’t just young people hanging with young people. Almost every decade was represented and at 19 I often hung out with 40, 50, or 60-year-olds among our immediate friend circle. Made things so much more interesting.”
The Pulse Of The City
My most vivid memories on tour come from Fortitude Valley in Brisbane and Hindley Street in Adelaide. What makes these places so uniquely visceral is their sheer unpredictability. You’d step outside of a venue and immediately be bombarded by a brawl, shady characters outside strip clubs, drunk teens belting Fleetwood Mac with some old out-of-towners, expats having late-night Maccas in their pyjamas. It’s too much to forget.
You were afforded the chance to find your scene, your people. You’d discover how the others might not be so other after all.
Outside of Sydney venues, you’re faced with taxis begging for your patronage and a bouncer telling you to move along, under the shadow of a couple of restaurants that closed two hours ago. The streets are now dark. You’ll meander past a flock of delivery drivers huddled under the warm glow of the golden arches outside the only place left open past midnight. Stand still long enough and you might just be able to hear the city whisper “Off you go mate, time for bed.”
The inner east of Sydney in its pre-lockout heyday was our own very own Fortitude Valley or Hindley Street. It was the pulse of the city.
Candy’s Apartment, World Bar, Spectrum, Club 77, the Hopetoun. If you wanted to be in a band in Sydney, this is where you would cut your teeth, alongside local legends like Red Riders, Dappled Cities, Philadelphia Grand Jury and countless more. You weren’t playing to a pub half full of people who came to sink piss and watch the footy. You were playing to eager music fans actively seeking music discovery. Everything from late night residencies to support slots for touring international acts were on offer several nights a week, every week.
“It just felt so normal to play to so many people, all of them riding that same high,” says Dan Cunningham of the band ARSE. “There was a robust cultural appetite for it. Today it’s tantamount to a hunger pain, wondering if anyone will show up to the gig after you’ve just spent the paltry guarantee on a two-bit social media campaign to promote it. It used to be someone else’s job to do that shit. Now it’s unheard of.”
“Kings Cross Was Ours”
It’s easy to compare those abundant opportunities to the dearth of live music we have experienced in Sydney over the past handful of years. Also to note the inherent opportunity that the internet has brought to new artists wanting to get their music out there.
My bandmate John-Henry Pajak was no stranger to the gauntlet of inner east gigs as a member of multiple local bands. But our band Polish Club never had to stand up to that test. Luckily someone noticed when we uploaded a song online, and yet more lucky that this someone got it played on the radio.
Still, one fact remains: being around that energy, having to play in front of real people who pay attention and expect good music, you gain a level of respect for the live music space that is otherwise hard to grasp. You have to be good. You have to be memorable. You have to appeal to a broad cast of misfits and tastemakers. You have to be cool. And my god, the Cross was fucking cool. It was all that.
Kings Cross and its surroundings are now free from the burden of being cool. Free to build gentrified apartments. They’ve opened an F45 gym next to Candy’s. World Bar is now an “immersive cocktail experience bar”. Goldfish is now a Woolies Metro. Further afield Ruby Rabbit is long gone, currently home to a Greek restaurant. The Hopetoun is reopening, yet won’t have any live music, lest it lead to noise complaints. The same noise complaints that shut it down in the first place.
It’s all gone. Destroyed under the weight of outcry over violence and our own waning tolerance of diversity and culture. In the name of killing violence we have instead killed culture, with violent incidents merely being displaced to places like Newtown, The Star, and people’s homes. We erroneously assume it’s a problem of communities and venues, rather than a broader problem with violence and alcohol.
Regardless, the writing was on the wall. I admit it was a case of perfect timing. I was in my early twenties, wanting to discover what scene I could fit into. What music I enjoyed. Clubbing, emo, indie? (Spoiler: it was the latter) Maybe this is how everyone viewed their surroundings when they look back at their twenties.
Yet I’ve spent the past five or so years giving the same spiel and people of all ages, all cultures, all preferences, empathise — Cunningham included. “For young bands today, ignorance is bliss — they ostensibly seem to enjoy their own cultural moment. But it’s the husk of what we had. Kings Cross was ours,” he says.
Everyone was moved by the old Kings Cross. Everyone misses 5am nachos.
David Novak is the frontman of Sydney band Polish Club. Follow them on Twitter and Instagram.
Photo via World Bar Facebook