Tim Rogers & the Twin Set
Mojo's, Fremantle - Sunday 13th June, 2004
Aaah, Mojo's. What adventures we have had together. Remember when I treaded your boards as MC for a local musicians open mic 'extravaganza' which featured, The Belts, Dave Lima (in rare solo appearance) AND Suresh & the Naked Chicks? And then there was that time when we saw that band…You know, the local one… The one with the guy… It wasn't very good. Oh and there was a BRILLIANT gig The Belts did in you as well.
Still. You do stock one of the finest arrays of local CD's around, wupping even Dada's. And your alcohol is fairly priced. So, while your toilets are unfestooned with decades of graffitti and orgiastic narcotic consumption, your back alley harbours not one ghost of an OD'd punk star, your bar-top unprowled on by a naked Courtney Love, your boards never springboarded by a po-going Talking Head, it's salvation enough that makes this casually travelled patron say I have borne witness to the most extreme case of rock'n'roll heroism of my gigging lifetime to date in your humble dockside walls.
The name's Rogers. Timmy Rogers. You may remember him from such You Am I classics as Berlin Chair, Good Mornin', Who Put the Devil In You... If you don't live in Australia then pick up a copy of 2003's internationally tailored compilation No, After You - An Introduction To You Am I and discover for yourself why this gent is regarded as one of our most consistently reliable treasure troves of lyrical genius (excuse the cliché - 'tis the lord's day of rest) and perilously addictive rock 'n' roll rambunctiousness. He sweetly lilts. He rocks out. He looks like an ambassador for op- shop chic. He's a pirate. He's a cowboy. He's an incredibly likeable bloke who's passion for using songs to tell stories puts him on a different planet to pretty much everyone else that seems to peddle 'music' these days.
So, his spell has worked. I have been sucked into his genius and bought into the myth. Luke, Dave and everyone else who has seen Tim Rogers live has voiced extreme approval of his consistently being one of the all time best performers. It's a crime I have not seen him yet. Tonight is, to understate the obvious, highly anticipated.
Tim Rogers is a desperately unhappy man. Greaser, Dave, Luke, Mandy, Leon and I all arrive a tad late and a tad tipsy. We get shoehorned into a startlingly packed Mojo's. The pressure on ribs and restricted oxygen slows our alerting to what is happening. Yes, we are late and there he is on stage already, singing, eyes supaglued tight. See that there? Passionate.
Tim swashbuckles his way through a large bottle of Gordon's (neat, one suspects) over the course of the evening. The suppings become more prolonged, his balance imitating the pirate whose jacket he has stolen to wear tonight. Then sometime later, I find myself wondering if I have actually seen his pupils yet. But he sings so beautifully and with such conviction. He stops the band and, with the difficulty of a Down's child reading Russian, opens his heart to all of us about this song he wrote about his friend's marriage crumbling. Only it's explained in that agonising style of someone who is trying to explain their problem but substituting the word "me" for "they". Mid sentence, some tosser from my far right heckles to "Just play the fuckin' song, Timmy!". I choose to believe that insensitive bastard was taken into the beer garden and given many paper cuts with 96fm car stickers. But fragile Tim apologises for rambling on and hurriedly and painfully finishes his story.
Whispers of his being wasted are heard between songs. He apologises for being "…way fucked up" just as we're thinking something is 'wrong'. He promises that soon he is going to come back and REALLY make it up to us and seems to use this promise as an acknowledgment of failure to somehow motivate himself into a turbo charged, givin' it 10,000% rendition of some song I really wish I knew. And then at the end of it, he collapses into the drum kit. Totally down. We think it's VERY rock 'n' roll. Except he doesn't get up… for 3 minutes. Something is very definitely 'up'.
Rumours and gossip should seldom be listen to but it would appear tonight, the grapevine is on the money. Tim has two cracked ribs hidden underneath that pirate jacket. He has been guzzling loads of / prescribed tonnes of / taking far too many / administered dangerous amounts of (choose whichever punter you care to believe who seems to be an authority on Mr Rogers affairs) various painkllers and drugs to dampen the extreme pain. The large bottle of gin it would seem was Tim's own weapon of choice to simply get through the gig. He falls over. Many times. The bassist often doesn't play just so one arm can keep Tim upright at the mic. When Tim dives into the crowd, his voice disappears along with. There is silence and more concerned murmurings. He finally emerges. Cigarette firmly in mouth and lit by a kindly audience member.
By appearances alone, this should by rights be the worst gig ever. How dare a respected professional musician waste our money and time by getting so fucked up on drink, drugs and ciggies and stumble through an embarrassing Shaun Ryder-esque humiliation? But no. Just listen. As far away from his body his mind may appear to be, when he sings and when he plays that guitar, he is faultless. In time, in tune, with a new dimension of wretchedness wringing every scrap of conviction from every note played, this is a man - a real person - who has turned up to work on a day when the rest of us would have told the boss we wouldn't be in for the next two weeks. And when it appears he is going to FINALLY leave the stage early, he somehow summons MORE energy from the evaporated well and delivers 3 rollicking covers. He feels the concern and the unease so stops playing the intimate less well known songs of his recent cannon and gets us all dancing and singing. "Let's rock and roll!" he commands. And with that, he is literally spent. It's just what the doctor ordered.
Back to outpatients / home
