REARED IN CAPTIVITY
John Kitching and I busking in Sydney, Australia, circa; March, 1987.
Photo credit: Yvonne Davie
STRANGERS
Our steps sound lonely through the streets,
poison for agreeable dreams.
here in the darkness, loud voices, dim faces,
pointing shapeless shadows from the dawn.
(Don’t talk to strangers), a lone one in a lions lair.
(Don’t talk to strangers), of living silence have no fear.
Like an unwanted guest of the savage night,
not accustomed to the flight.
Twilight space her new desire,
echoes from the fire.
Gliding like a Queen
she leaves the station.
(Don’t talk to strangers), a lone one in a lions lair.
(Don’t talk to strangers), of living silence have no fear.
A coffin gaps this narrow doorway,
strangers roll their hungry eyes.
Victims lie in scarlet dust,
bleeding as the lions roar,
singing newer songs
beyond the grave.
(Don’t talk to strangers), a lone one in a lions lair.
(Don’t talk to strangers), of living silence have no fear.
(c) Carlton McRae, 1987
A WINTER SONG
This sentence begins at the moment of birth,
that’s tradition on planet earth.
In for a penny, in for a pound?
I can’t stay too long, can’t hang around.
As we grow and go through school,
we learn to be nobody’s fool.
I picked up my guitar and played,
I learned of life a different way, so
out into the world we go.
We’re keen to show off all we know.
Keen but green till we find our feet,
then values change and we’re complete.
That’s life in the 20th Century,
it’s one for you & three for me.
All the agro, blame the reds.
It can’t have been the US feds.
‘Star wars’ programme, outer space,
the future of the human race.
Mass exodus on the gravy train.
Another shower of acid rain.
The South Pacific mushroom cloud.
Upset kanaks, a foreign crowd.
Who in Auckland sunk the bard?
The French who shit in our back yard.
If I still possessed a morale mind
I’d hate to think what I might find.
Won’t stop to look, don’t like the view.
So much is done but by so few.
Dig your hole, create your space,
it’s cold out here in this strange place.
It’s time to go inside to play,
we’re going to party here all day.
Sit around the fire, a winter song.
It’s summer soon, it won’t be long.
We need the good times not the tears,
while we’re in our summer years.
(c) Carlton McRae, 1988
CONCRETE JUNGLE FATE
See the people, their familiar faces
on the street today.
Out through the back door,
everyone has slipped away.
Now that everything has changed,
my whole life rearranged.
But still the visions seem the same.
I can't hang around
and wait for things to happen.
I need to get out there,
out amongst the action.
In the city, the breeding ground
of white collar crime.
Although you ask them,
no one seems to have the time.
They're too strung out on being late
that all their anger turns to hate.
Call it what you will,
I call it concrete jungle fate.
I look around me,
too much hate and too much greed.
Tenants evicted
and another hungry mouth to feed.
What is enough?
What is too much?
In dead end streets they bred 'em tough,
we'll leave them one last straw to clutch.
There's still so much to do
before that final curtain falls.
We haven't really scratched the surface
yet at all.
Step outside and look around,
get your head above the ground.
Whatever is lost can still be found.
(c) Carlton McRae, 1988
LIFE INSIDE A JAR
The stage director hides his face,
there's blood and guts and some disgrace
as I slip in through the back door,
for forty minutes not much more.
The meter maid pulls out her chalk,
you took the car, you should have walked.
She's walking up and down the street,
never smiles, no one to meet.
No need to talk about it.
Most of us can see straight through it.
A waste of time to live your life inside a jar.
It's been sealed and approved,
but your label's been removed.
The preacher beckons to a man,
his wife is roasting Sunday's lamb.
A three piece suit, his new attire,
has quelled his brimstone and fire.
The speaker of the house says 'rise'
and the playground comes alive.
There's ships and loans here to debate,
the people's lives, a country's fate.
No need to hide away.
We pull the Jam out everyday.
A waste of time to live your life inside a jar
when the kitchen is in need,
while the others fill their greed.
Don't need a tax return
to show how much we've really earned.
A waste of time to live your life inside a jar.
Well, what are you waiting for?
Don't turn away, it's time to explore.
(c) Simon Dibble-Carlton McRae, 1989
BURNING (Out of Control)
The city breathes a morning sigh.
I catch the breeze, I swim the tide.
As the sun goes down, I begin to play.
All through the night.
All through the night.
All through the night.
This fire burns inside with every passing day.
I hope it never dies or ever goes away.
This fire burns inside, the flames lick at my soul,
a fire too fierce too contain or control.
Burning (out of control).
This fire burns inside, fuelled by desire
and drawn to heat, led by my heart toward the pyre.
Burning (out of control).
(c) Carlton McRae-Simon Dibble-Andrew Richards 1989
AT THE RIVER'S EDGE (Reprise)
So much, so much here to bite.
We stop the rain that washes through the night.
As I turn around, a new vision meets my eye.
The wind has changed to anger.
Will it try and hunt me down?
I hear echoes, from the valleys they ring out.
Lightning flashes down upon voices heard to shout;
“I am dancing in naked sunlight”.
I’m running with the one who turns the day back into night.
Time is now, man has made his plea.
All his feelings, are we free?
All we see and touch and all we feel
remind us that we are real.
And in his mind, man has made a pledge,
all life began at the rivers edge.
(c) Carlton McRae, 1989
GIVE ME LOVE
Hot & cold the heart beats,
like fire and ice.
Up meets down on every corner,
name your price.
Two ships meet but pass by
in the night.
Where North meets South
I hear you calling,
hold on tight.
Hold on tight and give me love.
We’re rich and poor but empty,
out of time.
If it’s wrong I’d stop believing,
I would change my mind.
In & out the shadows crawl,
all through the light.
I know that we could make it
if we get it right.
Let’s get it right
and give me love.
Like right & wrong within your eyes,
it’s swing and miss.
When lightning strikes the thunder calls me,
one last kiss.
Like black & white divides the line,
it’s time to feed.
Time to choose, the hunger is gaining,
make it bleed.
Make it bleed
and give me love.
(c) Carlton McRae, 1989
CHILLS
He haunts that bar across the street,
caught the bullet in his teeth.
Eighteen, stardust, lots to say and me…
I just can’t stay away.
Chills, the street life serenade
where garage bands are all the rage.
Lyrics, pulse, a frantic pace,
hit and run a younger face.
Where is the night?
It is disguised.
There’s another back street stab in the dark.
we look through glass
and glazy eyes
at another blood stained seat in the park.
Silent motion, pantomime,
the hands are ticking, ticking time.
Buffalo stance, mental notes,
jigsaw dreams and anecdotes.
I want a dog, a dance machine,
the promised land, some special thing.
The love drug to enhance the lust
and keep it up from dawn till dusk.
Where is the night?
It is disguised.
There’s another back street stab in the dark.
we look through glass
and glazy eyes
at another blood stained seat in the park.
(c) Carlton McRae, 1989
TOMBSTONED IN BOLTON STREET CEMETERY
The hands of time move fast.
She is my future and my past.
All the nails that were in our eyes,
were there to trade some hope for highs.
Light the candle, burn the flame,
until we walk these paths again.
And in Bolton Street
let tombstoned thoughts remain,
until we walk these paths again.
I’m getting drunk on growing pains
and the poison is flowing through our veins.
It takes a spark to start a fire,
not much more to take us higher.
Light the candle, burn the flame,
until we walk these paths again.
And in Bolton Street
let tombstoned thoughts remain,
until we walk these paths again.
(c) Carlton McRae, 1989
REARED IN CAPTIVITY
Strange weather these last years,
stay back in the shade.
look for green in the city
where everything is man made.
we’re lost in confusion,
there’s nothing guaranteed,
the food is on the table,
how many will eat?
Two doors and a passageway
lead into the night.
one door is called ‘energy’,
the other for delight.
through an open window
sounds come from the street,
very busy people,
how many will meet?
meet late at a cafe,
we can talk all night,
something ‘bout this city
makes me feel so right!
There’s chaos and drama,
fever on the rise,
it’s well after midnight,
she’s got Hollywood eyes.
The rain runs a river
through the neon glow,
we’re caught looking for shelter,
where’s a place to go?
Go enjoy the nightlife,
we can drink all night,
something ‘bout this city
makes me feel so right!
All brothers and sisters
look alike in this town,
in those soft kisses baby,
in your lips I drown.
Reared in captivity,
we’re scientifically bred,
where’s mother nature?
Let’s all roll a head!
(c) Carlton McRae-Simon Dibble, 1990
BOHEMIAN SPIES
Behind the walls of terror,
beyond the farthest star,
there’s fantasy & magic,
if we trip that far.
Suburban lies, bohemian spies.
We’re pirates of the asteroids
from the other side of time,
playing this survival game,
living with our crime.
Suburban lies, bohemian spies.
Cigarettes & politics are
fragments of the mind,
fugitives are looking through
lazy diamond eyes.
Suburban lies, bohemian spies.
Time began and grew to be
what we now call history.
Attitudes are changing fast,
the future is looking good at last.
A life with ghosts and shadows,
caught running in the night.
The demon is in the mirror,
are you taking up the fight?
It’s a cold hard war,
there’s no direction home.
A face from the frost speaks
of blood beyond the stone.
(c) Carlton McRae, 1990
SATURDAY LIVE AT THREE
A fortnight of life in the big smog,
could comedy hate happen here?
Shoot from the hip in this city,
stand in the crowd if scared.
A late night occult on TV
claimed that she still had a friend,
who later was plunged into darkness,
disappearance & death.
People all moving in straight lines,
perception of government schemes.
Fortune favours the brave man
who puts into action his dreams.
Paper on walls of the alley read;
‘Saturday live at three’,
but nobody queued for a ticket,
no one but me.
By morning I had some company,
a mother looked up from her day
but the symphony had ended,
there were no notes to play.
Somebody joked at the weather,
the actors had rain in their boots.
Solutions were set for the problem,
pointing the gun as he shoots.
People all moving in straight lines,
perception of government schemes.
Fortune favours the brave man
who puts into action his dreams.
(c) Carlton McRae, 1990
BELLS OF THORNDON
Lapsed into the underground,
poison moving in a haze.
Time waiting for the call to sound,
caught in-between days.
And the dead know nothing now,
in no mans land he lies.
A victim of his circumstance,
innocence in his cold, dead eyes.
And the new age working lass,
still must soldier on.
Another pie, another pint,
it's forty years on.
Shoot at me through the TV.
Soldiers fall but still move on.
Just play the waiting game,
another dance to the same old song.
On and on,
face each day just the same way.
Try holding on.
On and on,
in this state, you're alright mate!
Try holding on.
(c) Carlton McRae-Simon Dibble, 1990
I met Andrew Glen 'Giff' Richards around May, 1987. He turned up to play rugby for a team which I was a founding member of called Mixed Veges (still going some 23 years later).
Long story short, we discovered that we both played guitar and had a big appetite for original music. One Saturday, when a game was canned because the referee didn't show up, Andrew came back to my flat in Roseneath, Wellington and we listened to a few LP's and swapped notes.
Two weeks later we had our first three original compositions; STRANGERS, Resolution Street and Fiji Bitter. We also had a singer by then, John Oxley Kitching, who was - for want of a better term - my God-brother.
John died in 2010 and I still grieve for him.
Both A WINTER SONG and CONCRETE JUNGLE FATE were written during the winter of 1988, while I was living in Salamanca Road, Kelburn, right beside Wellington's famous cable car.
By this time Simon Noel Dibble (guitar and keyboards) had teamed up with Giff (guitar) and I (drums), and within a matter of weeks were had organised a recording session at Radio Active (Victoria University - also in close proximity), laying down Lady So Blue (an Andrew tune with words by myself and John) and two originals from Simon; Special Feeling and Love on a Ledge.
John had decided to take himself back to Sydney to live, so it was Simon who sang lead on the three songs, Andrew covering bass guitar.
We added a bass player proper, Shirley Jones and I came up with the name, Foot High Garden (from Alice in Wonderland).
We played a sequence of self organised gigs and at the end of the year, undertook a small tour of the top of the South Island, playing at Pohara Hall, on the beach on New Years Eve and then the Globe Hotel in Takaka on January 2nd, 1989.
Andrew, Simon and I at our favourite watering hole in Wellington city, The Bond Street Inn, circa; August, 1988.
Foot High Garden photographed by Yvonne Davie, amongst the September Tulips in the Wellington Botanical Gardens in Kelburn.
Eventually, Foot High Garden morphed into The Pagans, with Shirley leaving, my switching to bass and ex-roadie, Adam Gatley joining on drums.
At around the same time we were given access to Civic Chambers in Cuba Street, I mean the entire eight floors of the disused downtown office building, by a mate Neville Harpur (a Mixed Vege and also Manager of Government Property Services).
We set up camp on the seventh floor (the eighth was a rooftop penthouse) and this became our practice facilities.
Setting up at the Globe Hotel in Waitapu (near Takaka) for a gig on January 2nd, 1989. Simon, myself, Andrew and Shirley.
The Pagans, photographed by David Lleon Mitchell for an Arts Council recording grant, near the old Post Office HQ on Customhouse Quay, Wellington, circa; March, 1989
Adam Gatley didn't stay too long, but agreed to drum for us on new recordings made in an attempt to get a grant from the QE II Arts Council to record an EP.
The three songs chosen were; Van Gogh (Richards), TTFN (Dibble) and the most likely of the three, an epic rock ballad composed by us all, entitled It's in Your Eyes.
Things started to look a bit grim after Gats left. We couldn't find a replacement drummer for love or money and - our own pretentious faults - were unceremoniously turfed out of Civic Chambers, which meant we had to rehearse the winter in an old shed in Hill Street, Thorndon, above the motorway in and out of the city.
We didn't get the grant either.
Photo shoot with new drummer, Martin Quennell, outside a burnt out house in Rugby Street, Newtown, circa; June, 1989.
Photo credit: Colin McLellan
A good friend of the band, Dennis Brown, came to the rescue. He knew of a drummer from Johnsonville, Marty Quenell. Marty was not only a good solid skinsman, he was a top bloke.
Having a new drummer meant that we could start looking for gigs again and around the same time, we met another band on a similar path to our own, called the Playschool Arsonists, fronted by Gregory Pugh.
We also acquired a new set of roadies in Euan and Frederick Williscroft and suddenly the wheels were back on the wagon.
My old mate Colin McLellan agreed to manage the band and quickly organised a photo shoot in several locations in and around Newtown and Courtenay Place. He was also to make a video for It's In Your Eyes.
The Pagans and The Playschool Arsonists (later to be called The Accelerants) started double-gigging around the traps, the first being a notorious affair at the Brooklyn Northern United clubrooms in Bell Road, Brooklyn.
Skinheads threatened to ruin the gig, but in the end common sense prevailed and both bands played hard for a fervent crowd.
LIFE INSIDE A JAR, BURNING (Out of Control) and AT THE RIVER'S EDGE all emerged from the winter shed and then GIVE ME LOVE.
Poster from the gig at BNU, July 8th, 1989. Artwork by Greg Pugh.
The Pagans and The Accelerants almost bullied Frederick into holding a party at his residence in Creswick Terrace, Northland, as in reality, there were sod all places to play and a burgeoning underground band scene in the capital.
The first party was so successful it led to a second, which was bigger and better and necessitated a third. The third, party goers were spilling out onto the suburban street, one of whom was the pub manager at the Western Park Tavern in Thorndon, Geoffrey Beavis (also a Mixed Vege), who was so impressed he promptly offered The Pagans a Friday night residency at his establishment.
One of the most famous of all Pagans photographs, taken backstage (Frederick's bedroom) following the third gig at his house in Northland, where the band were offered a residency and he was cast into entrepreneurial stardom.
The Pagans, circa; June, 1989. Photo credit: Colin McLellan
The Western Park residency and all things being a natural progression, spurned another attempt to get some governmental funding to record and release an EP, or preferably and even bigger body of work.
Marty and his partner, Cushla, were heading overseas and he had indicated that he was happy to drum until such time, but if we found a replacement drummer in the interim, all good.
Following a party one Saturday night, an old acquaintance knew of just such a person and literally within a matter of days we were introduced to Michael 'PA' Paterson, had a run through the three songs we planned to record and went into a studio to do just that.
The Three songs chosen this time were TTFN (re-recorded for Brendan Herrings media studies thesis), A Flag in My Hand and GIVE ME LOVE
The Pagans, photographed on the Wellington waterfront by David Lleon Mitchell for our second proposed QEII Arts Council grant, circa; September, 1989.
At Word of Mouth recording Give Me Love, circa; September, 1989. Photo credit: Simon Dibble.
'Party Animal' Paterson. The new man behind the drums, straight into the recording studio. Photo credit: Simon Dibble
Originally a mate of Simon's from Tauranga, Brendan Herring used The Pagans as his end of year thesis for his design course at Wellington Polytech.
At left is his business card we used thereafter and above, a video made for Simon's TTFN (which was an expression his grandma would often use). Below, a gig poster also designed by Brendan.
With our wicked sins atoned for, Pete Bardell, now the boss at GPS, was kind enough to give us the top floor of the old Pipitea Computer Centre down on Thorndon Quay, as a new practice room.
Things were in the ascending part of The Pagans usual rollercoaster again as the end of year approached - and indeed into the early part of 1990 - the gigs came thick and fast.
On New Years Eve, The Pagans opened for Harmony Sold Her Dragon at the Southern Cross Tavern in Abel Smith Street.
New songs were also coming thick and fast and a new formula was developing. While Simon and Giff were both awe-inspiring songwriters, the latter songs by The Pagans were a true egalitarian effort, with input coming from all four members and the results were favourable.
My major input was lyrical and this was usually Simon taking lines from various books of poetry and song lyrics I had which lived on the floor of the band room, just to be picked apart in such fashion.
At the River's Edge was the first, but the best example was BOHEMIAN SPIES, which emanated from an old poem called Venus Plus X that I had written while still at school.
Simon and I at one of our favourite haunts 'Goodies', formerly of Willis Street, Wellington. The Railway Station pie-cart was also a big favourite, where the manager, Phil Dickson, referred to us as true regulars upon one occasion, when in an altercation with an impatient customer. Photo credit: Giff Richards
BURNING (Out of Control) was written in the depths of winter, a real fave and a shame it never got recorded. I wrote the first verse and chorus (which is just the title) Andrew the second and Simon the third verses. Andrew's tune.
GIVE ME LOVE stemmed from a recorded practice session in Hill Street and I wrote the words sitting on the front porch of the flat proper, one Sunday morning with a cold beer.
The words to CHILLS were written while I was at the hairdresser's, visiting my old mate, Bill Watson.
AT THE RIVER'S EDGE; I wrote the verses at St. Mary Street, but the chorus' pieces we rearranged from an old Walrus song.
TOMBSTONED (my words to a fantastic piece by Simon) was also written in the back garden at 15 St. Mary Street, Thorndon, one early summer's evening.
The Pagans were absolutely blessed with access to two of the greatest photographers around - and neither of them photographers in the truest sense, by virtue of that being their main profession.
The photograph above was yet another by David Lleon Mitchell. I asked him (in exchange for a free pile of art supplies) to take another set for us, as we were once again going to try our previously ill-fated luck at obtaining a recording grant.
We aborted this time around as we'd decided to call it a day, but were left with another outstanding set of photo's. Dave was an amazing artistic brain; awesome at early animation, graphic designer beyond compare, as mentioned, photography was just a sideline, but another thing he was outstanding at.
Likewise, Colin McLellan. Outstanding photographer, but also a brilliant artist, video maker...he could do it all.
The hand of oppression belongs to Geoff Beavis. Others from left; Rowena Cudby, Greg Pugh, PA and Marty. Photographer unknown, but taken at St. Mary Street following the gig from the poster above, also my 27th birthday party.
Reared in Captivity video shoot, circa April, 1990. Photo credit: Colin McLellan
Simon, Frederick and Euan enjoy a quiet beer at the gig at Brooklyn Football club.
The Pagans and top bands from around New Zealand were all chosen to play at Sesqui 1990, to mark the 150th anniversary of the signing of the Treaty of Waitangi. Billed by promoters as 'New Zealand's biggest event ever', the festival was staged in Wellington and gave new meaning to the term unmitigated disaster.
It was a great experience mind. The sound was top notch, the mixing engineer none other than Marcus Wilson, doyenne of suchlike environments and the guy who had recorded five of our songs over the past couple of years.
We pulled crowds as big as every other major band in the country, somewhere between 12 and 20.
SATURDAY LIVE AT THREE (my lyrics and Simon's composition) was written (allegedly) about our experience playing at this festival, the good, the bad and the ugly.
The latter was most certainly reflected in the fiscal. Our $250 per gig, lower end but not bad money for the time (and sold to us and all on how prestigious it would be and how fucking grateful we should be for the opportunity), eventually realised $11.
Photographed by Simon's friend, Simon Hertnon, The Pagans played at Sesqui 1990 on the waterfront in Wellington, on March 2nd & 7th, 1990.
Following an appearance at the 1990 Kapiti Festival in Paraparaumu, The Pagans were booked to played (with the Accelerants), two nights in February at Rocky's Nite Club (now the San Francisco Bathouse) in Cuba Street.
Rocky's was a rather sleazy venue, not that I personally minded that, but it didn't work for the management - a pop/rock outfit (they wanted more hard edged blues) - and that sort of venue certainly wasn't our choice.
We were far more at home at the Carpark, the newest venue in the capital, which was in the Williams building on Plimmer's steps.
Following growing fractions within the band, Andrew having drifted away from the rest of us, the Carpark gigs would be the last we would do and the final one - May 3rd, 1990, also Frederick's birthday - was recorded and eventually released as a live work entitled Reared in Captivity.
On December 10th, The Pagans, AK and a handful of other local acts, most notably Darren Watson, played a Christmas gig for the inmates of Mt. Crawford Prison.
Reared in Captivity video shoot at Pipitea Computer Centre, circa; April, 1990. Photo credit: Colin McLellan
Late in 1990, The Pagans did record again and Andrew and I drove up to Auckland to meet with record label managers, engineers and recording studio bosses.
The three songs recorded this last time were Saturday Live at Three, BELLS OF THORNDON, written by Simon and I, about our connection with the inner-city suburb of Thorndon, where we lived, worked and played and the bells of Wellington Cathedral in Molesworth Street, which rang out every Sunday morning.
REARED IN CAPTIVITY (verses by myself, chorus' by Simon) was all about city living and the title was lifted for the multi-media purposes and Colin started work on a video for the track.
Again, we were unable to generate any real interest in our work in Auckland, so decided to call it a day. All releases have been posthumous, but the memories kept alive...
The Pagans YouTube video collection; Bells of Thorndon, Saturday Live at Three and their hit, A Flag in My Hand.