Leaving any hope of redemption at the door, and ethically-sheltered by the umbrella of a buck's party, I climbed and climbed and climbed until our current excuse for rhythm and blues clung to my clammy skin like a dog in heat. The sexual frustration was palpable; the men, amongst other things, were no oil paintings. Due to countless cinematic portrayals I was not even marginally surprised by the scene ... what you expect is precisely what you get. It's a shame, really, because with the loss of anticipation goes most of the attraction, but ultimately it's the girls that get you in. A dimpled ass floats by, transforming a listless gaze into a steady focus and spawning another case of grave longing. Still, it's this absence that prolongs the hunt; not the possibility of skin on skin. A strict 'no touching' policy is enforced and adhered to on account of the seriously cut announcer and his band of gnarled knuckles. As one of my co-attendants recounted to me later, he had had to do his utmost to remain restrained as a private room leg-straddling morphed into a serious headfuck. Jealousy burgeons as lap-dancers repeatedly entertain in sequestered spots, gushing praise on the not-ultimately-satisfied customers while another pseudo-sexual situation crashes and burns. The drinks get easier to swallow but harder to buy, and the understanding that there are ten men for every woman is equally gritty and acceptable.

The women are not, by any stretch of the imagination, unpleasant, but they are definitely not desirable; the environs put paid to that. Outside the darkness has set in and the performers, away from their poles, are starting to talk culture, kids, ambitions and, when the conversation necessitates, very, very dirty. It's utterly engaging but concurrently entirely wrong; a simple paradox that tugs at the carnal instincts of most men who are swept up in the interminable desire for those things they can't have.

A married man's remark that "the only thing that changes when you get hitched is that there is one less pair of breasts you want" explodes in neon lights in front of my face, causing a rare moment of clarity and the possibility of an honourable ending. Longings are rarely satisfied, it's true, but always replaced.

So where was I? That's right...cheerily nestling the bosom of Rivers Cuomo and company and starting to think, as I clumsily wandered over the chords to "I Wanna Be Adored" and "Undone (The Sweater Song)", that maybe I could write, too. It's a peculiar realisation and an even more curious transition from mechanically learning someone else's work to penning and pruning your own and wondering if other people get it. Few things are as personal as musical tastes, and to tap into just a handful of people's on a level that tiptoes beyond tolerance is an achievement in itself. Much like writers, artists, designers, chefs, florists - there's nothing quite like hearing someone other than your immediate family say, "I like it". So I took to the streets, or, more specifically, the burgeoning bunch of clubs and bars that saw a financial glow in their weekend afternoons with all-age gigs - why not suck a little more life out of the place than merely waiting until the evening when the +18s came with their lifeline? The places were monotonous, sure, and the bunch of people regularly attending became a swirling, incestuous pot of familiar faces (though the onset of puberty ensured new developments were continually being thrown into the ring), but, by God, there was soul. It was oozing from the walls, trickling down sweaty faces, being passed, mouth-to-mouth, from one growing adolescent to another. And, what's more, you could feel it.
The local scene was booming as bands like Turnstyle, Bluetile Lounge, Thermos Cardy, Beaverloop, Cinema Prague, Mach Pelican and the redoubtable Adam Said Galore carved a path of music equally catchy and challenging and, unconsciously, glued a group of individuals in a way that would never be lost.
So, for some time, it was never a question of what you would be doing on any given weekend, but who it would involve. Custard thrilled with their frenetic sets that were tight and, surely, propelled by some druggy mix; Not From There came and hopped between delicious melodies and sonic assaults, leaving a major dent before assuming their clandestine guise in Queensland; Sidewinder threatened to rip your face off but never really got above 3rd gear, and You Am I repeatedly entertained, enthralled and got very, very boozy. Numerous others left an unfading mark on an entire generation of music lovers who believed that, really, the bright lights weren't that far away; it was uplifting, it was adhesive and it was real.
Now in varying stages of aging, those same faces persistently pop up at the select venues that still see promise (and a little cash) in promoting original music, but it's hard to see where the relief will come from. The internet, already feruled for starting the demise in sales of music buying, has chased teens away from the live music scene with the promise of another world based on ease, comfort and apathy. Simpler it may be to download a live clip and save on the train fare/door charge, but where are the other people to share it with and the edification that comes with unconditional support? Thankfully, galvanised by the wild success of some local bands, a slight revival seems to be taking place, and it will be interesting to see where that leads. But for those who remember the early to mid-nineties as the beginning of a lifelong love and appreciation of live music, the vibrant all-ages scene will forever remain a blazing light kindling otherwise dark afternoons.

I dipped my toe into Bros. and Rick Astley many years ago and, in them, found an effeminate pairing that sent me on the path of musical righteousness. From there, it was easy. Whatever I liked, I listened to. Roads taken were paved, initially, with Icehouse's "Electric Blue", which used to caress me to slumber on a nightly basis, before I first heard the pained wails of Axl Rose careening through the air. Christmas circa-1991 saw the arrival of my first two CD's - namely, the odd coupling of the Gunners' "Use Your Illusion 1" and Prince's "Diamonds and Pearls". Renowned homophobe Rose penned the emotional, and wildly successful, ballads "Don't Cry" and "November Rain", while Slash, further solidifying his indelible image of snakes, cigarettes and gritty blues, continued in his enamel-removing rock fashion. Clearly the members were at odds with each other, though, and relatively soon after the release of the album the band split (Rose has drifted between isolation and haphazard reformations of the band since). So, with a heavy heart, I laid the Gunners to rest and packed my bags for a trip into the world of brief flirtations with artists that offer little more than momentary spots of light before retreating to obscurity (think Snow, Babylon Zoo, Kriss Kross). I was in limbo, and needed saving.

Enter The Pixies. Discovered a little late, I'll admit, but discovered nonetheless. At about 15 (1995) I got hold of a tape-copied version of "Doolittle" and didn't look back. From there my world opened and this sometimes angry, oft-soothing blend of surf-rock, sci-fi laced lyrics and irresistible melodies lead me to a greater gift - the guitar. I learnt to play via the teachings of the self-coined 'guitar guru' Cliff Lynton, first in Subiaco before it was hip, and then in Mt.Lawley as it was developing the ultra-sharp semblance it now proffers. So enamoured with The Pixies, I took the lyrics, and music, of "Monkey Gone to Heaven" to my tenth-grade English class for dissection. Looking back now, I realise why, since that day, my teacher took every opportunity to lambaste me for any innocuous, milk-and-water offence...taking music into a religious school that states humans are closer in nature to the devil than God would earmark any blond-haired, green-eyed kid as a vessel spreading heathen poetry. Yet the class loved it, and I adored them for that.

Though never besotted by the consistently good music of Nirvana (oddly, I have never bought one of their records), around the time I was perambulating the school grounds with a walkman and my tired Pixies recording, I fell deeply in love with two rocks set firmly in the alternative soil - Weezer and Dinosaur Jr. One of my fondest live memories is seeing Weezer play an unplugged show upstairs at 78 Records around 1996 and, though memorable in part for its brevity, was one of those moments when you knew, at that point in time, you couldn't possibly be anywhere else. I gleefully gorged each word, each perfect note of "No One Else" as a packed room of youngsters feasted on the magic moment being presented. Ole! "Where You Been" was the starting point of my fascination with Dinosaur Jr. A fine record that started with the booming guitar intro of "Out There" before hitting its straps with the moderately funk-infused classic "Start Choppin". From there, the twists and turns took in the peculiar "Not The Same" that showed J. Mascis is as good as anyone at delivering a version of Neil Young and the fast and heavy "On The Way", which possesses a trademark Mascis solo that tears open the middle of the track like all great axe-work should. In the middle of last year I was lucky to catch Weezer again, this time fully plugged in and charming the pants off everyone in the monstrous crowd at the Summersonic festival in Japan. Rivers Cuomo is, quite obviously, a writer with a firm grasp of both humour and misery, but also has the rare ability to consistently produce what nearly everybody loves but rarely admits - a hook.