I hope the state library is archiving up a storm today, because there’s an orgy of vanished worst this week. Things, sometimes trivial, sometimes major have or are about to disappear from the city. Click on the smaller pictures to go to original posts.
Firstly, Fairlanes is gone, which wasn’t so much of a worst apart from it being owned by the Bond family I believe. Bye bye Fairlanes.
Faith no Bondy
On the good side, apparently the Langtrees artwork was removed immediately after its appearance on this site. Bye bye Ms K.
The mystery flaming Wardrobe on Beaufort Street is gone. Bye bye flaming closet. Missing you already. Why didn’t I open it when I had the chance?
There may be a flaming homosexual inside.
- no flamin
And horor of horrors, apparently the destruction of The Red Castle Motel, an icon of happy nostalgia and bad taste is to be announced in the West today. What a tragedy. What the hell is the Heritage Council up to? Might as well be the fucking Style Council.
say it aint so red castle
The Hans Merks palace of teh auto on Beaufort Street was finally demolished this week. Bye Bye and thank You Hans Merks.
Thank YOU Hans Merks
What a week. What a week of horror. Apart from the painting going of course. I need a brace of Howling Wolves. Phew!
The Worst of Perth 
Fairlanes is skittled.
Portrait hidden in wardrobe.
Car castle ransacked.
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I checked the West. Although I saw that Perry Lakes is going, didn’t see mention of red castle.
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Gone but not forgotten……lower the flag perhaps.
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The Flaming wardrobe didnt go far! It was dumped in the vacant lot right next door and somone has smashed it into pieces!
RIP Red Castle….
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Christ on a bike. I shared that house on Beaufort Street around 1982 with my girlfriend, and guitarist Paul Cummings, (better known as Elroy Flicker … he of The Fitzroy Gutterslugs).
One of Paul’s earlier bands was named The Shuffling Hungarians. I came home one afternoon to discover that having made the momentous decision to name them such, he’d deeply engraved the name right across one wall of his room with a wide chisel. When he finally returned home from the pub I had to explain that we rented the house, and that the owners may not necessarily appreciate his renovation.
I don’t recognise that wardrobe at all, but it can’t have been Paul’s. He used the floor.
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I don’t recall the Shuffling Hungarians, Snuff. How did they go? What was their best song?
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I often went to see Elroy at The Fitzgerald, before being banned from premises.
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Fair dinkum, TLA ? Were those his legendary Thursday night solo gigs, before heading off to the Parrot’s upstairs bar to be joined by the Gutterslugs ?
And what was the name of that wine bar next to The Fitzgerald where David Helfgot used to play on Tuesday nights ? Started with a ‘c’, I think.
Now, those were both amazing gigs !
p.s. And how on Earth did you manage to get banned from The Fitz ?
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Google says Riccardo’s.
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I wrote amusing comments on their toilet wall with a fat artline (I think). yes I used to go every thurs.
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I think he used to finish with Rock Island Line
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That was indeed often the case, TLA. What was truly great about those gigs is that they were masterpieces of improvisation. Paul never worked from a set list, and would simply decide what to play on the spot, and often at the whimsical request of the audience.
Moreover, although he had his favourites, they never sounded the same twice, as they always reflected precisely how he was feeling at that very moment. He was seriously crook at one time, and had to lay off his beloved grog due to the antibiotics. This naturally sent him into a furious funk, and he took it out on the guitar. I’ve rarely seen the blues like it, before or since.
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They were fairly shortlived, DFOC, and shall we say, learning their trade, so it’s probably fair to say you didn’t miss too much.
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The Shuffling Hungarians may have been fairly short-lived (1982 – 1982) and ‘learning their trade’ to an extent – they did feature ex-punk pioneer Ken Seymour – but they went OK, breaking the house sardine-packing record at the Cat on their first gig and breaking that one on their second.
They brought, or attempted to bring, both the sounds of black music to an audience oblivious to its numerous charms and a levity hitherto unknown among the po-faced serious young raincoats of the Perth ‘original’ scene.
The Shuffling Hungarians had a cavalier attitude to material selection, telling HSV II magazine that ‘We do play a few other peoples songs but we’re working hard to make our set 100% covers’, claiming that they didn’t do more covers because it was ‘too hard – it’s much easier to write them.’
A brief straw poll reveals that the Ray Brown penned ‘Neanderthal Rock’ and ‘Rock With The Zoo’ best reflect the Shuffling Hungarians ethos – vaguely amusing low-brow drinking music that didn’t seek to subvert the dominant paradigm so much as give it a quiet nudge.
Cheers
Elroy
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It must be admitted that Paul Cumming did, in fact, etch ‘Shuffling Hungarians’ in 5-foot high letters into the plaster of his bedroom of the above house, although where Kaz went wrong was in giving Paul paint scraper and telling him that he could move in if he redecorated. Well, he did redecorate – he etched Shuffling Hungarians in 5-foot hight letters into the plaster of bedroom. Excellent! His only regret is that he didn’t take a photo of it.
The lounge room of that house was actually the birthplace of the Shuffling Hungarians as it was there that Paul Cumming and ex-Modern Wimp Dean Hilson first tried to figure out how to play rockabilly and generally be in a band. They had a drummer called Niall who ever made it to rehearsal and a bass player, Peter Rowland of the Derailment Brothers who, to his regret, did, and who promptly left when he figured out that Paul and Dean hadn’t figured it out.
What Paul remembers most about living at Beaufort Street was fleecing Snuff, Kaz and Colin Chapman – especially Colin, after a big night at Connections – for bread, butter and milk money, as Paul had realised that if he woke everyone up in turn to relieve them of the necessary five bucks, in turn it would never be his turn.
Colin, however, got his revenge by trying to convince the newly migrated and singularly dopey Paul Cumming that the tree at bottom of the Beaufort Street’s house’s back garden really did contain drop-bears that were particularly vicious, an effort on Colin’s part that was wholly successful and that kept Paul away from all trees, just in case, until he told Dean Hilson who quite reasonably found it all rather amusing if not a trifle sad.
Cheers
Elroy
PS. Paul was indeed a pioneer of the floordrobe due to an early adherence to minimalist chic (his furniture consisted of one found mattress , one borrowed Marshall stack, one stolen milk crate and one hocked Guild T100D guitar) and ‘other priorities’ – see above mentioned ‘pub’.
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Of course ! The wardrobe must have been Colin’s, and I’d forgotten all about his obsession with said bears.
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It must be said that the flaming wardrobe would have looked absolutely fabulous in Colin’s boudoir. As for the bears, Paul Cumming still regards all native trees with a healthy respect and cautious eye, just in case.
Cheers
Elroy
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All you Elroy Flicker fans can catch up with some of his finest work on elroyflicker.bandcamp.com – fond memories or not…
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Thank you kindly, Gremmen. Much appreciated.
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Snuff and Elroy.
I know a fair bit of time has lapsed but you actually lived in the house next door to the house pictured. The house youse occupied was demolished some time ago thereby creating the vacant lot where the Flaming Wardrobe ended up.
Where are you these days Snuff? Give us a call some time.
Miss Trish
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Paul C.
Miss Trish! “Tis yourself!
Well, Paul C. is reportedly much flummoxed now. It’s true that you most probably motor past said domicile/vacant lot most days while PC and Snuff are distinctly ex-pat (こんにちは! Snuff) and so are best placed to know whether their cherished memories are now but dust, but PC could have sworn, SWORN that this house was the birthplace of his rock ‘n’ roll plot for world domination.
That’s the first thing he said – ‘Fuck me, I know that house! That’s where I plotted rock ‘n’ roll world domination!’ So did the house wind up in the same state as PC dreams? Demolished and reduced to its component atoms? Or has at least one of them lived on?
True, you drive by, but Snuff and PC lived there. Doesn’t that count for something? Wouldn’t it be burned into their psyche that much deeper? Is there not a chance that you are…wrong?
Cheers
Elroy
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I’m walking past there today (after visiting strippers world). I’ll look for the remains of the wardrobe of fire. If it’s still extant, i’ll have a quick drink for it at the Queens on the way past.
The Red Castle’s website is now a vanished worst.
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A Flaming Lamborghini, perhaps.
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I’ll be having my usual, A Mandari, a cocktail of my own invention, Campari infused with mandrax over ice.
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Good luck with that. I’ve had to make my own Bloody Mary there before, because the barman indicated he was “no good at that stuff” and just laid out the fixins in front of me.
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I can see why you didn’t call it a Campax.
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I wonder if anyone managed to get their hands on Fairlanes’ balls before the placed was razed?
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Now those would hang right.
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Fairlanes…ABC reporters could race in there when the 9pm news started, get a big tray of chips and a Coke, and be back at their desk before the end of the bulletin.
I will have a Yellow Lightning or three tonight and toast the Red Castle.
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I’ll have a bottle of Summer Wine, chased down with nips of Stones Green Ginger…
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And don’t forget this gem, Cockstar, or were you born a Porphyry man ?
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Snuff, I was more a Skip & Go Naked man myself – you should know that.
Speaking of days of old, do you remember that legendary Curtin ESA party at the back of my place in Leonard St, Vic Park? Slam Thunderhide (Tony Bonney’s band) and Die Monster Die headlined.
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Jesus. I go away for a few days and my fair city is completely changed.
At least The Penn is still with us for now.
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I was out of town and missed that one, Cockstar, but I seem to recall from previous discussions that it involved some creative accounting and a lot of hash. No doubt a fine time was had by all.
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And I’ll have #14 with a happy ending in honour of Ms K.
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I washed my way through 4 years of advanced education at Hans Merks (cars, that is). He expected his ‘car washer’ girls to wear the shortest of shorts…
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Pingback: Weekend Worstoff 46 « The Worst of Perth
Page 17 of today’s West has the story that the Red Castle is slated for demolition to build apartments. We need to organise a vigil. Mind you with the apartment market in the toilet, maybe there’s still some hope.
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I wonder if Bud Tingwell’s available, TLA, or at least Tiriel Mora. It’s the vibe of the thing.
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Miss Trish! “Tis yourself!
Well, Paul C. is reportedly much flummoxed now. It’s true that you most probably motor past said domicile/vacant lot most days while PC and Snuff are distinctly ex-pat (こんにちは! Snuff) and so are best placed to know whether their cherished memories are now but dust, but PC could have sworn, SWORN that this house was the birthplace of his rock ‘n’ roll plot for world domination.
That’s the first thing he said – ‘Fuck me, I know that house! That’s where I plotted rock ‘n’ roll world domination!’ So did the house wind up in the same state as PC dreams? Demolished and reduced to its component atoms? Or has at least one of them lived on?
True, you drive by, but Snuff and PC lived there. Doesn’t that count for something? Wouldn’t it be burned into their psyche that much deeper? Is there not a chance that you are…wrong?
Cheers
Elroy
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こんばんは Elroy. Given our respective states at the time, anything’s possible, but it still looks like the place to me.
So, I’ve referred it to a higher authority. Although she’s long been in rural Victoria raising alpacas, if anyone can say for sure, it’ll be Kaz, as I think she’s the only one who ever paid the rent. I humbly await her words of wisdom.
p.s. I guess we’ll never know why Fess chose that name, for as he said, “I had one Hindu in the band, but there weren’t no Hungarians.” Little Georgie was clearly paying homage.
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こんにちはかぎたばこ、それはどのように行っているか。
Golly! Kaz! Are you sure you need to refer this matter that far up the chain of command? I mean, PC reports that Colin Chapman is living under a rock in Abbotsford somewhere – maybe he would know? Um, let’s see now…Colin C…1982…Connections Nightclub…No, he wouldn’t know either – he never saw the place in daylight.
So, to the Alpaca Queen you must! However, PC is sulking as he distinctly remembers handing some cash over to Kaz at some point…but maybe she was going to the bottle shop. Whatever. Rent. Hmmm. PC is not entirely sure that he was there long enough for a rent payment to fall due, particularly considering PC’s philosophical enmity towards ‘rent’ as a concept and his marked reluctance to encourage such bourgeois activity. And that he converted any potential ‘rent’ money into Emu Bitter at the earliest opportunity.
But now PC has cogitated some more on the subject – always a painful process – he reports the shadow of a glimmer of a hint of nano-doubt has briefly bothered his otherwise untroubled cranium. Could it be, could it possibly be, that this house WAS next door and due to its novel-for-Perth outlandish appearance was the house he WANTED to live in? That this was an office of some sort? Now, I’m afraid, only Kaz can tell.
Cheers
Elroy
PS Good to see that The Shuffling Hungarians legacy is still alive with Little Georgie’s tribute band – PC reports being both humbled and touched. Little Georgie has certainly tapped into the Hungarian’s central ethos, ‘Resurrection/Re-invention/and Redemption through the vehicle of wretched Bacchanalian Excess’, but it is wondered just how he tackles such rockin’ touchstones as ‘Neanderthal Rock’ and ‘Rock With The Zoo’.
‘Fess, on the other hand, reports that his configuration was named by a nightclub owner. ‘Here comes Professor Longhair and his Shuffling Hungarians!’ said the publican in question, but why…well…as you say…hmmm.
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I’ve just heard from the Alpaca Queen, Elroy, and she has confirmed that Miss Trash is indeed correct, and 398 Beaufort was demolished like so many brain cells, dreams and flaming wardrobes.
p.s. Please don’t be too unkind in your assessment of our failings, Miss Trash, or I may have to post a photo of someone doing the dishes at Mary Street with impossibly perky boobs.
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Never unkind in my assessment Snuffo. Amused most certainly, but never unkind.
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The pictured house was occupied by the gay guys – can’t remember their names. I think there was shitty little dog involved somehow. They kept their place in fairly good order which is possibly why it remains standing. There was an office in the mix however it was the fancy two story joint two houses up on the corner. Your house was kind of spartan on the outside and had a design a little like a humble presbyterian country church. In fact El Snuffo, you did often refer to it as “the Church.”
I remain in contact with Colin and am confident he will back up my recollection.
BTW – in re Shuffling Hungarians – you may recall I was your inaugural Goulash Girl who got tired of waiting for youse to get it together and so went off to Melbourne Town. I got to play at your last ever gig when I made an unrelated and unplanned dash back to Perth. As coincidence would have it, I am having dinner with Ken Seymour next week – any messages?
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Hmm. PC is beginning to fear that Miss Trish is right. The Presbyterian outlook apparently rings a faint, churchy kinda bell with PC and he has admitted, under hypnosis, that there was a vacant lot to the right of the house occupied by Snuff and PC and a squiz at the premises on Google Earth reveals that to the right is a sturdy old dwelling of some years standing.
This picture also reveals a large tree at the back of said vacant lot which bears an eerie resembalance of the drop bear tree of PC’s nightmares but, most gratifyingly, Google Earth does feature the flaming wardrobe in all its glory, front and centre where it should be, stuck in the front garden for the rest of time.
Is Miss Trish possessed of a less addled memory than Snuff and PC? This is also possible. Hurrumph.
The gay angle would certainly account for the wardrobe’s existence in the first instance, but what domestic compliance has to do with structural integrity remains somewhat opaque. Are you suggesting that it was PC’s, shall we say, casual approach to home hygiene that resulted in the building suffering the final solution? Certainly the city fathers don’t need much of an excuse to call in the wreckers, but I think PC reluctance to wash up is going a bit too far even for them.
Maybe it was ‘The Shuffling Hungarians’ etched in 5-foot high letters into the plaster of PC’s bedroom that tipped the balance, but surely if the powers-that-be were aware of this cultural icon then it would have been preserved in a Barrack Street Arch stylee, a lone wall left teetering in a vacant lot bearing witness to what was and might have been, no?
Cheers
Elroy
PS With regards the Shuffling Hungarians, the word is that they were just about to make their debut when…shock horror…they found that number one Goulash Girl had decamped for Melbourne! Well! A deep malaise fell upon the fellas! What to do? She was a pivotal figure! They couldn’t go on…could they? Somehow, after much soul-searching, they decided that the show must, nay, had to go on…maybe she would return someday, one day…
The Hungarians held on for as long as they could but, alas, the strain of all that relentless gigging without their leading light was too much to bear until…one night…when all hope was lost…when they had agreed to hang up their guitar straps and slink back to the ‘burbs…she appeared, a vision in black (she had been in Melbourne) and sang to the heavens, and lo their spirits did soar, and for one last glorious set the Shuffling Hungarians where whole!
Of course, such moments cannot last. When the dust had settled the next morning and the boys had gotten over their dopamine hit, Miss Trish, for it was she, revealed that she had accomplished all she had wanted to within the entertainment world and was now going to retire from the stage to pursue ‘other opportunities’.
But for The Shuffling Hungarians, it was all too late. They were shattered. Knowing that the musical high of the previous night could now never be repeated, despite the fevered planning during that post gig high, they went their separate ways.
Adrian Taylor (drums) returned to the glamorous world of denture construction after a short period in Melbourne nursing a nasty liver complaint and sired several million children.
Dave Church (Sax), having discovered that he had spent the entire time with the band playing a semi-tone sharp, swapped his alto for a surfboard, a new HD Holden gear stick and a pack of moustache protectors, and was last seen heading off for Scarborough Beach in an attempt to live down the shame of playing ‘I Ain’t Gonna Bump No More (With No Big Fat Woman)’ in public.
Tony ‘Too Easy’ Mack (Guitar, vocals) eventually pulled himself together and, with singer Ray ‘Bubs’ Brown, went on to form seminal garage outfit the Diddywah Hoodaddies before seeking work in every conceivable element of the private sector.
Ray Brown (Vocals) ploughed through the Diddywah Hoodaddies and revolutionised the Perth original music scene with the groundbreaking Vegas Payback, a resolutely innovative and pioneering Elvis cover band. He then sold out to the man by fermenting new ways to make concrete for an evil multinational corporation, creating more pollution and a more efficient way of suffocating Gaia. Right on, Bro!
Punk pioneer Ken Seymour (Bass) may or may not have got married, had children, become CEO of MicroSoft, gone on an axe murdering rampage in a caravan park south of Wagin, run a red light back in ’87 and stood for the upper house seat of Manikin on the Anarcho-syndicalist ticket, but these and other adventures can be confirmed next week when he has dinner with Number One Goulash Girl Miss Trish.
Paul Cumming (Guitar, Beer) was placed in an induced coma following the Hungarians’ implosion and has since only been able to communicate in a series of grunts. However, some dribbling function has returned and he is looking forward to enjoying intravenous carbonated malt beverages any month now.
PPS. Tell Ken he’s ma nigga and ask if he has any souvenir photos of us homies hangin’ back in the day, dawg.
PPPS. Re: that last gig – PC has just requested to know exactly where that was as his subconscious has blocked it out. That and the the meds. So where was it? A plaque should be organized.
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Tony Mack went on to marry and breed with the girlfirend of my former boyfriend, althought those relationships took place in three different decades. God we’re getting old!
The lucky last Hungarians gig was held somewhere in Subiaco – in fact it just might have been at the Subiaco Hotel. My memory is good but I’m happy to be corrected on that one. It was an odd and fateful night. Someone laid a dump on the “mentioned-in-other-posts” Kaz’s car. Ptch! I ask you….What a world we live in….
The next day after partying for the best part of the night I went to my father’s funeral looking somewhat liverish. Tsk.
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Old? Pish and tosh! Barely half-way!
Now, is it possible that this last gig was at the Shuffling Hungarian’s stronghold The Victoria Hotel, Hay Street? They held court there on a Saturday night right up until the bitter end, just waiting…hoping…praying that would be blessed by the presence of their Number One Goulash Girl.
Paul C. has communicated that he is interested in knowing in what-other-post Kaz’s car is mentioned, but he is appalled to hear that one of their fan base vacated themselves upon it. What the…? He suspects that it was yet another false flag operation carried out by the agents of club ‘n’ pub ubermeister Bill Oddy, who never tired of attempting to put his competition out of commission by all and any means necessary.
Paul C. would also like to convey his profound apologies at the part he played in you burying your old papa – an old China hand, if memory serves – a little worse for wear, but it could have been worse – you could have gone sober.
Cheers
Elroy
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I still hold the master tape of the last gig at the Vic – one for Elroy Flicker’s bandcamp page? Mind you, it’s in shocking low-fi but a storming set all the same…
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I say let’s be grateful to padre mio – for it was his funeral that required the unplanned dash back to Perth. If not for that sad event I never would have made real my dream of being a Goulash Girl. Swings and round-a-bouts dear Elroy. Swings ‘n’ round-a-bouts.
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