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What happened when I learned to play guitar with my idol Kim Salmon What happened when I learned to play guitar with my idol Kim Salmon
(3 months later)
When a man gets to a certain age – in my case, 40 or thereabouts – he may find himself seeking insurance against the weight of time and this ordinary life. Some seek freedom in the form of a red sports car, some shatter their marriage, and others adopt strident spiritual views. I decided to learn to play electric guitar from the legendary Australian "axeman" Kim Salmon.When a man gets to a certain age – in my case, 40 or thereabouts – he may find himself seeking insurance against the weight of time and this ordinary life. Some seek freedom in the form of a red sports car, some shatter their marriage, and others adopt strident spiritual views. I decided to learn to play electric guitar from the legendary Australian "axeman" Kim Salmon.
Salmon founded a romantic, grunge branch of punk, starting with his Perth-based band, the Cheap Nasties, in 1976. Like so many other Australian intellectuals (and yes, a punk can be an intellectual), he later fled to London – there was more room for ideas, and the music scene was flourishing.Salmon founded a romantic, grunge branch of punk, starting with his Perth-based band, the Cheap Nasties, in 1976. Like so many other Australian intellectuals (and yes, a punk can be an intellectual), he later fled to London – there was more room for ideas, and the music scene was flourishing.
I wanted to be a punk at 16, but I was not tough enough to drop out from Melbourne Boys High. I did get my hair bleached by a Dali-mustachioed hairdresser called Ernest on Brunswick Street, which was Melbourne's bohemian street; arty, poor and about to gentrify like nobody's business. My friends and I rejected posey punks like the Sex Pistols in favour of more idealistic ones: Crass, Poison Girls and The Clash. We made mix tapes for each other, of any genre or artist who seemed anti-mainstream or righteously true: the Legendary Pink Dots, Laurie Anderson, Captain Beefheart, Beastie Boys, Leibach and of course Salmon and one of his bands, the Beasts of Bourbon.I wanted to be a punk at 16, but I was not tough enough to drop out from Melbourne Boys High. I did get my hair bleached by a Dali-mustachioed hairdresser called Ernest on Brunswick Street, which was Melbourne's bohemian street; arty, poor and about to gentrify like nobody's business. My friends and I rejected posey punks like the Sex Pistols in favour of more idealistic ones: Crass, Poison Girls and The Clash. We made mix tapes for each other, of any genre or artist who seemed anti-mainstream or righteously true: the Legendary Pink Dots, Laurie Anderson, Captain Beefheart, Beastie Boys, Leibach and of course Salmon and one of his bands, the Beasts of Bourbon.
It was 1986, and I was terrified that the Cold War would lead to nuclear war. Thatcher and Reagan supposedly kept the peace through MAD (mutually assured destruction), the security doctrine which said that if west and east both had enough nuclear weapons, primed and ready to destroy civilisation many times over, then nobody would be crazy enough to go to war. Punk made sense.It was 1986, and I was terrified that the Cold War would lead to nuclear war. Thatcher and Reagan supposedly kept the peace through MAD (mutually assured destruction), the security doctrine which said that if west and east both had enough nuclear weapons, primed and ready to destroy civilisation many times over, then nobody would be crazy enough to go to war. Punk made sense.
Like most young adults, I idealised musicians – Salmon and his band, the Beasts of Bourbon, included. I saw them play the Great Britain Hotel in Richmond, about 1989. The room stank of beer and sweat, the air was hazy. A tough chick kept elbowing me and spilling beer on my jeans; my gig buddy had some ridiculous story of wanting to punch Kim, over a girl. I wore my leather bikie jacket and blushed for the song Drop Out: “I wanna make the in-scene / I know its not such a bad dream / I'll buy a leather jacket so I'll look real tough... 'cause I'm a dropout”. Like most young adults, I idealised musicians – Salmon and his band, the Beasts of Bourbon, included. I saw them play the Great Britain Hotel in Richmond, about 1989. The room stank of beer and sweat, the air was hazy. A tough chick kept elbowing me and spilling beer on my jeans; my gig buddy had some ridiculous story of wanting to punch Kim, over a girl. I wore my leather bikie jacket and blushed for the song Drop Out: “I wanna make the in-scene / I know its not such a bad dream / I'll buy a leather jacket so I'll look real tough... 'cause I'm a dropout”. 
Fast forward two decades and now, every second Tuesday, I go to Salmon's little flat in Melbourne’s northern suburbs to make my noise. I am intimidated when our lesson starts: I've lived a life of ideas and political passions, so expressing emotions loudly and incompetently to a stranger is hard. I am forced to silence the inner critics and be in the moment. Lessons with him are wonderful. He shows me licks, and explains the basics of musical theory. I plug my cheap Korean copy of a Fender Telecaster into his vintage kit (a Mesa Boogie valve amp and Marshall quad box). Salmon says my faux-Telecaster sounds more authentic than some real ones. Fast forward two decades and now, every second Tuesday, I go to Salmon's little flat in Melbourne’s northern suburbs to make my noise. I am intimidated when our lesson starts: I've lived a life of ideas and political passions, so expressing emotions loudly and incompetently to a stranger is hard. I am forced to silence the inner critics and be in the moment. Lessons with him are wonderful. He shows me licks, and explains the basics of musical theory. I plug my cheap Korean copy of a Fender Telecaster into his vintage kit (a Mesa Boogie valve amp and Marshall quad box). Salmon says my faux-Telecaster sounds more authentic than some real ones. 
He's also a great story teller. Salmon's music is his life's work, and that's the kind of big, honest, noisy story that the rest of us wish we could tell about ourselves. After about eight lessons, I wrote my first song. It is called Crazy Bob, and it’s about a girl.He's also a great story teller. Salmon's music is his life's work, and that's the kind of big, honest, noisy story that the rest of us wish we could tell about ourselves. After about eight lessons, I wrote my first song. It is called Crazy Bob, and it’s about a girl.
Japan’s Fukushima nuclear reactor disaster led to a cultural chain-reaction that draws on the punk ethos. Shingetsu Toka is an anti-nuclear campaigning, all-girl band, whose lead singer rewrites Madonna’s Material World lyrics, "we’re living in a material world. A radioactive material world". Japan’s Fukushima nuclear reactor disaster led to a cultural chain-reaction that draws on the punk ethos. Shingetsu Toka is an anti-nuclear campaigning, all-girl band, whose lead singer rewrites Madonna’s Material World lyrics, "we’re living in a material world. A radioactive material world". 
If I was young now, I'd still be drawn to punk. There is more than enough creative provocation around in 2013 for a punk renaissance, and not just in Russia with Pussy Riot. Climate change, the perpetual economic crisis, anomie remixed; all are ripe conditions for a culture of protest.If I was young now, I'd still be drawn to punk. There is more than enough creative provocation around in 2013 for a punk renaissance, and not just in Russia with Pussy Riot. Climate change, the perpetual economic crisis, anomie remixed; all are ripe conditions for a culture of protest.
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