Winter 1995 AUSTRALIAN Tour



THE AUSTRALIAN TOUR STARS


***All secondary players are generally given a brief description along with their context within the actual text.


MAN OR ASTRO-MAN? CONQUERS YET ANOTHER COUNTRY JUST BY GOING THERE, OR WHAT THE HELL IS VEGEMITE? AUSTRALIAN TOUR 95

November 30
Journey Out of Infinity and Into Oz / Part 1: Recapsulation and Re-entry

So indeed, we do resync to further the wild and wacky adventures of the USS Astro-Man. Well, to recap from our East Coast perils. We had an excellent tour melding experience with the Legendary Cramps, got into a ridiculous brawl with brainless bouncers in Boston, nearly had Star Crunch's (a.k.a. the WorldÕs Smallest Bully) Mosrite guitar stolen in Providence and I left you in the last star date entry with us stuck in the meteor shower proportion traffic near Washington, D.C.
Contrary to my Astro-Instinct Sensor, the Van or Astro-Van? made it home with the Jupiter II trailer still intact. Not long after breaking past the automotive force field, a girl blew by us holding a copy of Destroy All Astro-Men! against her driver side window. Who said that vinyl lettering of Astro-Slogans on the Jupiter II wasn't worth the money from three shows? Ironically, not long after that, some old cooter in a pick up truck threw a bottle of Snapple fruit drink on our lovely little vessel of space love. Hey, at least we pretend to come in peace. Actually, truth be revealed, we never could catch up with the fucker in order to pee bottle pelt him for attacking our ship and crew.
Never fear, 10% brain power users, excitement hardly ever alludes the Astro-men no matter how boring we are in reality. Sleeping in floor space capsule #1 (there are two), I was sharply awoken by what sounded like the squishy thud of a deer hitting the front driver's side of the van, splatting blood on the side panel, cracking the left headlight, and then proceeding to get partially run over by at least two of our high-performance tires. Well, that's, if anyone could know, what something like that sounded like before they'd actually heard it. However, Bambi roadkill was indeed the verdict of the aforementioned sound effects, this was actualized by a queasy-stomached Coco's lament, "GGGGGGross!!" It really sucked that this happened. (What'd you think? That we'd get some sadistic kick out of killing an innocent creature? No way. We'll save that pleasure for our extermination of the truly guilty human race! And before you ask - No! Unsane wasn't there to take pictures.)
Too bad for our alien appetites that our final nutrient intake stop at Subway had to coincide with the washing of large mammal blood off the van. We all realized that 18 hours in a van with 5 other non-showered humanoids was not on the "To Do For Extra Big Time Fun" list. Sadly, I think we all realized this about fifteen hours before our destination entry. The last half hour was extra-strenuous, made evident by Star Crunch's accusing that the Branock Device wasted half an hour of his life by trying a new "short cut" en route to the home sector. Everyone departed rather quickly in order to prepare both body and technology for the 23 earth hour trip to "the only English-speaking land where the people are supposedly goofier than Canadians." At Astro HQ Uno, I was instantly blitzkrieged with an overabundance of letters, fed ex packages, and multi-accented phone messages. Oh well, at least everything was supposed to be in impeccable order for our departure for Australia.

Journey Out of Infinity and Into Oz Part 2: Are We Going or Not? and Did Star Crunch Really Run Over His Guitar?

The initial night back at home base was encased in the uncertainty of the tour. The tickets, including an extra flight for Branock, who was not going the Alpha Team this time due to the constraints of that nefarious old earth currency, had arrived. Trust me, if we had any option we would haven taken our trusty super-server of multi-tasking in the blink of a pulsar, but at over $2,000 US dollars per Air New Zealand voyage, and the insta-flash particle transzoomer out, we had no choice but to leave him to guard our laboratories in Northern Georgia.
Another problem was that our Visas were sent to New York. We were going to have to call in order for the forms to be faxed to Atlanta and then pick them up at the consulate the next morning. Astro-grabbing units full, I went to bed optimistic that somehow the problems would form a bureaucracy and solve things themselves. However, my neural Astro-Wish Transmitter was in need of obvious repair because the next morning it was more than apparent that absolutely no "higher power" had heard the autotronic prayers of one Mr. Birdstuff. Bright and early I crawled out of my toasty warm rejuvo-chamber to the mellifluous symphony of several sweet, little phone messages: "There have been 6 tickets booked instead of 5. I don't think the extra ticket can be refunded without major penalty;" "You can only pick up entertainment work Visas in New York or L.A. The Atlanta consulate can't issue them. Someone will have to fly out to L.A. early and meet you guys during the Air New Zealand layover there;" and "Everyone must immediately go to have a photo taken for the work visas and fill out the faxed forms."
I was getting dangerously close to that "fuck it" mode. Everything at the extreme end of the digital-time-syncher had begun to fall into the infinite voids of the unorganized. In actuality, I did go into that rare but somewhat proverbial "fuck it" sequence, but it was more of a "fuck it - we spent too much time on this not to go and get to see how exaggerated those damn Crocodile Dundee films are!" I set the gaseous Astro-Alert Signals for emergency systematic override and the collective branched out to conquer the chaos. I figured Dexter, having once been stationed in the L.A. sector, would take advantage of getting to tie up the loose patch cords at his old center of operations. He immediately exited to take care of the Visa dilemma. I arranged it so if I immediately Fed Exed the Branock Device's ticket we could escape with only a $50 penalty fee. Thus I was off to Athens to be part of the mover and shaker generation. Everyone else got on the extra-special thrill ride of equipment packing duty.
The next morning was a complete annulment of the previous day's adverse misfortunes. The Visas were wrapped up neatly by Dexter, the travel agency received the un-needed ticket, and word came through that we could fix the departure date once we had reached the Kingdom of Oz. Some great energy force was positively in effect for all our uncertainties being so smoothly taken care of. Either the Army of Astro had some great sonic gift to give to a continent of seafood eaters or something sinister awaited us in the swarthy, mysterious outback. Either way, Man or Astro-Man? was on the way with an oversupply of Men At Work jokes.

Why Would Anyone Want to see HollywoodÕs CyberNerd Flop, The Net, Twice in the Same Day, or Time We Lost: The Flight, or Please Just Decide on One Fucking Title Per Tour Diary Segment

To be rather succinct, the flight or flights (there was a layover in L.A. - where we met up with Dexter X) weren't nearly as horrific as we had estimated; however, Star Crunch was cursed during the precursor period. At the final meeting point of Atlanta/Coco's Beta HQ, I suddenly read an "Oh, shit!" look on the face of Mr. Crunch. Okay, whose relative just died? Damn, it was worse. He had left the beloved Buzz X 3.14 white Mosrite in Athens. A perfectly timed hyper jump would put him at the airport right before departure. To make matters worse, it occurred to him that like the Anti-Organized, Wallet-Loosing Loony that he occasionally is, he might have left it outside. He even said, "I might have actually run over it." So, he instantly took off in a red flash of Nissan NX heat wave, but within minutes was back, fearing an Australian tour lineup of solely bass guitar, sampler and drums. So, it was decided...the fabled Gretsch Tennessean would have to come thru in the clinch. Now it was time for we three Astro Beings and the Lounge Lizard to fly off westwardly to hook up with the Dexter Xer.
The second Star Crunch snag came when L.A.X Flight security held our rambunctious guitar man up because inside his guitar gear bag was "everything you need to build a bomb." Yeah, like if we wanted to, we couldn't just wipe your entire aviation system out in the blink of Coco's death beam. It seems that the GH5 Boomers guitar strings that he plays had a logo of dynamite on them, and obviously we were going to blow the plane out of the sky with the sheer sonic fury of a $4 set of the cheapest guitar strings on the market.
So, after the L.A.X successfully foiled our premeditated terrorist attack, it was 17 hours, two indiscernible meals and a nicotine-deprived Lounge Lizard's anxiety attack before we landed on Aussie Alien Terrain. Finally, it was time to conquer or be conquered, let's just hope that we weren't on the receiving end of that Mad Max steel bladed boomerang.



December 1
Arrival / First show at the Metro in Sydney, New South Wales

During our "Sounds of Tomorrow" recording session with Steve Albini, he told us that when Shellac was in Australia some crazy local yelled to them, "You Americans - all you know is your aftershave. You're no good in the bush." Well, immediately on hearing this, it became my goal for the Astro-Men to get good in the bush! Just what exactly that meant to each individual member was surely in desperate need of definition.
After our exhausted bunch of space wankers got a quick "on foot" Aussie initiation in Newtown, a cool, but seedy section of Sydney, we headed for the various locales where we would be crash-landing temporarily. We soon began to notice that everything looked rather strange, kind of like...well, kind of like from far off space. Chickens look like they had been somehow gene-crossed with cats, and we also spotted some really bizarre goat-dog creatures. No mind, no creature is a bigger freak than an actual Astro-Man anyway.
After taking in the mutations, we shot off to pick up the bass rig and our Australian tour t-shirts. At the equipment rental outlet, we realized instantaneously that the mass of the rented bass rig was greater than most small planetoids. You see, we had agreed to split the amp and obviously its expense with the first opening band on the Hoss/Man or Astro-Man?/You Am I "Meet Your Leaders" tour, Hoss. Not to take away from them, but later we would learn that they were much more "Big Rawk" than the Astro-man Machine. This explained their insistence that we get some huge "Spinal Tappish" low end ear destroyer of a bass amplifier. We joked that Coco was going to need a step ladder just to reach the volume knob. After defying laws of physics, we still couldn't even fit it in the van so it was quickly voted that Hoss should pick it up themselves. Later that night, the damn piece of electronic Koala doo blew up during their sound check.
Finally at the Metro, we scrambled to put the mechanical jigsaw that was the Astro-Gear together. Somehow the electricity flowed and supplied us the needed power to release our space goofiness in classic interstellar spastic style. The show came off in excellent form all considering, and You Am I wound up being a really excellent and visual mod outfit that resembled The Small Faces or The Who. This was an excellent surprise because quite honestly from what little knowledge we had of them, we were expecting a much more American Alterno Rock thing - like Buffalo Chip Tom or Souless Asylum. Instead we got the power chord guitar windmill arm swing in its perfected form. It was a really amazing show, I guess "The kids are alright!"


December 2
Venue: The Metro
City: Sydney, New South Wales

It just occurred to me that I have hardly mentioned the band You Am I, who we were to open for on 14 of the 18 days that we were to be in Australia. What happened was that while on an absolute lark, Wally at Cheersquad (our Australian Booking Agent) asked You Am I, who was about to embark on a huge national tour, if they would want this wacky little space outfit to warm up the surface temperature of the stage for them. With great surprise to everyone, You Am I ended up actually being big fans of Man or Astro-Man? and were completely stoked about the tour plan. So, basically the fine fellows of You Am I had instantly provided us with a mass platform for Australian Brainwash Initiation.
After our first show the previous night, we were fortunate enough to set the ground unit at KatieÕs, You Am IÕs manager. This was really courteous of her being as we Astro-Men were prepared as always to sleep on the sidewalk, covered with newspaper. As a general tip, such economic street survival is a fine way of supplanting show income because most earth types are absolute suckers to give change to desperate looking aliens. That night at Katie HQ, I had a nightmare about our plan to franchise the band (you know the one where we set up a training camp so people can pay to start their own touring Man or Astro-Man? band). Anyway, I very well canÕt remember much of the dream and thankfully so, but rest assured the thought of an army of marching, orange-suited CocoÕs is definitely something that would scare anyone shitless.
Eventually, we all met up and ventured to the club. Everyone seemed reposed and rejuvenated for the complete neural devastation of SydneyÕs entire populations. The first show was all ages and it was like ÒAttack from the Planet of the Lollapalooza Munchkins.Ó One young earth girl, after being introduced to the band, asked Coco to marry her. However, the kids were undividedly responsive subjects to the experimental test waves of CocoÕs Hypnobeam. I donÕt think they knew what to think initially, obviously they would have been better prepared if that loopy Australian government had ever got the gumption to get a freaking man into space!
The second show was steeped in the stinky poo of technical difficulties, but was still a lot of fun and severely wild in its own right. However, Star CrunchÕs synthetic exo-anatomy was not holding up beneath the equator. It looked as if he was in desperate need of a tune-up, but just where could we find Astro-servo mechs in the back oÕ bourke was indeed a dire problem to be solved. We tried to be optimistic that Coco Calculations Inc. would come up with a solution, and pronto.


December 3
Venue: Sands Hotel
City: Narrabeen near Manly Beach, New South Wales

Earth people of the Australian type have obviously evolved with some hyper-friendliness gene. Everyone from You Am I, Kate their manager, the people who were housing the Coco/Crunch dynamic duo, Joe and Jenny, and the staff at the Metro had been some of the most sappy, no space pun intended, Òdown to earthÓ people that the Astro-Encounter Team has ever come in contact with. If you donÕt believe that Australians are the classiest creatures in the cosmos, get this Ð even the postal worker I bought stamps from was a top notch, look you in the eye, honest, smiling chap!
To further prove a completely obvious point, last night at the Metro we had the esteemed privilege of meeting the worldÕs most ultra-active roadie. Known across Australian space as ÒSpeedy,Ó he was a Rock ÕnÕ Roll energy fuel bank ready to explode on contact with anything that got within 5 meters of him (nice use of the metric system, eh?). Without getting any pay, he literally loaded about half our gear out for us, and brimmed with a manic sense of humor. I have hardly seen a Quonarian finger counted (they have 3 digits on four different hand-like appendages) number of people who have 1/5 the fervor for live music that Speedy had. Everyone claims that he restructured the Australian roadie equation, taking out the ÒHair Rock AttitudeÓ and inserting a hardy extra bit of unbridled courtesy into the leftover space. If only the witless staffs of clubs in the states had equal knowledge of social chemistry, the good ole US of A would be much more affable of a landing site to tour in.
The club we were playing at was right on the beach. I had suddenly been deluded into thinking that somehow we had complete-particle-transported to Hermose Beach 1983 - maybe weÕd even get to open for the Circle Jerks! Strangely ironic, friends of ours, the surf punk legends Agent Orange had played the same venue the night before. Later in the night Mike Palm and company showed up for the show in hilarious overly inebriated form. Our show was a good blast of spacey synergy, as we combined the hydraulic Astro-turbine driven by the near-by Pacific current along with the already volatile Man or Astro-Man? Electricity addiction. You Am I were great again and they even werenÕt angry about us eating their misdelivered deli tray feast. We couldnÕt control ourselves...Coco even made the ecstatic comment, ÒFresh hot rolls! Now thatÕs when you know youÕve hit the big time...Ó


December 4
Venue: Annadale Hotel
City: Sydney, New South Wales

One thing that surely is perplexing at first for an American traveling in Australia is their definition of the word Òhotel.Ó A hotel does not always mean that good ole friendly Travelodge or HoJo only occasionally frequented by the Astro-Men under extreme exhaustion and desperation. Often it is merely a large pub. There is a long indiscernible history explaining this; it revolves around now archaic laws about having hotels as the only establishments legally set up for the sale of alcohol. Theoretically, weary, drunk travelers would just crash at the hotel. So, for those of you blessed with that resourceful gift of deductive reasoning, the venue of the Annadale Hotel was like a bar club in the states - no company logoed towels were obtained.
On our itinerary, this dayÕs heading read, Òshow and media day.Ó We quickly learned, as early as 9 oÕclock that morning, that media didnÕt mean we got to sit around and watch the telly all day, it meant that Francesca and the fine propaganda machine at Au-Go-Go Records had set up 13 interviews and a record store signing to nicely fill out our down time. Coco and I chewed the ÒshrimpbarbicÓ fat with various Aussie journalists who got a quaint thrill out of newly adopted Aussie/Astro terminology and phrases such as Òbushbashing our way from outer space,Ó Ògoing crazier than a rabid space dingo,Ó and Òusing vegemite for rocket fuel.Ó Also, the cheap typical Paul Hogan, Mad Max, Air Supply and Olivia Newton-John references got at least partial credit in the Òattempt at regional humorÓ section.
The record store signing was, however, a completely different venture. What would be a proper way to word this? OkayÉno one actually showed up. This ended up being a constructively humbling experience. WeÕve been established in the states and Europe so thoroughly that it has been a decent time traveling journey since weÕve had to worry about this sort of unfortunate apathy. The experience hit our objective reset switch, and now with directed motives, we were destined to accomplish our mission down under.
Our first non-wedding or bar mitzvah-themed Òhotel showÓ went off with super Astro finesse. Everyone in the crowd was extremely energetic and got a great laugh out of our madcap antics. It was good therapy for our in-store-injured egos to have a good, receptive crowd and this time without super rockers You Am I doing all the work. Speaking of whom, they were cool enough to come to our show on their off day. Often in-between Astro-show experiments the last thing we want is to perceive another band, especially one on this planet. If any Australians get spared at the Cosmic Time of Inevitable Annihilation, it will be You Am I. Notably, Coco and Dexter got a chance to do their Tim of You Am I guitar windmill impressions for a thoroughly impressed group of mesmerized astro-converts.


December 5
Travel day to Melbourne, Victoria

After the Lounge Lizard and myself learned that our being picked up from KatieÕs was not one of the paramount endeavors of the remaining three Astro-Comrades, we headed into the Newtown streets for some circuit replenishing nutritional fodder. To our surprise, Jeremy our Aussie Tour Slave, and Mr. Crunch showed up on a fairly square time schedule. However, Dexter and Coco had been bitten by that earth ÒpartyÓ virus organism so they spent extra overtime in the rejuvo chamber. So, Òthe gang of fourÓ headed to the downtown center maybe possibly to se up a link at yet another space needle rip-off, the Sydney Tower.
Jeremy, our tour manager had turned out to be a splendid Australian earth specimen. Originally when we had met him at the Air New Zealand landing base, he had driven 10 hours straight to scoop up us Astro-Dweebs, and had literally gone the extra mile to take care of things. Jeremy, who we redubbed ÒSpace Mange,Ó had a wonderful aptitude for hitting cars without actually doing them any harm. He was friendly enough to gain a full tank of respect fuel and the delightful prognostication of being a dependable earth slave to work and play real life bumper cars on a daily basis seemed rather exciting.
On the road to Melbourne, we got to pull off in the country and check out some amazing natural water falls. It was a completely re-invigorating experience to see such breathtaking sites without having to shell out some lewd amount of earth currency, of which we merely collect for fun which thus explains why we never seem to have any. I must admit that I thought it was sad that such exquisite land formations would have to be destroyed merely because of our sadistic disdain for the human species. Oh well, ÒCoco press the destruct button...Ó


December 6
Venue: The Tote
City: Melbourne, Victoria

Destination Melbourne was actualized around five in the morning. Bruce seemed about as thrilled as an Earthman who had been woken up in the dead of night and has been suddenly thrust upon with the housing responsibility of four hyper-hyper-active dorkmonauts could be. To our great surprise, who stepped out from behind the back corridor of BruceÕs catacombs but Mr. Jack Tieleman, the big man himself, Mr. Lance Rock Record Mogul and High North American Representative of everything Au-Go-Go. Jack is a big hunk of friendly Canadian earth man and in addition to releasing single #2 of our current arsenal of 22 7ÓÕs, he also was a major cosmic Òearth to spaceÓ ground anchor in securing our tour arrangements. After Bruce and Jack convinced us that bed mats and flannel blankets would work as our rejuvo chamber, we zoomed out for deep, dark Astro-Mechano Replenishment.
Once again the propaganda unit was in complete active status. Either by primitive earth telecom or by face to face telekinetic implantation, we fulfilled nearly 10 interviews. Notable, if only for its complete trivialness, was our first moving mobile phone question and answer session with an earth journalist. I normally would have thought that my higher communication functions would be rendered ineffectual by the combination of a wireless communication process and the disorientation of forward motion (Note: Back at Grid Sector 1-7C94Z it is much more common of a practice to use a mobile telephone while floating backwards). Obviously, my self-implanted multi-adapto chip was functioning properly, even on this slug of a space rock.
Our scheduled Live Brain Conquest was very early in the evening. We masked the entire mind-enslaving endeavor with the ever desirable earth facade of a cook out. Star Crunch had spiked the hot dog weenies and potato cakes with neuromonaxion which renders the human brain into an even easier mental target than it already is.
Coco and I found ourselves seriously detained due to a miscalculated radio interview the station had set up for nearly the same time we were supposed to be on-stage. Luckily, after Coco and Jack spent nearly twenty bucks on the lobby-occupied Simpsons pinball machine, the DJ who called himself ÒPhil - Prince of DarknessÓ arrived. IsnÕt that a contradiction in titles? IÕm afraid that ÒPhilsÓ just canÕt be Princes of Darkness.
To complicate things even further, Phil wanted to put us on even later so he could do an Òas advertisedÓ segment of Jello Biafra, who was currently doing the spoken word down under thing. Jack, using that Ònothing worse than a crazed CanadianÓ approach, then verbally manhandled the ÒPrince of Darkness,Ó and what do you know, in five short minutes we were on the air making Jello Biafra on crutches jokes.
Inside the confines of the Tote, we entered simultaneously as the neck of a guitar punctured through the beater-head side of a kick drum. We found the culprits of this destructive behavior to be a band called The Martians. It was unfortunate that we missed the set, but if the Martians played their guitars .0896 as well as they jousted with them, then IÕm sure the show was a doozy.
The band after them red sand rockers , the Martians, was The Living End, who were a cool cross between X and the Reverend Horton Heat. Our set was good, down home space fun for the select neurmonaxion-filled, hot dog-eatinÕ locals. At the showÕs conclusion, I fell off the stage and had no choice but to crawl through the dark crowd. I must have had five different audience specimens tell me that they enjoyed it when I crawled through their legs at the end of the show. Oh, you sad earth people with your cheap carnival thrills...I felt even more used than that time we were getting the anal probe test in the deep underground chambers of the CIA.


December 7
Venue: Surprise show at the Charleston Pool Hall/ ÒHey, wasnÕt this supposed to be an Alien Day Off?Ó
City: Melbourne, Victoria

Being that creatures of Planet Australia were the nearest examples of accustomed extra-terrestrial life forms we had come across, we decided that a zoo would be an appropriate commencement point for our study of local life forms. We were all rather geeked to go on King Bruce of Au-Go-GoÕs Outback Surfari. During our stint assuming earth child identities, the closest we had ever come to seeing kangaroos were those damn velcro tennis shoes with the ultra-dorky zipper pouch. Not to mention the fact that Australia is probably the origin center for 40% of all personified cartoon characters. Who wouldnÕt want to get caught out in that Tasmanian Devil whirlwind, even if it was in a zoo?
Once there, we entered the interactive kangaroo park. Basically what this meant was the kangaroo lie on their ass and sleep until you get close enough to disturb them, then they hop up and lie on their ass somewhere else. What was rather interesting soon became rather lascivious as one of those sweet furry kangas reached down, with both hands mind you, and licked his own privates. Is there no decency in the land of marsupials?
Actually, one of the more enjoyable attractions was the butterfly house. Anyone whose head was still enough soon would become a butterfly perch. Bruce, merely from having an Australian accent, was mentally transformed into a great collector of rare, super species with a net for every island. ÒJust where is that assistant of mine, James?Ó We really got into the primate section; perhaps this is because they remind us so much of hairy, banana-eating earthmen; theyÕre really not far from you homo-sapiens at all. Plus, Bruce said he had seen some of the apes Òsling their own shit with devastating accuracy.Ó
What was supposed to be our solitary and actual (meaning non-travel) day off soon transmuted itself into ÒRock for Shmooze.Ó Greta at Au-Go-Go had soon turned our day of tranquillity into yet another night of space stinky. I was really counting on giving my suit a day to dry out, but what the hell - itÕs probably been six months since IÕve had a good body rash.
Greta and Bruce had been more than accommodating to us so the least we could was provide some space rock. I had eaten much worse suck-burgers than having to play on a night off. There were lots of Aussie Record Biz goons out which for some reason made Coco want to run around the club completely naked. We played the show on borrowed equipment, so these instruments got taken slightly off the hook. I think the whole event would have been better if there was a complete and unconditional ban on strobe lights. I could barely keep time. Hey, rave boy, IÕm not one to quote David Byrne, but fuck...this ainÕt no disco.


December 8
Venue: Hobart City Hall
City: Hobart, Tasmania

Out of all the strange and bizarre alien land masses that we have played, Tasmania has got to be one of the coolest to tell your friends about. Even a denizen from countless parsecs away knows that providing rock music for the Tasmanian masses has got to be one of the most impressive sounding things that a band from any galaxy sector can verbally wield. In fact, it just so happens that Alabama only beats Tasmania by a matter of decimals for our crash-landing sight on Earth.
Our pilgrimage travel preparation to Tazzyland was severely plagued by our ineptitude for any form of structure and organization. In the past itÕs been enough of a task to set order to our sock drawers, much less a tour schedule. Also, for better or for worse, Jeremy, our exalted multi-colored hair tour manager, was more like one of us unpunctual space aliens than an actual tour commander supreme. What IÕve been leading up to is: Being the unchallenged champions of moronic planning that we are, we almost missed our flight to the island of Taz. In fact, two of us did. Apparently the check-in officials were not entirely pleased the with size and/or weight of various Astro-Cargo items, and with Australian logistical expertise being nearly equal to ours, the freight depot was located a good 10 minutes away. Well, the French have designed worse airports, you might say, and ten minutes is not that ridiculous of a haul...Well, youÕre probably right, but when your plane takes off in seven minutes it sort of multiplies the complexity of what can go into a 10 minute journey. So, it was decided that Space Mange and Coco would have to partake in a later flight and bring the space dork drums and the super-holograph projection cannon necessities with them.
On Tasmanian soil we had a whole day to get bitten by one of them devil critters due to CocoÕs Beta Team having an additional flight delay. In HobartÕs city center, I wandered in a book store to look for authentic Australian sci-fi. However, what I got from the store owner was a resounding suggestion to plunge into the ghost lore which surrounds this mysterious island. The amalgamation of the first white settlers barbarous slaughtering of the native aborigines and the establishment of some of the most inhumane prisons in the history of punitive jailing. My inner data drum banks floated to the Grand Canyon episode of the Brady Bunch where ragged, weather-beaten Thurston Howell the Third guy locked the BradyÕs in a ghost Town jail for moving in on his gold prospect. CanÕt you see the Astro-Men in the worst perils yet, being trapped and tortured by some kooked out 18th century British Army officer throwback at the Port Arthur penal colony? Unfortunately our one day in-and-out Tasmanian adventure did not allow such time for predestined agony.
After Coco smuggled in the Astro Rhythm mechanizations, we had time for a Òfaster than a speeding dingoÓ soundcheck and prepared for the Tasmanian onslaught. We hit the stage to a fourth full hall. The venue seated well over 2,000, so even as early as we were on, the brainwashing candidate rate was still looking extremely high. Our set was fast and furious and drove the zanier portion of the unsuspecting Òsmells like Teen Spirit in TasmaniaÓ kids into an unrelenting space frenzy. The local kids even impressed us with their application of Òuseless to usefulÓ American Pop Culture references as one girl, obviously taken aback by CocoÕs ÒI have two good legs, but still canÕt compete in wheelchair basketball due to my height handicapÓ stature by yelling ÒDa plane, da plane!Ó Maybe on the next record weÕll have Coco listed as ÒTattoo the Electronic Fantasy Monkey.Ó


December 9
Venue: Adelaide University
City: Adelaide, South Australia

Perception Reinstatement commenced at an ever so jolly 6 a.m. Originally, when I found out that we were flying to most of the tourÕs second half shows, I thought that we had entered the top end of tour style. However, arduous loading and repacking soon became much more encumbering than sitting in one of your earth ground transport units for eight to ten hours.
Again we were smitten with lower orbit air flight cargo hazards. In flying from Tasmania to the city of Adelaide there was a layover in Melbourne. Well, it now seemed our equipment deemed that Melbourne was just fine enough of a landing spot itself. When we arrived at the Adelaide Air Center, the oversized equipment that had to ride air freight was nowhere in sight. On inquiry to Mr. Freight Cargo himself, he came out with the utterly genius observation that Òit probably didnÕt make it on the same flight as yourselves.Ó Thank you lots, Captain Perception, but I think that we laid out at least the border of that mental jigsaw on our own.
Luckily, they tracked our Gear or Astro-Gear? down and were going to have it delivered to us at eight. Conveniently, we were scheduled to go on promptly at eight thirty, so instead of just being completely stripped of any opportunity to get everything working properly we got that well-known and Astro-adored half hour Òmaybe the power will turn on/maybe it wonÕtÓ preparation time. Plus, this now allowed us a complete day of perfected boredom which would now be unhampered by any noble quest like equipment repairing distractions. Just smashing. IÕve never gotten to count sidewalk cracks anywhere in South Australia before...
Fortunately, once in town we headed for Big Star Records which provided a fine diversion for, by your time measurement, a few earth hours. We were programmed to do an in-store there, but unfortunately due to the Man or Astro-Man? status quo, the equipment would have a better chance of performing minus the band than we would without the equipment. Purchase-wise, I finally staked my claim to the You Am I single ÒPurple Sneakers,Ó which has an admitted Man or Astro-Man?, ÒSpace samples and all, matey!Ó tribute entitled ÒSci-fi Way.Ó Geeze, they do it as good as we do and without space suits.
At the university it was brought to our attention that Hoss (who as we mentioned before was the nightly opener) had a plane delay of their own and ironically would be on the identical flight as our delayed equipment. At least as much as we were going to have to hit extreme scramble sequence to get everything set in time, Hoss, who we had by now denoted as being ÒThe New Bad Boys of Aussie Big RockÓ would have to be exerting about twice as many kilojoules of energy just to get their shit together.
Can you predict the outcome of the Man or Astro-Man? vs. Electronic Disasters/no holds barred, Australia Rules, Last One to Exit the Cage Death Match...There were barely any survivors. We were beaten like the finely burnt crisp of an overloaded electrode. The only mechanical casualty at all was my snare drum which took a good old fashioned flogginÕ from the forehead of Birdstuff. So, with smoke-covered viscera and gapping battle wounds that even the Luke Skywalker Òhot tub chamberÓ from ÒThe Empire Strikes BackÓ wouldnÕt be able to heal, we retreated back to the Astro-Motel for group pinball therapy and an extra implementation of nightly rejuvenation.


December 10
Venue: Adelaide University
City: Adelaide, South Australia

After drowning our electronic sorrows in a night of earthly vices (the majority of Astro-Men had partaken in casino nite-life, a.k.a. gambling, drinking, womanizing, and the deadliest of all sins - 80Õs cover bands), we awoke and hit the capitalized consumer concentration camp that was the Adelaide city center. I got wallet sucked for all the latest X-Files crap: calendar, diary, kidÕs novels, and the latest paperback; and unrelated but still taxing on the Birdstuff cash flow, the new K.W. JeterÕs Blade Runner 2 hardback. Ah, the scent of a fresh book. One of my favorite pastimes is to go into a book store and just whiff it up. Often, even if a book is abominable it can have great retaining quality just with a refreshing paper smell.
Arriving back at the Astral Hotel (site of the tourÕs current debauchery), I found a lone Star Crunch in his accustomed position, behind the helm of an earth-style pinball machine. ÒThey left us. Soundcheck was at oneÓ stated in that ever so nonchalant Star Crunch tone. Gulp! I could hear Coco grinding that super-tech verbal axe as we sat there wondering what to do. Luckily for we outer space beings, the wireless communication (previously mentioned in relation to the Astro-MenÕs first forward moving mobile phone interview transmission) is overabundant, almost obnoxious. Anyway, our astrological read out had related to us that Òtoday was a day where there is a good statistical chance that your tour manager remembered to charge the battery on his mobile phone.Ó What do you know, a little dabble in telecommunications and we were being picked up in just under 15 earth minutes.
Actually (and thankfully), the wrath of Coco more closely resembled Papa Smurf than that of Kahn. We did a complete diagnostical overhaul of all the Astro-Technology. During soundcheck, one of You Am IÕs roadies fell backwards while covering the open windows with tarp and busted complete ass, sprawled out right on the monitor board. Alright! Maybe we had transferred our Adelaide-acquired technical difficulty curse to You Am I.
Well, it didnÕt exactly turn out that way. There were still a few anomalies with the low frequency dimensional tune function, but all in all it was an enjoyable show. It was really (dare I get sucked into Aussie/Brit fluff descriptions...) tops in the fact that we were completely oblivious to the audience. We were just goofing off, talking amongst ourselves like we would at an Astro-Practice session. The in-between song space banter was downright genius. At one point Coco yelled to someone in the back, and upon getting a reaction, Mr. Monkey Wizard himself said, ÒOh, we must just suck... I thought it was that you couldnÕt hear us.Ó
When the show had finally drawn its explosive charge to dud status, we hung out in the back stage area with You Am I. There were a ton of kids trying to get in to see Tim, You Am IÕs lead singer, but were thwarted by the security staff. Meanwhile, all that the members of both bands were doing was testing their marksmanship by throwing tennis balls at an empty water bottle which was placed on the far side of the room for extreme strategic challenge. I found this completely hilarious. CouldnÕt you see the security guard relating, ÒSorry girls, TimÕs busy with Man or Astro-Man? throwing tennis balls at an empty water bottle.Ó


December 11
Home movies at the Planetarium
City: Melbourne, Victoria

Originally when we had hit the land surface in Adelaide we were met at the air station by two fifteen-year-old female groupies. I forgot to mention this fact in my initial entry of Adelaide probably due to highly warranted psychological repression of the event. To put it in perspective, they had their own Òprofessional groupieÓ business cards and one of the girls had a t-shirt with that ever scary Òpsycho-bitchÓ moniker emblazoned across the front. I guess there was no reason to get overly weirded out - we were merely an annex. You Am I was who they were really after. So for closureÕs sake, since we were made to sign their clothes and records on arrival we had to on our exodus as well.
The whole situation was completely preposterous. It seems absurd that any band: New Kids on the Block, Take That, Oasis, Nirvana, Sonic Youth, Sebadoh, You Am I, fill in the blank, could empower suck undeserved star worship from kids. The fact that they are doing this without the aid of a hypno beam is even further astounding. ItÕs cool for earth kids to be into bands and music, but I was always fond of the Tim Kerr/Big Boys approach, ÒYou like our band...Well, hey, you can do it too. Go start your own band!Ó Now thatÕs a nice little sprinkle of radioactive humility fallout that about 97.59134% of the current bands could benefit from by exposure.
So, we signed the goods, took pictures, and hung out with the girls until our plane blasted off for Melbourne. Honestly, they were absolutely cordial, but the whole scenario reminded me of junior high school girls arguing over who was the cutest member of Duran Duran, and I had this sick lucid dream of hearing, ÒWho do you think is the cutest?Ó
ÒWell, I like Star Crunch.Ó ÒNo, I think itÕs Coco. I just adore his orange jump suit with that shitty coagulated duct tape all over it.Ó
Fuck it, I myself still vote for Ringo.
Alright, alright, get on to the Melbourne quadrant of outer space. Well, the whole planetarium idea was a masterminded stroke of genius that only a superior criminal mind could fathom...always working, always manipulating for the highest results. The one Australian who has such a mind is Au-Go-GoÕs Dark Mistress of Record Promotion, Greta. She had arranged it so that we would have run of the Victorian MuseumÕs Planetarium for an entire afternoon. We were going to have various radio/press out to be greeted, show them the planetariumÕs Òglobular projection process,Ó see a film on the possibility of extra-terrestrial life, and then fill their bellies with space snacks. Sounds like one of the coolest promotional shindigs of all time? It was. Suited in complete space garb, we escorted the Òwaiting to be shmoozedÓ audience into the film room which we had designated as ÒThe Command CapsuleÓ to see Man or Astro-Man? Òhome movies.Ó
Coco and myself improvisationally M.C.-ed the event and everything went as smooth as one of NASAÕs freeze-dried ice cream sandwiches. The only downer was that during my introduction I said, ÒThank you, earth specimens, for letting us herd...I mean, escort you into the command module in order to show you the Man or Astro-Man? home movies. Okay, kick it up.Ó Well Òkick it upÓ indeed got the film started, but not without a gob of mocking smirks from the other Astro-Men. So, now everytime we get started in doing something, I have to heard jeering calls of, ÒOkay, letÕs kick it up!Ó Great, all those guys need is more weapons in their Birdstuff idiocy arsenal.


December 12
Venue: Wangaratta Town Hall
City: Wangaratta, Victoria

Waking up at BruceÕs was enhanced by an early morning video-freak smorgasbord. BruceÕs collections of the bizarre is just immense. His abode includes a splendid Tiki room that plays host to an entire Martin Denny record collection containing even the Moog record that is a rather rare find and a definite Man or Astro-Man? want list priority. Also, Bruce has an incalculable assortment of B-movie, rock ÔnÕ roll, and bootleg videos. This morningÕs selection was heralded by the infamous Steve Vai bootleg video. Through BruceÕs extensive connections with an underground bootleg video network, he managed to obtain this jewel of the VHS diamond mine.
Basically, the chick sent Steve Vai a video telling him how much she loved him, and then proceeded to show him the things she could do for him. Okay, even you earth primitives have enough brain capacity to see where this was leading. After making Journey ÒLovinÕ, TouchinÕ, SqueezinÕÓ references all over her own body, she finaled with an utterly amazing and horrifying flatulence sequence. To make matters more heinous, the flatulence emanated from the region that we soon learned AustralianÕs refer to as Òthe map of Tasmania.Ó Now when do we get tapes of this ilk sent to the PO Box? You know weÕd just get something like some earth dork videotaping Princess Lea and Luke Skywalker action figures having sex. ThatÕs it, IÕm growing my hair out and practicing up on those double bass drum rudiments.
Since I already mentioned double kick drum thunder, the opening bands were straight out of the 1986 graduating class of the Great White/White Lion/White School of Hair Spray and Hot Licks. The singer of the third band, I forget their name, letÕs just say - Viper Patrol, was singing (and I mean through the house P.A.) to Alice and Chains songs between band music. Wangaratta is most assuredly the Auburn, Alabama of Australia. During our show the kids kept yelling, ÒMosh! Mosh! Mosh!Ó To which we replied, ÒFuck you guys, weÕre just here to provide the space rock.Ó Most kids just gave us that ÒWhereÕs Silverchair?Ó look, but the more open-brained kids thought that it was the greatest thing ever. One kid told me, ÒWeÕve never had any space aliens in Wangaratta before yous.Ó
The Meanies were superb Australian Ramones-style cartoon punk. Link, their singer, has an uproarious stage presence. He even went as far as to stick his finger in his own ass. Wally, The Meanies bass player, who incidentally helped book our tour, told us that we were lucky that Link didnÕt see a nearby drum stick or otherwise we would have gotten an even more candid view of ÒThe LinksterÕs Sphincter.Ó After rocking for the W.A.K.C.M. (Wangaratta Association of Kurt Cobain Mourners), we vectored off for Hotel Heaven.
At the Best Western, Coco attempted to break one of the cardinal hotel crime commandments by trying to go to the poolside hot tub after closing hours. Robo-Monkey Boy got busted by the earth ÒmanÓ and was escorted back to the room. Evidently The Meanies got into some trouble themselves, mostly for being too Òrackety.Ó Now, normally being the punk rock icons that The Meanies were, they would have just told the hotel manager where to shove his paper-thin walls, but unfortunately Lt. Best Western was assisted with some of the actual Australian ÒManÓ, who just happened to be spending the night there themselves. Oh well, so much for youthful rebellion...it looked like yet another night of seeing who could win that ever-exciting punk rock Òquiet game.Ó


December 13
Venue: Albury Performance Center and Conference Hall
City: Albury, Border of Victoria and New South Wales

Before exiting the Òbustling metropolisÓ of Wangaratta, we got into yet another wrangle with the locals. You see, in Australia, at all restaurants, even the fast food take-away places, you generally pay after you eat. This of course doesnÕt apply if you are actually taking the food out with you, and it also isnÕt applicable to corporate, processed-slop monsters like McDonalds, KFC, and that evil Australian alternate universe Burger King, Hungry Jacks. Anyway, being more accustomed to the American, Òpay up sucka!Ó approach, I had on one occasion left a cafe without paying.
Needless to say, at one such establishment, Coco accidentally bolted with a Tuna-Salad Sandwich, leaving me to pay the bill. The problem that arose was when I resynched with Coco and he swore to me that he had indeed paid. He then insisted that we go contest the situation. Well, to put the death-blow on an excruciatingly boring tale, we confronted the lady in charge, got into a nasty little argument, causing a good number of Ònot in publicÓ stares, and then after being unsuccessful at retrieving the loss of this whopping $2.80 tuna salad sandwich, Coco suddenly remembered that he actually hadnÕt paid, that is was another place and what he had indeed paid for was only a roll of Mentos. I wish somebody would have repaired Monkey BrainÕs deleted memory circuits. I was getting seriously worried, especially now that his data-fallibility had entered into that of the short term. Still, my reaction to Coco was that of a pure Alien-American Capitalist Scoundrel - ÒPay up sucka!Ó
Shortly after the Avis 2.8 Diesel Rocket Accelerator shot us in Albury space, we did a radio interview with B104.9Õs Timmy. The DJÕs name wasnÕt exactly Timmy, but we had all agreed that from now on that all DJÕs on this tour would be referred to as ÒTimmy.Ó The interview was a cornucopia of typical, wacked out Astro-Elocution and we even got to mention our version of ÒThe Golden Kangaroo,Ó AustraliaÕs first Christmas-in-the-summertime song. In all honesty, the song was that of some goofy folk singer from Melbourne who we had just seen on the Regis and Kathy Lee equivalent, Ernie and Denise. However, Timmy still seemed genuinely interested in our sympathy for the AustralianÕs Christmas (with sun tan lotion) plight.
The show ended up being almost identical to the one in Wangaratta. The only difference was that there was supposed to be 800 girl scouts in town who were coming to the show. IÕm really serious - the venueÕs staff assured us that we would get to rock for over 800 of the fine little cookie sellers. Now, if that wasnÕt an actualized sexual fantasy, I donÕt know what would be. However, predictably they never showed up to earn their Astro-merit badges. This of course, leads me back to my opening premise, ÒThe show ended up being almost identical to the one in Wangaratta.Ó
Opening band Powerdrill (seriously, I didnÕt make that one up) had even more false grandiose visions of being the Hit Parader centerfold for the August 1985 issue. Sorry boys, only the Alien Dork Force has time-travel capabilities. Powerdrill looked just handsome, all of them dressed up in their own bandÕs t-shirts. I canÕt even begin to mention the strength and conviction in their cover version of ÒGod Save the Queen,Ó after the lead singer howled out the ÒG.S.T.Q.Ó refrain, the guitar players would creatively add lines like ÒFuck that bitch.Ó Truly astounding. I was really stoked to play with these guys, never before had we had Green Day, AC/DC, The Offspring, Bad Religion and Metallica open for us. At least not all at once.
The Astro-Carnival was in extreme good humor. I was really getting into the whole ÒFuck you. We donÕt care what you Terra Firma morons think.Ó attitude. These country shows were an easing of tension for us, and what they didnÕt achieve in any kind of B.S. record promotion, they did add a decently strong boost of our on-stage morale.
The Meanies were a lot of fun once more. At one point in the show, Link had the novel revelation of inquiring of the audience, ÒAre you guys consciously not trying to have fun?Ó Later I ran on stage and garnished WallyÕs head with my digital-readout helmet. ItÕs quite amazing what some good space fashion can do for your general uncouth earthman.


December 14
Venue: Barwon Club
City: Geelong, Victoria

In Australia, the more you propel towards the outback, the more flies you must battle. We Astro-Men were extremely sensitive to these nefarious little beasts, partially due to the daintiness of our exo-anatomy. During one particularly ferocious period, I had the stark realization that ÒconqueringÓ planet Earth would also entail overcoming these thousand-eyed knaves. This newly conceived factor would now make our wicked destruction plans all the more difficult.
I sincerely believed that after our ride to Geelong, psychologists could study our alien brains for a new classification of delusional Avis van rental fever. Not having a trailer or even and empty way back, the van was quite literally crammed to the hilt with the fetid smells of tour-beaten Astro-Men. The nearly destroyed Dexter X 2000 (DexterÕs robot suit) kept making itself known by plopping on top of Star CrunchÕs head. Wanting this much attention, it was obviously trying to make the human transition or at least obtain that sissy, half and half Cyborg status. We thus decided to retire the 2000 at our last show in Melbourne - possibly in a Cybetronic-Hendrix style configuration.
After laying claim to and inserting the Astro-Flag on a rented bass rig, we found ourselves in the Barwon Club - which we had soon realized was yet another continuum entry window into space dork drum hell! Shortly into the tour, I had, most likely from some idiotic Birdstuff maneuver, cracked the original space dork kick drum head. Our efforts to replace it were thwarted twice by a) Some music shop dunce putting a 22Ó head on the 20Ó rack and b) Power Beat (whoever the hell that earth company of rhythmic charlatans are) literally make a head that was 19 5/8Ó in circumference. Sorry, Guesstamation doesnÕt work in the drum head changing business, I had to have that extra 3/8Ó. Luckily, duct tape on the original dork and the Coco Fix-it, Snap-it, kick-the-shit-out-of-it Repair made for a moderately mended Astro-Bass Drum Mechanism.
Both opening bands, She-Freak and Snout, were really solid earth combos. Snout were label mates on the Au-Go-Go Sonic Defense Team. They reminded me of a kind of wavering criss-cross between the Fall Outs and the Buzzcocks. Our nightly presentation was yet again a ÒUniverseÕs Goofiest FoursomeÓ blue ribbon winner. Coco and Star Crunch spent about 48.71% of the evening playing out in the crowd. In fact, two guys threw Coco down and pretended to dry hump his bass. Look, even people from Nuardoloft-7 donÕt dry hump bass guitars, and they actually have sexual appendages that lend themselves to good bass guitar air-humping. You Earth people are all fucking freaks!


December 15
Venue: 21st Century Dance Hall
City: Frankston, Victoria

After providing proper Nerdophonic rock dosages to the Geelong Football fanatics, we were allowed to construct a makeshift testing laboratory at Tas and AdÕs, who are the boyfriend/girlfriend wonder team tie-in between The Meanies and Magic Dirt, respectively. That morning Ad took us to the beach where the local purveyor of feathered terror, Fred, a feisty neighborhood Cockatoo, swooped down at our heads. Star Crunch and I conversed with Ad about the ÒAustralian Music Biz,Ó after which we all mutually realized that bullshit existed in every cosmos. Magic Dirt was just signing to Warner in the states, but had decided to stay on Au-Go-Go in Australia. I really respected their decision to maintain hold of the grappling hook that got them to the point they were. YouÕve sincerely got to have some sense of loyalty of who it was that first initiated you bandÕs firing sequence. This is the major factor with Man or Astro-Man? continuing to fly scout vessels under the Estrus Records Flag.
The eveningÕs show was in Frankston across the bay from Geelong, but we first had to set down back in Melbourne for a Triple R radio interview. IÕm not quite sure if they got our jokes about fixing our broken down van and our inquiries on how far we could get a free tow. The interview itself went down as smooth as Man or Astro-Man? Machine Gun Space Rhetoric would allow. We immediately took control of the airwaves, not allowing for even a nanosecond of dead air. I was almost certain that Scott Walker, a sort of prestigious Australian John Peel type, hardly favored being constantly referred to as ÒTimmy.Ó
The 21st Century Dance Club was a strange hall indeed. It was a combination of an overly cheesed modern dance club for the Baywatch extras (picture The Peach Pit After Dark from Beverly Hills, 90210 on more ravey sequences), and a post-new wave electronic, Blade Runner motifed cyber club. Obviously it was the latter that the Astro-Affection circuits responded to. In the middle of the main hall, there was a rotating dance floor (just like that ultra-hot Van Halen video!), and smack dab in the middle of the rotating floor was a large plasma ball that rested on a 6 foot pedestal. Now even the Astro-Goobotronic Sound Team must give some green alien thumbs up for this touch.
Our set of sonic disorder was a loose barrage of all factors ripe enough for any musical apocalypse. By no means were there any earth musicians in the audience who were carefully studying our Òchops,Ó but from a Òwhat they hell is this fucking freak show?Ó aspect, we scored with no whammies in our way. Fortunately, CocoÕs earth organ replication formatter worked, because after beating my head with the hi-hat stand my cerebral core actually flowed with a juicy red. Finally, we had perfected our earth assimilation! After the show, I got candid photographic proof of Coco doing Staying Alive maneuvers with the plasma ball lurking in the background.


December 16
Venue: The Prince of Wales
City: Melbourne, Victoria

Well, mark this one down as yet another Birdstuff Òshoot yourself in the foot with the super-directional extinction beamÓ day. The scheduled main objective was our preplanned in-store attack at Au-Go-Go Records. My motive of operations was to get up extra early, finish off my Christmas shopping for the few earth people who I could tolerate, and then head to Au-Go-Go to work on liner notes. Easier planned than accomplished, especially with yours truly, the Space Imbecile Supreme Leader.
After successfully having my Astro-Currency depleted from present existence with what I though was a half hour to spare. You see, someone at Au-Go-Go told me that the in-store was at 4:30. Unfortunately, for me the Gods of Logistical Punctuality were not on my side. Actually, I think that at that point they had definitely fallen through into the valve of mythology. The in-store was actually for 4:00 sharp (well, at least as sharp as CocoÕs swiss army knife that he was supposed to give one of his relatives as a Christmas present over two years ago). It also didnÕt help that there was a Bourke St. and a Little Bourke St., which of course had to be the one Au-Go-Go was on and the one I wasnÕt looking for. Finally, as I made exodus from my taxi, I thought it strange that there were 40 or 50 people outside the record store and all looking at me with much more than just a hint of curiosity. The other 3 members of our collective brain cell were not beyond canceling my 1/4 of gray matter space. So, in their expectancy, they had gotten desperate enough to get the Lounge Lizard to try his hand at the rhythmic mechanizations. Anyway, after zipping into my space suit nearly 1,000 faster than Clark Kent ever dreamed of doing it inside a closed phone booth, I ushered myself in Au-Go-Go feeling more than a touch mentally inferior to even the horde of crude earth minds that were wondering why they had to sit around for half an hour.
The in-store ended up being a complete centrifuge of hyper-kinetic fun. There was nothing securing the bass drum in place, so after the first verse of in-store opening, XL-3, the bass took off and was a good five feet from my yearning alien foot. I then just stood up, came around front of the kit and played the ride cymbal and snare drum with my back turned towards them earth critters. Pretty nifty, you say? Well, it would have been, had I not unplugged Star CrunchÕs amp, guitar and pedal all in one bulky maneuver of pronounced idiocy. After that I made yet another move that perhaps secured me in the casting for Revenge of the Nerds 17 (or whatever number theyÕre on). My drums were up against the counter that held two cash registers. I wasnÕt using proper brain sequences and turned around and pressed a bunch of keys on both of the registers. Funny, huh? Well, once again it would have been at least vaguely silly in the most childish sense if I hadnÕt set the alarm off and we had to play 2 songs with an obnoxious high frequency hum of the cash register alarm. These forms of foul ups are surely only possible in the sad, dorky universe of the Man or Astro-Man? collective.
Nevertheless, I stationed an earthman in front of my kick drum, and the show still was a most exciting disaster. The other Astro-Men topped the event off by playing on top of counters - refusing to descend to my level of ineptness. Our Nightly Live Calamity Routine was as chaotic as the time a blindfolded Coco took us joyriding through the asteroid belt, the Quantronoid Sector. Over the three weeks we had toured planet Australia, we had most explicitly set up a cool, unstated adversity with the audience. At this point, we were welcoming heckles. Worthy of mention was the debut of the short-lived Dexter X 3000 (Enhanced Inflatable Leg Extension Unit). Before we left for Australian vector entry the Astro-crate space wouldnÕt allow for the Dexter X 2000Õs legs to make the trip. We finally got a chance to Òrebuild himÓ and the 3000 model came out looking like a cross between the Dexter X 2000 and a Samurai warrior, or as described by Star Crunch, ÒThe WorldÕs Fattest Robot.Ó The following evening would provide the bitter end for the 3000Õs short-lived, but inspiring, relay circuits. So, donÕt press that red button on the ejection seat, read on moron. Just one entry sequence to go.


December 17
Venue: The Prince of Wales
City: Melbourne, Victoria

It was the last time out of the Rejuvo-Chamber as a working member of the Australian Astro Unit. We woke up only to have the rules of Cricket explained to us by Jack. The complexity of this ridiculous game boggle even the unrivaled Astro-Intellect. Also, Jack told me that the lead singer of Radio Birdman was at the previous dayÕs in-store. IÕm glad I didnÕt know at the time because I would have developed waste disposal glands and shit right in my space britches. I would do anything to transport back down to Aussie space to witness the Birdman reformation in January.
The final installment of Astro-Anarchy was a tear-jerking fest of sadness and terror. For the farewell crowd, we finally changed our space theme. Tonight we relayed that we were from the blazing pits of Hell. We ourselves served as SatanÕs Ambassadors of Evil like no earthman ever could. The brainwashing overthrow was successful beyond bounds. First we zapped Russell, who suddenly became ÒRusty RocketÓ and took the helm of the Space Dork skins on ÒInvasion of the Dragonmen.Ó Then Jeremy was transformed into the ÒIncredible Space MangeÓ on dueling guitar wave duty on ÒXL-3.Ó As soon as the ÒMange of the CosmosÓ did the Astro-Moves, his guitar strap broke and he had to play while holding the guitar up in the air. The style fit in perfectly. The show climaxed with Star Crunch setting his amp on fire. It looked really nifty, right as his amp was set to flames, the lights went out and the only thing you could see was that tiny little Vibrolux with flames coming off it. I threw my cymbals out into the crowd and hit a girl in the head. After a free beer and an apology, she was just dandy. Astro-Diplomacy at its best. Just heartwarming.
You Am I were absolutely phenomenal. Everyone was charged to the hilt with energy. It was as if the air was filled with electricity - it had to be, the club was so packed that there was no breathable air left. Luckily Astro-People can instantaneously vaporize and become one with such an atmosphere. I really couldnÕt believe that not 3 earth weeks ago we were trying to enter into the 9th dimension (the one where people eat corn on the cob sideways) just to get work visas. Australia definitely had become my favorite continental landing port on little ole planet earth. All the excess hassle of setting the tour into initiation mode, in some sick masochistic way, made the whole tour that much more enjoyable of a conquest.
All brains set for future control, the Astro-Man Majority headed for the all-night hullabaloo with You Am I and I, having been brainwashed sometime earlier, was set to form a union (on earth I believe it is called marriage) with an Earth Girl straight from the Alabama Sector in the lovely crash site of Sydney. I soon realized that the Astro-Men had victoriously invaded yet another land and the planet seemed as open as ever for complete subjugation. In the immortal words of a nightly-heard Hoss song (the new Astro-Tour and life motto, ÒThe bullshit never ends!Ó Ñ B. Stuff, esq.

Oh yeah, to all you Australian freakazoids, I know you fucking hate the Òdown underÓ expression...thatÕs why it was used in nearly illegal proportions within these pages.