Like I blister in the sun

On Friday night I whacked on some glad rags and ubered myself across town to join thousands of others at Taronga Zoo. There, with the magnificent city of Sydney as out backdrop, we found a piece of unclaimed lawn and set up a little picnic.

We were there to watch The Violent Femmes, that supergroup from the 1980’s, who were playing a few gigs in Australia, forcing many forty somethings off the couch for a chance to relive a part of their youth that had since been replaced with Better Homes and Gardens and risotto.

Looking around, there were groups of people spreading out wheels of brie, fresh grapes and antipasto, while popping the top off a cold bottle of Riesling. The whole scene was very, very un-violent femme.

I got a chatting with a fella, while the warm up band was on. He told me the last time he had seen the band was at the Horden Pavilion some million moons ago. As he took a swig of his James Squires, he told me that he had been off his tree on an ecstasy tablet and had danced like a demon possessed, sans shirt.

I then told him about the time my parents “surprised” me once by taking me to the Entertainment Centre to see…. TORVIL AND DEAN.

Oh so lame.

Then his wife came over and handed him their toddler, because she needed to go and take a slash.

Very, very un-violent femme.

Soon the lights darkened, the band came on and that famous riff began, you know the one. The first few bars of Blister in the Sun lifted the boring conservative ways of the middle-aged, middle class crowd and then, for the next hour or so, I was nineteen again.

And it felt good.