So around two weeks ago, well before PMS had set in, Little Miss Tani asked me if I wanted to go and see Bad Company. No, not the 1970s British blues-rock group fronted by Paul “The Voice” Rodgers whose official website contains nothing more than a warning to all and sundry that should you want to pass yourself off as THE band, their lawyers will come a tap-tap-tapping at your door. If you’re interested in that Bad Company, you’re welcome to leave here RIGHT NOW and go here.
But if you’re sticking around, you might want to head here while you’re reading.
So Little Miss not-quite-thirty asked me and Jazzy Jeff if we’d be interested in checking out Bad Company. Well the name alone sent me back, way back to that night eight years ago this month when I went down to Billboards with a couple of Kiwis and after several protracted trips to the Ladies with Nat, I bounced the night away, a la Lionel Ritchie on crack. This was followed by a long drive to the country for a Communion, a Confirmation or a Baptism (Jazzy Jeff, who stayed in bed – sensibly – and did not come out with me and the Kiwis, was driving) and an even longer drive back which ended in a near death car accident on the Hume Highway just on the outskirts of Melbourne, and a night at the Northern Hospital in Epping with a piece of plastic molding in my leg and glass shards in my hands. Ah, those were fun times.
And naturally, when Little Miss Tani asked us along to this little piece of drum and bass nostalgia, how could I say no? Of course, as the day drew nigh, I started to behave like many of my almost-on-way-the-wrong-side-of-thirty contemporaries.
Betty: Jazzy Jeff?
Jazzy Jeff: Yes, Betty?
Betty: You know, I’ve been to more than a few drum and bass nights in my day.
Jazzy Jeff: That’s true, Betty. And I don’t need to remind you that I used to run a booming drum and bass night in the city (read: a few of our mates used to show up) – Carbon 14.
(So successful was it that a Google search did not reveal one reference – but they had a wicked flyer)
Betty: Yes, Jazzy, I remember those heady days. But anyhoo, you do realise that the main DJ won’t go on stage until around 2, right?
Jazzy Jeff: (Guffawing over the Age and a decaf latte) Oh Betty, don’t be silly, it isn’t a daytime gig.
Betty: That’s 2am, JJ! 2AM! How the hell and I going to stay up until 2am? It’s not like the good old days. We have a freaking mortgage.
Jazzy Jeff: Well, now, that IS serious. I guess we’ll have to do the only thing we can.
So like many of our almost-on-way-the-wrong-side-of-thirty contemporaries, we took an afternoon nap, downed a bucketload of Red Bull and V and came home at the rather respectable hour of 3.30am complaining of tinnitus and aching knee joints.
But oh what a lovely time we had!