of the semi-industrial wastelands of 1950s outer suburban Perth, Kim Salmon clawed his way out of the swamp and onto the world stage in his bands the Scientists, the Surrealists, and the Beasts of Bourbon.
Conjuring the nascent snarls of antipodean punk rock in the late 70s, Salmon formed the Cheap Nasties, simultaneously making seminal punk music in far flung Perth as the Saints were in Brisbane, Radio Birdman in Sydney and Nick Cave with the Boys Next Door in Melbourne.
As the 80s dawned, Salmon rematerialised with the Scientists and a new sound was born. Dark, primitive, swampy, demented — this was punk, rock ‘n’ roll, psychobilly and blues all at once — but it was something new too. In the early 90s, Seattle based Grunge would sell millions of records worldwide. In Australia, a decade earlier, Grunge was simply the noise of the Scientists.
Internationally acclaimed and pronounced a ‘national treasure’, Kim Salmon has earned his reputation as an authentic artist incapable of choosing the safe road. For over forty years, he has performed on the world’s biggest stages and with the most remote punk bands, marauding the most subversive corners of music and art. Kim Salmon’s journey is a triumph of the persistent search for substance — in everything he does, Salmon is endlessly creative, restlessly intelligent and uncompromisingly original.
Kim Salmon’s artistic legacy is assured and his story begs the telling.
Beechworth, North East Victoria. When I was growing up, the town was all county football, bad beer and public service institutions — the gaol, the aged care home, and the psych hospital. Music was strictly square, the outside world unknown.
One weekend, at age 16, I took a pilgrimage to Melbourne, 300 kilometres away. Sitting on the shabby carpet of my sister’s Camberwell rental house, an epiphany in the shape of her wannabe-punk boyfriend’s record collection shone out of the suburban night. I scrambled frantically through the vinyl — Howlin’ Wolf, John Lee Hooker and Muddy Waters. Radio Birdman, the Stooges, the Cramps, the Ramones. Intoxica, Cosmic Pyschos, Corpse Grinders and X. It was an epiphany, as though a new universe had been revealed. I was in awe.
In amongst all this gold, was Kim Salmon. Scientists, the Surrealists, and the Beasts of Bourbon. Sinister looking albums — a dark, blood red theatre with the band lying indolently amongst the empty seats; a ghostly monochromed half-impression of the band with the suggestion that there was much, much more to see.
On one album, ‘The Axeman’s Jazz’, the gang of miscreant Beasts slunk back in the darkness, glowering, looking like cats you’d want to know, but not get on the wrong side of. The vinyl quickly found its way onto the turntable. Mumbled studio chatter and a faint count in gives way to guitars, scratchy, lackadaisical rhythm and demented cowboy licks that thread their way throughout the song. From the very first sounds, I was sold.
•••
It’s a Sunday afternoon in Brunswick Street Fitzroy when, still underage, I walk into the front bar of the Punters Club Hotel. The sunlight quickly loses penetration in the comfortably shadowy bar, where the barkeeper is immersed in cleaning beer glasses.
I’m still green, and mistakenly think Kim’s surname is pronounced SALmon with a hard L. I say to the taciturn barman, ‘is Kim SAL-mon playing here?’ He barely looks up as he sneers with contempt, ‘It’s Salmon’.
I am chastened and retreat, but see a poster saying, ‘Kim Salmon Solo Residency’. And there, in the band room, is Kim Salmon with his Fender Thinline and a huge can of European beer. Kim tilts to the side with left leg stuck out slightly off kilter as he leans into the microphone. His shirt is a stranger to its buttons, and his sharp boot taps out the song’s heartbeat as he conjures its body from the guitar. There’s only one of him, but the Punters sounds like it’s hosting a band as the bass notes run their own lines, joining the melody which lurks somewhere above.
‘The unknown remains unknowable, until you finally know it. The un-thought remains unthinkable, until you happen to think it,’ he intones. ‘And the obvious is always obvious, except of course, when it isn’t … obvious’. These intriguing word plays hold the audience hushed, and the heavy musical mood draws us into the murky landscapes.
I purchase the cassette Hook Line and Singer with a hand drawn Kim Salmon on the cover and listen to it relentlessly. The songs on the tape, and from that Sunday afternoon gig, remain just as potent today.
•••
The night before we’d seen Fugazi & Magic Dirt and tonight here we are standing on the hallowed turf of the MCG. The biggest band in the world, U2, are posturing on stage, all sunglasses and leather pants and beanies and TV screens. Earlier, Kim Salmon and the Surrealists had delivered a blistering opening set, Salmon screaming ‘I declare myself a GOD’ to the assembled U2 fans as the sun faded over the colosseum.
How many of the 50,000 crowd had come to watch the opening, rather than the main, act? Maybe just us … Standing on a seat in the midst of the screaming crowd, I scan the scene gazing slowly from left to right. And there, standing only meters away, alone and contemplative in a yellow velvet jacket, is Kim Salmon. ‘50,000 people’, I think, ‘and he stands next to us. It’s gotta be fate …’
•••
Many years later, I see Kim at the IGA Supermarket on Station Street, Fairfield. How odd to see the Godfather of Grunge doing such a mundane thing as buying groceries — and at my local!
Then, I read an article in the Age, a journo relating a tale of guitar lessons with Kim. Wouldn’t that be cool …1
So, late at night, a bottle of wine directing traffic, I hit send on the email link to the Salmon webpage. ‘Do you still do private guitar lessons …?’ The next day, Kim Salmon replied, ‘Sure. How about Wednesdays?’
And so, every Wednesday evening I decamped to the front room of Kim’s house, my Epiphone Hummingbird sounding like an imposter amongst the Fenders and Col Clarkes. We played — he taught, I learnt.
And always, we talked. An idea grew and itched and refused to go away. Until one night at 2:27am, I hit send on this email:
‘Hey Kim. An idea to run by you, triggered by some comments you’ve made, a gap in the market and a bottle of Sangiovese. When I started lessons with you I did a search for a biography and couldn’t find one. I thought that was outrageous and a missing part of Australian music history. So, I wanted to let you know that in the unlikely event you wanted an untried unknown non author to write your book, then I’d jump at the chance. No harm asking right?’
Kim’s reply was positive but guarded, concluding ‘Let me think about it.’ Next week at our guitar lesson, I was more nervous than usual. I played badly and felt the weight of this question about the book hanging between us. Finally, as I packed up my guitar, almost red with the embarrassment of not talking about it, Kim switched off his amp and said casually, ‘So, you written my book yet?’
•••
The book starts with breakfast. I arrive first, awash with nerves. I stare at the menu from which endless breakfast options cascade
