Head for the car, intent upon leaving for Ottawa. I miss the exit for the highway because it's not signed at all, resulting in an hour of driving around la belle îsle, looking for another entrance. Much muttering and cursing ensues. Finally find the way to the highway and we're off to Ottawa.

Arrive in Ottawa, find the Ramada Inn where Eugene Haslam, owner of the Zaphod Beeblebrox club, has kindly booked us a room. It's quite far away from the club, not the seven blocks he claimed it was. But hey, it's a room and it's cheap, and we appreciate the gesture. We rest a while, dress for the show, and drive over to Zaphod. General opinion forms between me and Derek that Montréal and Ottawa pedestrians are as incredibly clueless and secure in their own belief of immortality as Boston pedestrians. Meet Eugene himself as the door staff check off our names on the guest list. Quite an interesting-looking chap, he is. Dark skin, longish cornrow braids, glasses. Nice bloke.

Check-in completed, we run out to find someplace for a quick dinner and are surprised at the nightlife in downtown Ottawa. Of course, this means that we have almost no chance of sitting down to eat and finishing before the band is due to start playing. Dinner of last resort turns out to be a salad Subway sub for Derek, an onion bagel with peanut butter for Jude, and a pizza bagel for me. The pizza bagel comes with pepperoni on it, which was not listed on the menu. I don't eat meat, so I send it back with a request for just tomato sauce, cheese, and mushrooms. Grumble. I have to scarf it down so we can get to the club before the show starts.

We go back to the club and stake out a spot in front of the stage. I get myself a Pangalactic Gargleblaster cocktail...peach schnapps, orange juice, Jack Daniels, and blue curaçao, I think. Derek recoils in horror, as his worst drinking memory involves peach schnapps. More for me, then! He gets a Slartibartfast instead. Then the band take the stage.

Set list: "Louis Burdett," "Time," "Laugh in Their Faces," "I Get High," "Charlie #2," "Charlie #3," "Coming Up For Air," "Life's a Beach," "I Make Hamburgers," "Met My Match," "No Aphro," "Gough," "Melbourne," and "Following My Own Tracks."

Much more responsive crowd this time, more people who know who the Whitlams are. This makes for better energy from the band. The sound is much better than at the Jello Bar, too. Before "Hamburgers" some guy in the audience approaches the stage and yells something to Tim. Tim responds, "Go back to your seat, unless you're gonna do the Australian dance with a beer and a fag. Someone give this man a cigarette so he can do the Australian dance!" The guy turns to me and Jude in supplication, but we have none, and Tim admonishes, "Hey, what are you talking to the women for?" Snicker.

Another Tim-ism when introducing "Met My Match": "It's a song about rooting. You Canadians wouldn't know what that means. It's a song about planting tulips...that's 'rooting' in Australia." Oh yeah, that's rooting, baby. It's a great show overall-they really go off. Note with satisfaction that he reinstates the "red hair, no hair" lyric in "No Aphro." During this song I hit the bar for a cider and do my own cigaretteless version of the Australian dance for the rest of the set.

After the show Greg hands me the Friends of the Whitlams (FOW) book to encourage people to sign up for the mailing list. I work the crowd forming around Tim, who sells CDs and autographs them. Get to chat with a couple of expat Australians. I reminisce with one guy about living in Kings Cross, tell him about my old flat on Royston Street, the one where we kept finding used needles on our front stoop. He jokingly insists that this is part of the charm of Cross living. Charming indeed, so charming that we escaped to Bondi Junction, but that's another story altogether.

Spot Big Rude Jake himself in the club, returned from a gig at a different venue. Looks like it's time for them to board the bus and head on to Toronto. Greg takes the FOW book back from me and says he'll get it to me tomorrow. The employee at the door rips down a couple of Whitlams posters and gives them to me. Derek drives home, since I've drunk too recently to trust myself behind the wheel. Get back to the room, time to crash.

back | home | continue

All text, photos, and illustrations by Laurie Brunner © 1999, EXCEPT the FOW T-shirt gif and FOW logo, linked from the Whitlams home page.