Finn Neil - Together alone : the story of the Finn brothers

Sydneys Pitt Street Gardens was not your typical rock-and-roll venue. The dcor put a whole new spin on the term lurid: a cheesy mirrorball hovered above the dance floor, and there was a sea of dark carpet to hide the stains of spilled drinks and worse, while its location smack dab in the centre of Sydneys retail strip made most serious music fans wary of the place. By its very nature, and location, this was a meat market where over-dressed suburban Kevins and Sharlenes came together and commingled on the dance floor, ideally to the soundtrack of the Village People or perhaps Sister Sledge. It was not the kind of joint where youd expect to catch a greasepaint-splattered, be-suited group of expat Kiwis.

Yet there were enough real music lovers assembled on this weeknight, me included, to check out the band that would soon become the hottest act either side of the Tasman. I was still a few months shy of legal drinking age, but when a buddy suggested, strongly, that we check out this weird band that the cool crowd was raving about, I knew it was my duty to catch the next city-bound train. Theyre crazy, he told me. You should see their haircuts and their costumes are ridiculous. That was more than enough to entice me, a restless teenager living in humdrum suburbia, to scratch together the cover charge and, hopefully, talk my way past the security guy on the door. I was mad keen to check out the freak show.

Split Enz werent totally new to me. I had heard some of their recent offerings on Sydneys left-of-the-dial radio station 2JJ, such as the tearaway rant I See Red and the heady, giddy Give It a Whirl, among others, to know them well enough. But up until then I hadnt had the chance to see them in the greasepainted flesh not many rock shows of their theatrical bent included my blue-ring-around-the-collar neighbourhood in their tour schedule. Mine was more a beer and Chisel kind of town, where the louder the band played, the better the response, this being the so-called glory days of Oz rock, the time of the Rads and the Tatts and the Oils. I knew that the Enz werent one of those bands, even if I wasnt completely sure what to expect. All this was going through my head once my friend and I talked our way past the doorman and snagged a primo vantage spot upstairs, overlooking the pokey Pitt Street Gardens stage.

What I hadnt considered was that the support act would mess with my head almost as much as the headliners. Shock rockers Jimmy and the Boys whod soon score a major hit with the Tim Finn-penned They Wont Let My Girlfriend Talk to Me were fronted by Ignatius Jones, a double-jointed, bisexual motormouth in leather bondage pants, and also featured a keyboardist in an evening gown and towering beehive, gender indeterminate, who went by the name Joylene Hairmouth. The rest of the band pulled the obligatory menacing poses, but Id seen enough punk bands to know it was just a stance. But as for Joylene and Jimmy, well, shit, they were the real deal: a gender-bending, audience-baiting, extremely odd couple. That was made very clear when they began simulating, as I turned to my friend in disbelief, a sexual act of mutual gratification towards the end of their sweaty set. This suburban boy couldnt look away; they were just too weird for words.

Tim Finn once wrote a song called Hard Act to Follow and, though legend suggests its a nod to Midnight Oil, he may well have been talking about Jimmy and the Boys. I feared that it would be an anti-climax excuse the pun when the Enz hit the stage very late on this particular school night. What, for Gods sake, could they do to match what Id just witnessed? But once they began to play it became apparent they were almost as visual a band as their opening act, and not just because of their garish bespoke suits and eye-popping light show. As they played, it was as if each member of the band had rubbed up against a live electrical wire: they crashed into one another while hurling themselves around the stage, their manic stares set just above the crowds head, their wild hair and pancake make-up greasy and running within minutes. It was impossible to tell if they were laughing, crying or sneering. To me, the impact was as much physical as it was musical and I had no doubt this band could play as they caromed off each other like human pinballs. And out front stood Tim Finn, whose dark, towering quiff gave him an extra few inches over the rest of the band, and whose intense stare, ghostwhite face dripping sweat, suggested a man who meant business.

I went away duly impressed: Id witnessed a freakshow and a frenetic display of muscle and musicianship. It sure beat a night of Charlies Angels re-runs. As my all-stations train lumbered home, I had the time to ponder just how many bruises each member of Split Enz had by sets end; they were living proof that in order to feel music it sometimes also had to hurt. And within months the bands star began to shine its brightest, on the back of their most commercially sharp set, 1980s True Colours.