Leaving the Love Den

Leaving the Love Den was always going to be painful. What, after 11 years in its warmly glowing warming glow, I could confidently say I knew it's each and every crack and creak. I knew those creaks in a way in which I'd never known a house before - my tenure at the Love Den was the longest I'd ever lived in any one place my entire life. Those cracks were my constant from way back when I finished uni; through my stint as a working journo; through a fairly monumental career change where I gave up on the life I'd strived for since I was a teen; through heartbreaks (both caused and felt) and through countless episodes of the most defining shit-talking, drinking and smoking fests. The pain of leaving those creaks and cracks was most acute, however, when confronted with cleaning them for the first time in 11 years.

First cab off the rank was getting rid of the mountains of shit which had spontaneously appeared within her fours walls over the years. Chief amongst these was the ancient fridge which was initially included in the lease for the "partly furnished" deal. This thing was an absolute monstrosity of 1970s electrical engineering. The interior spawned a life of its own, with its internal freezer only being usable for about 3 days after the frustration-driven manual defrost cycle (with the use of numerous tools through years, including hammers, kitchen appliances and hair-dryers). The white exterior had long been pock-marked and stained, and then ceremoniously covered in an array of stickers, magnets and other Useless Junk.


I remember the Wiseacre sticker taking pride of place on the bottom third of the front door, despite no-one ever admitting to liking them enough to defile my fridge with their name. In to the mini skip she went, along with my ancient double bed (which could spawn a whole other blog of its own memories, if you know what I mean. Nudge, nudge, wink, wink. Say no more, say no more. A bit of the ole 'workbench' action, eh? A bit o' rumpy pumpy on the Love Lorry, yeah? A bit of ee-eeee, aw-awww on the Caravan of Luuurve, see?... Yeah, I'm talking about wanking), a fine selection of chip-board 'furniture', a couple of old bike frames (one of which had to be broken away from the house with an angle grinder thanks to me losing the key many years ago), the back-breaking cloth-covered dining chairs and the 2-seater couch donated from Jinna all those years ago, but had long since lost its arse. Like many of us, I suppose.

With the shit gone, the next task was the 'music room'. For those who never set foot within her, the Love Den boasted an open scrapbook of musical memories in the form of a wide, short hallway linking the front of the house with the lounge area at the back, whose walls were adorned with band posters, gig tickets, postcards, wrist-straps and torn out pages from magazines and street press. It was a tradition to end a great night out seeing a band by Blu-Taking the evidence on the walls and you could trace the various inhabitants through the years in a clock-wise direction around the room. There was so much history on those walls, even pre-dating my time there, that it's hard to pin-point the stand-out memories from the hundreds, possibly even thousands, contained. There was, however, one poster representing a gig which I sadly missed, twice, but at the time consoled myself with the "I'll catch them next tour" thinking - only to have them disband soon afterwards. I'd interviewed Irish band The Frames right when they were trying to crack into the Australian market and was naturally taken by their smooth, emotional guitar-driven anthemic style. They toured Australia for the first time soon after I'd interviewed them, but I'd decided to take a little break at that point and headed to Melbourne for a week... right when they were playing at The Zoo. Nevermind, was my thinking, they'll come back. And they did about a year and a half later, when I was going through a relatively rough patch and was unemployed. Being in a constant state of poverty, I'd decided to stop reading the music press so I didn't get tortured by the shit I was be missing out on. I had no idea they were touring, until I was out in the Queen Street Mall one afternoon, wandering around with my new girlfriend trying to think of cheap things to do. We walked into HMV and I instantly spied a poster bearing The Frames' name - and it stated they were playing a free gig on the top Mall stage at 1pm that day! Halle-fucken-lujah, I cheered to myself as I checked the time... "Oh, you're fucking joking? It's 2.2opm?!?!". I'd fucking missed them, again. The pinched poster was a fair consolation prize, I figured.

Yeah, this room, more than the Love Den itself, personified my growth through the years and was a very tangible link to what I've devoted my adult life to - being an unabashed, die-hard, true-blue believer in great music. Taking this down and deciding what to cast aside and what to take with us was easily the toughest thing I had to do when kissing this old girl goodbye. The wheels of progress we chugging away, however, and so with all our stuff packed and shipped out, the shit dumped, the load-bearing Blu-Tak and picture nails removed, it was time to don the sugar-soap and try in vain to scrub away every note of our existence from those faded VJ walls and polished wooden floors.


Where the fuck did this stain come from?

I never knew my feet were that dirty. I mean, being constantly bare-footed and proud of it, it's pretty obvious they'd be grubby, but the stains on the wall underneath my computer desk were fucking ridiculous! Without a footrest, I'd unconsciously rest my feet on the pale-blue wall while frittering away the hours at my keyboard, which led to a mess of brown and black feet stains spanning a 1m wide radius. Of course, it wasn't all just mindless frittering at the computer screen - there were those 8-months or so when Satomi was back in Japan just after we got engaged, and our only tangible link to each other were our nightly webcam chat sessions and the occasional 'on-line date'. Ahh memories... are no match for sugar soap and a scourer.


Who was the dirty fucker who did this?


Oh that's right, it was me - throwing a tea-bag up under the small wall overhanging the stove in a bizarre attempt at one-upmanship after Steve-O had hoisted a slice of peanut butter toast across the lounge at me one wintery eve. This little game of house-hold brandy would kick in every now and then (generally in response to poverty-induced extreme boredom), with one of us setting up a fortress of sorts on the old lounge or papasan and hurling relatively soft household items at the other. Generally off our trees, this game could go on for ages and would only end when my subliminally implanted idea for munchies (well, not so much subliminal, more obvious... along the lines of "Go get me some ice-cream, bitch") would take hold in his mind and he'd be off up the hill for some sugary goodness.


Nicotine ain't just bad for your lungs, kids

It was a proud smoke-friendly household, the old Love Den. From the moment I took up residence, my pack-a-day habit moved in too. There were brief moments of outside smoking only, generally around the time new flatmates moved in and not wanting to freak them out. That resolve would last until either the first good movie was on telly which I didn't want to miss a second of to get a hit of cancer, or said new flatmate decided it was high time to take up an evening of green and amber fuelled shit-talking around the kitchen table with me. The result was off-white walls which slowly but surely took on an orange-brown hue, noticed clearly when pictures or posters were taken off the wall only to have their outlines marked on the VJs. Sugar soap and a number scourers tried, but failed, to remove evidence of this excess... and let's hope a couple of years of smoke-free clean living since has done a better job on my lungs.


Oven cleaner is not just for ovens


There was a time when I fancied myself as a bit of a budget-special cook, just a slight nudge up the scale from hopeless experimenter (I'm looking at you here, Jensy). Monday nights were always a specialty, with Secret Life Of Us usually accompanied by a house-guest and some interesting, if pedestrian, take on a pasta-based staple. Or there were the days when the Emma and Joey show would roll around just for the sake of it, bringing with them their own organic goods to whip up some of the most fantastic sustenance I'd ever eaten (preceded by some of their own organic 'produce' which probably heightened my love for their dinners, if you catch my drift). All of this excess coupled with the day-to-day grime of living under a flight path, a block away from a train line and on a main-road combined with an almost pathological hatred for unnecessary cleanliness (my thinking was that if it wasn't attracting vermin, then it was probably clean enough), meant this part of the house was a sticky putrid mess. Sugar soap and scourers weren't cutting it, so Mr Muscle oven cleaner did wonders in bidding goodbye to this evidence.


Who the fuck scratched this fucken floor?

The papasan took pride of place in the various incarnations of the Love Den lounge. It's a big double-sized mofo who grumbles and protests the minute you fall into it, but never fails to engulf you in it's charms. For the first few minutes, you attempt to get yourself comfortable, but realise it's nearly impossible to do so gracefully and so you adopt a lying position akin to a palsied cat passed out in a litter tray. It felt luxurious and wrong initially, then alluringly snuggly, but it soon turned to back-achingly annoying and thoughts of escape started to creep in at about the half-hour mark. But, it entraped you with its deceptively hard exit procedure requiring gymnatic-like poise and feline-like reflexes - but which invariably shifted the entire mechanism a few centimetres back against the wall, and in the process scarred the beautiful polished wooden floorboards. It was this papasan which was the prime position in the household brandy wars, it was also the place where Jen, Brendan and I would sit wilfully every evening when we were underemployed to conduct live over-dubs on episodes of Neighbours, turning them into the most sickeningly depraved porno movies you could imagine. Let's just say Bouncer the dog was a shining star in these alternative realities, which didn't just cross the line of good taste, but gave it a fully-fledged frontal wedgie as it zoomed past at warp speed.

And that was that - 2 days of flurrying activity wiped away the physical evidence of more than a decade of my life, and chunks of many others, from this rented property's walls. When I moved to Brisbane from North Queensland all those years ago, I was craving some stability and made a promise to myself to set down some roots and try to experience what it meant to feel connected to a place. I did that, and then some, and in addition to that, I had somehow created a place which many also had a strong connection. Which is, I guess, is the crux of that stability - it's not about not changing, it's not about stagnating; it's about providing a warm resting place for you and yours and ensuring it does all it can to enrich your world. To me, it's this, from my good mate Brendan in response to a recent late-night emotional email rant:

the Den was always there.. it provided reassurance and stability during some tough times.. equally, it was a place where I have rarely laughed harder and felt more joy.. those walls are caked with memories (you don't want to know what I've caked the papasan in...) but most of all it was the people within those walls that have been among the true foundations in my life and that's infinitely more important than any single piece of real estate

Step, 2, 3... Die, 2, 3

There are many things I have seen come and go in my time as the chief custodian of the Albion Love Den: countless flatmates and friends; innumerable intoxicated evenings; about 15 failed restaurants on the strip; a procession of pithy billboard beacons shining into my bedroom; my youth and vitality; and the last patches of non-grey hair on my head. The latest in the string of departures has, however, caused me great joy for my remaining time here - the demise of the much-reviled Roofayels Dance Club.

For the past decade (and a bit), my bedroom windows have been just over the road from the unchanging drone of ballroom dancing instructions, as Roofayels went about discovering if anyone in Brisbane actually could really dance (apparently not). Delivered in a perfectly monotone nasal Aussie drawl, the dance calls came with a backing track of Ricky Martin, the Venga Boys and Baha Men... oh fucken joy amongst joys. Monday nights were the worst - their 'come one, come all' beginners classes which culminated in an ear-splitting group dance-off right on bedtime and so served as my unwanted lullaby ("Step, 2, 3... together, 2, 3... back, 2, 3..." she bangs, she bangs. Oooh baby, when she moves, she moves). 

Over the years, we'd tried everything to rid our earholes of this pollution - like pumping out Sepultura and Metallica with the volume cranked to 11, or vaguely threatening them with a noise complaint following a particularly awful summer night where they decided a teenage girl sleepover was a good idea - sure, that wasn't necessarily a bad idea... just allowing them full access to the PA and encouraging their scientific experiments on what effects reverb and microphone feedback has on S Club 7 medleys was probably not the club manager's shining moment. Heck, I even had one flatmate who took it upon himself to freak out each and every female club member by standing in the window of his darkened room every night, watching them shimmy and shake to their heart's content (he didn't grasp the concept that the back-lighting from the rest of the house actually accentuated his rather imposing silhouette to them... yeah, he wasn't the brightest of sparks).

So seeing them pack up their PA, rusting industrial fans and 1970s era plastic school chairs was not met with too much sadness this morning, as you could probably imagine. Sure, it's the end of an era and yet another sign of the "wheels of progress" (attached to either large wrecking balls or tunnel boring machines) motoring through Brisbane's northside. The building they're in - the second story of an old picture theatre which makes up the bulk of the Albion strip - is being turned into a boutique hotel upstairs and "upmarket" shops and salons downstairs. You know, for all those prissy pretty young maidens and faux-hawk heroes who are eager to spend a night soaking up the exciting ambiance of the Albion restaurant strip, but who cannot bring themselves to booking a night in the tres uncool Albion Manor or Hampton Court (I think it's something to do with there not being enough polished concrete and stainless steel. They love that shit). 

Fuck it, what do I care? I'm leaving in a month, so whatever happens to this neck of the woods is of little concern to me. This small change just means that I may be a little less homicidal on Tuesday mornings towards Ricky Martin or whoever the fuck let those motherfucking dogs out.

Dinners are getting fancy at The Den

I always knew the Tiger had impressive culinary skills. Even way back when we were just flatmates, she would whip up cool and interesting meals when it was her turn to cook.

At first I thought I was just impressed because of the different culinary cultures, but over time I've come to appreciate that she's a dedicated and passionate lover of food who is willing to turn her hand at almost anything... and most times she has succeeded with flying colours. Baking has been a particular focus lately (and a danger to my diet regime!), and she thinks nothing of doing up a quick batch of mochi with red bean paste and strawberries - even though it's a multi-stage process over a couple of days with finicky ingredients.

After last week's posh nosh, though, she's got a renewed vigour for the evening meal. Of particular interest was the bloody beautiful rocket, poached pear and Parmesan salad at Aqua Linea. It was simple and unobtrusive, but the combination of flavours and the simplicity of it stole the night, and so she's now on a mission to both replicate it and build upon it. Her first attempt using the same concepts was present the night before last:


There's miso and a small bowl of rice, with the main plate filled with a grilled piece of yellowtail (Japanese buri) with a simple honey-soy-miso paste, and a salad of spinach, string bean and red grapefruit. It was bloody delicious and impressive to look at. I married well, no?

The Connolly Team on da move

I love it when a plan comes together - John "Hannibal" Smith

Like Mr Smith, I too get a bit of a woody when plans come together. Especially the potentially life-changing plans that are currently on the Connolly family's doorstep, its knock getting louder and louder by the day, demanding attention. Screw this obtuseness - the Albion Love Den is about to get a wrecking ball thrust through her, and we're taking this opportunity to get the fuck out of this flea-bitten cesspit of humidity and confused boredom and are moving to my spiritual home - Melbourne.

To recap, briefly, on the Love Den situation - about 2 and a bit years ago, my legendary landlord Ray decided enough was enough and upped-stumps, selling this gorgeous girl on to an investment company. He gave me hollow assurances that the company was interested purely in the place as it was, possibly giving it a lick of paint and some other sprucing, but keeping it otherwise as is. It was as clear as testicles on a canine, however, that was not to be the case - with development after development being announced, planned or rumoured for Albion, it was clear that any investor worth their salt would realise they could make a motza just out of the value of this well-placed block. It was on-sold a couple of times (with us being subjected to invasion after invasion for 'insurance appraisals', 'fire inspections', 'valuations' that it almost felt like we were on permanent display), before a development application was finally lodged. Eight months later, and the plan was approved last Friday. It's a matter of days before the real estate agent nails the big pink fuck orf notice on the front door and we do a midnight flit.

Initially, the impending eviction was quite stressful. I've been here for nigh on 11 years; it's the longest I've ever lived in any one place in my entire life. I grew up here. I defined myself here. (Yes, I've cried here. Laughed here. Gotten stoned here. Fucked here. Spewed here...). Looking for places to move to in Brisbane just seemed defeating and sad. And bloody expensive. And so a plan was hatched, after an innocent comment from my Dad over Christmas, to look into moving states.

Coincidentally, at the same time as the housing situation was becoming uncertain, so too was the career. The company I'd been working with for a few years was sold to our competitor and uncertainty was in the air regarding the future of a lot of people's roles. As this new company was based in Melbourne, I decided to take the bull by the horns and stake my claim not only to taking on a now much more expanded national role, but also my claim to having the company move me to head office. And they accepted that plan and we're now approximately 8 weeks away from uprooting to a whole new city.

It's all very exciting and daunting and confusing. While I've moved around heaps in my life, it was always under the watchful parental eye or easy share-house hops with just my bed and a couple of boxes. Now I have a whole house full of stuff, a wife to think about, and absolutely no idea on how to start a new life in a new, almost foreign city. Wish us luck. More importantly, however, tolerate our tale of woe as we negotiate the wonders of moving house as this little plan not only comes together, but becomes a great big annoying reality.

In search for the new Love Nook

And so begins 2010, which shall be dubbed The Year The Love Den Died (or possibly just Relocated, but I'm feeling rather dramatic this eve). It's been a relatively shitty start to the new decade, with the usual string of complaints relating to workload; the current toxic office environment; not having enough time or money for the things I love; even finding some of those things I love rather underwhelming... all bubbling to the surface and putting me in a dark way. Only to be greeted with the news today that the developers had lodged their Final Response to council amending their plans for the development which is to replace this beautiful old wooden girl. The amendments don't, however, extend to leaving this place the fuck alone to exist in its Love Den-y goodness, alas.

There still seems to be a few flaws in the developer's arguments, mainly centering around the scale of the proposed 3-story building and its impact on the attached Heritage Listed bakery and shop, as well as the visual impact on the pre-1940s street scape. But being rather negative and cynical about, I feel this current council is decidedly lacking in the romance required of them to deny such a development based on the above two factors, so I'm sure it's a given that the rubber stamp will be rapidly and enthusiastically brought down on this application. Before long, no doubt, the very place where I'm sitting will be no more and there'll be at least 11 more cashed-up bogans to boast about their owning "a delightful 2-bedder in the restaurant district of the inner-northern suburbs" (to whit, my response of "Oh really, you mean that glorified 75sq m shit-box with the fetching views of the cement trucks hurtling down Sandgate Road" will probably result in a bloodied nose. Mine. Again).

Here begins the happy task of house-hunting for the first time in nearly 11 years. The last time I did this, I had a crappy double bed, a bookcase, a stereo and a couple of suitcases of personal effects and CDs. I now have, in addition to the now even-crappier double bed, a 2-bedroom unit full to bursting point with rapidly depreciating furniture, decrepit soft furnishings, a champions' collection of CDs and books, as well as the accumulated detritus from 11 years of being in the one place and share-housing. Yep, this is going to be as shit as it sounds.

The Tiger and I have begun the relatively monumental task of trying to learn and organise what it takes to find a cool new place worthy of a Love Den tag, get approved to move in, get everything over there, clean this place up, etc, etc. Oh fuck. We have, however, found a non-faff related use for the much-maligned Google Wave to keep all our ideas and house-hunting endeavours in the one place, which is actually quite nifty.

All of this organisational joy, however, will not save us from the coming hell of dealing with the plastic real estate agents and property managers as they sneer and jeer at this couple who is "still renting in 2010, why don't you just buy your own place?" Grrrr... FUCK YOU, wench. Hmm... yeah, I got issues.

Wish us luck. Most importantly, provide us a solid alibi if you read in the news of a trail of beaten and battered plasticed, make-up plastered, fake-tanned real estate agents and property managers through the northern suburbs of Brisbane.


(And, yes, there'll be some sort of party planned to kiss this slice of heaven goodbye)

Another Brick In The Wall

The writing's now on the wall for the ole Love Den - quite literally. As of yesterday, the developers have slapped 2 whopping great big white signs of death on the sides of the shop and the old curtain factory building advising of the development proposal.

A quick check online showed an interesting to-and-fro between the council planners and the developer over the past couple of months. Back in late August, Council initially said nup to the original plans on 20 grounds, and suggested more information and changes were to be made in order for the development to be considered. Chief among the concerns were the overall size and amenity of the proposal, with Council being dead against any extension of the commercial property along from the shop up Sandgate Road. Most of the other concerns were rather technical specs regarding gradings, height and car-parking logistics - although interestingly, the Council has indicated the plain looking Kassod tree on the footpath out the front needs to remain, which I thought was rather cute. What was missing, however, was any mention of any of the Heritage aspects of the proposal and whether Council had any issue with it. The omission can only suggest they don't.

The developers responded earlier this week to all 20 points, with slight amendments in the plans to accommodate the requests, and various expert reports refuting the need for others. All in all, it appeared fairly stock standard for this sort of proposal (I have seen a few), with nothing too controversial which could stop the progress. Without hesitation, the developers have slapped the public notices on the buildings and asked for the public to have their say. I don't suspect there will be much public opposition apart from the neighbours - which will be disregarded as nothing other than nimby-ism - so it's just back to the waiting game, with the knowledge that the fateful last day is closer. A factor on our side is that the owners transferred us to a periodic lease just before we went on holidays - which means they need to give us 8 weeks notice to turf us out, but we only need to give them 2 weeks notice (a veritable midnight flit!).

So, it's back to enjoying the Den while it lasts. This weekend, it's Valley Fiesta and the time when the Love Den's proximity to the action pays for itself in my mind. Tonight we checked out Lion Island, who I reviewed abysmally last week (but had a better showing tonight with a crunchier PA), before tomorrow's smorgasbord of Kev Carmody, We All Want To, The Mess Hall and Bob Log III. Sunday's gunna be a bit quieter with just Andrew Morris tickling my fancy, but I'll be saving my energy for that night's gig at West End - Gomez! And I'm reviewing it... I'm really getting back into this free ticket junkety gig thing. I could get really, really used to this again.

I'm sitting in a void

According to the documents lodged with Brisbane City Council today, I'm currently sitting in a void within the building which is to replace the Albion Love Den.

That's right, the development application is seeking to demolish this gorgeous old girl and build in its stead a 3-storey unit complex consisting of 11 very small 2-bedroom units (only 75sq m each!), an office built right on the Sandgate Road frontage, keeping the old shop and also knocking down the asbestos-laden storage building next door. This is the jewel within their crown, as the building houses the reason for the heritage listing - a 1930s brick baker's oven, which they hope will be restored and used in a future courtyard.

The developers do have a bit of an up-hill task ahead of them. Firstly, there's the Heritage Listing itself, which they have argued is erroneous to have the house included. The original Heritage documents cited the shop with attached residence as an important signpost of the inter-war period development of Albion. The problem is that the house is not actually attached to the shop or the old bakery. In addition, they argue, the house has been "extensively-, unsympathetically- and irreversibly-altered" which essentially cancels out its Heritage value.

They are also using this argument to try to convince Council to ignore the Demolition Control Precinct which also exists over both the shop and the house. Demolition Control was an important streetscape-saving Heritage measure put in place by the Soorley administration (I think) which states that if there are 3 properties in a row which were built prior to 1946 and displayed typical architectural styles of the era, then they were to be saved. This may be their sticking point, I feel. Despite what they claim was unsympathetic alterations, these were primarily internal the house was divided into units sometime in the 60s, I think) and did not significantly change the street view of the house. They claim, however, that the building in of the verandas on the front and side of the house have canceled out its historic value and hence should be excluded from the DCP.

So that's where it's at. I'm kind of relieved to have confirmation that there is finally something happening. It's been nearly 2 years since old mate Ray sold up, and the speculation going around has been frustrating. I have mixed feelings about the development itself, which may be part nimbyism, part sadness at the likely loss of my old girl, and part angst that another chunk of Brisbane history (albeit a small chunk) is most probably going to get bulldozed to make way for another corporately bland "modern" development devoid of soul and style (or "Leggo" type developments which are infecting our urban landscape, according to my mate Jules).

There is an internal conflict in my psyche, however, as the development completely fits into my view of sustainable urban development - high density mixed use projects, close to public transport and amenities to reduce the sprawl and hence reliance on cars. I'm keen to write up a response during the public submission phase of the development, but I fear I'm just not too concerned about the actual physical buildings and future of them.

After 10 years here (celebrating the milestone this month, I think!) I know it's time to move on, and I'm happy to do so. I just wish the rents would reduce a little... sheesh, it's madness out there! I did speak to the real estate this week, and they anticipate we'll get at least another six month lease, which is a relief. My mate Geoff also spoke to the architects who anticipate nothing would get going until at least 2010, so there's some time.

Now I've just got to get back to enjoying the void.

The beginning of the end

It's been coming for a while, but this is the first indication that the Albion Love Den is to be demolished: a development application lodged with council yesterday. The details are extremely light on, but it seems pretty clear from the application for building works that this is more than just a spit and polish for the old girl.

Looking at the history of these applications, though, it still could be another year or so before any real movement around the place. It seems, too, that our owners may be in for a little bit of a battle, as Council also states it's part of a "demolition control precinct" and a heritage place (cultural and adjoining). I'll endeavour to get some facts about what these constraints mean. Our lease comes up for renewal in early September, so it's back to the waiting game.

The Albion Love Den

Just a pic of the aforementioned Albion Love Den. It's the view from up the hill slightly, and across the road. The Den is hidden by the mass of greenery at the front.