On Tour With Husky: Part One - 'A Journey To Bakehouse Rehearsal Studios'
And it begins!
Set to kick off their Australian tour tomorrow night, Husky have been hitting rehearsals hard before heading out on the road.
In part one of this exclusive tour diary, the guys give you an intimate insight into how they're gearing up for the national run.
I was staring at two eggs boiling in the saucepan, bubbly ding bing bobble bop bop bubbly bup bubble. I got lost in it, the same way you get lost staring at the waves lapping up against the pier posts all dark dark brown and spongy, been wet so many years now. You can get lost in anything, especially when you’ve only been awake for half an hour, in your pre-coffee-post-hot-shower coma. And as we all know and have thought a million times, probably out loud to our eye-rolling friend or lover, anything can be beautiful. Any little thing. Eggs boiling in the saucepan on a chill and sunny Melbourne autumn morning. Beautiful right?
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Well, the world was writhing for me in maddened ecstasy in that bubbling saucepan and friends, I was transfixed and tickled to my core when there was a knock at the door.
"Fuchman" a voice called out then footsteps down the hall and Gideon appeared. He was early. Or not late. On time that is. Which is early for him. A little surprised and still somewhat comatose and hypnotised by the eggs, I said “Fuchman, you’re oily”. Just to clarify, Fuchman is a Yiddish word that means ‘tradesman’, it’s what our parents and their friends call each other. We got it from them and they got it from their parents. I guess that’s what they called each other in Poland in the 1930s. Oily is ‘early’ with a New York accent, but it also kinda means oily, which is like saying “You’re a sly dog” or “You’re a slippery little sucker” which Gideon isn’t and therein lies the irony.
“Gus, listen, sorry amigo I was just boiling some eggs and all of a sudden the world was writhing in the saucepan and I lost track of time. You grab the eggs and I’ll get my guitars and let’s roll.”
“All good Fuchman, I got this. What was writhing in the saucepan?”
“The world my man, the whole fucking shebang. The big fat boiling bubbling mystery of it all. And don’t you know that God is Pooh Bear?”
“Roger that Captain, as you were.”
I lit some Palo Santo in the car on the way to Bakehouse, a tradition that started when I was sick in bed last year with glandular fever. My friend would come each day to check on me and she would light Palo Santo and force-pour bitter herbs down my swollen throat and make videos of me saying curious things in my feverish delirium and then she’d put dog ears on me or stick my face on the body of a dancing aerobics instructor in a purple leotard and white leg warmers. It sounds strange, but I swear it’s true. Since then I can barely go a day without lighting Palo Santo. I need to get a sniff of that musty woody stuff in order to face the world with confidence. And confidence is everything, something someone told me once and it had that ring of truth that some things have, especially when they’re bullshit.
“Be careful not to set the car on fire buddy. I support the voodoo, I’m just a little nervous about health and safety.”
“Do you want to talk set list?”
“I think we should start the show with Walking in your Sleep.”
“Yes, I like that idea. We’ll go for the Guiness Book of Records for longest keys solo ever played in the opening track of a show. We’ll blow the beautiful people away and that’s just the beginning of the journey.”
“Yeah, the journey needs to be epic. Let’s pull out all the stops on this one.”
"Yes, let’s.”
“Your pants are on fire dude.”
“Oh shit!!!"
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