Band: Hotel Breslin
Members: Lorenzo (v), Brendan (b), Jim (d), Carl (g)
Guitar setup: Tenady 335 copy, Marshall Gov'ner, Fender 75
After eviction from West End, there was a brief hiatus. Jim organized another rehearsal room, but this time we were going to have to pay the rent, so it was a dodgey room in the Woolsheds on the wharfs at Teneriffe. This part of town didn't even have lights.
Unfortunately, the room didn't have power either, which is not conducive to angsty rock and roll. The room was officially a storage room, and we weren't to rehearse in there. Jim asked for power so we could 'test' the equipment if required. Our intention was to test it for a couple of hours two or three times a week. Power was installed, but it was three phase. This didn't stop us, we just ran an extension lead through a crack in the ceiling to a power point on the abandoned upper floor.
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The floor above was sometimes inhabited by contemporary artists, who left their works scattered around. Occasionally we'd go up, peruse the art, have a beer, and come down to practice again. Like Warhol's Factory scene, as if we had any idea of who Warhol was.
It was about this time that Lorenzo had surgery on his knee, to correct some kind of injury he sustained at soccer. He was in plaster for weeks, but that hardly stopped him partying, he was legendary for driving to the Redland Bay Hotel with Sean, who at the time was temporarily blind with conjunctivitis. Sean sat in the drivers seat and worked the pedals, Lorenzo in the passenger seat worked the steering wheel. Any DUI charge would have to be shared. Some of his experiences at this time, including conversations with old drunks and the proprietor, Kel O'Shea, would later feature in his live intersong banter.
The cast didn't stop the man from coming to rehearsal. After a few hours of practice we'd invariably go for a beer at the Waterloo hotel. After a session, Jim had gone, and the rest of us were going to take off when we heard an angelic chorus. We followed this chorus across the carpark, across a few streets, and to multistory building, the epipheral choir was coming from upstairs. So up we went, Lorenzo taking a little longer on his crutches, dazed, hypnotized, drawn by the sound, to a huge double door.
The singing suddenly stopped. A marching of feet. Lots of feet. The doors were flung open and the choir was met by three mesmerised quasi-punks. Not a word was said between the two opposing parties.
We turned about and rushed down the stairs. Well, except for Lorenzo. Richard the Third, limped his way perilously down the narrow staircase, step by step, followed by an army of singers wanting to go home.