Home of the brave

In an effort to maintain my frenetic search for Australiana, and in a fit of wild-eyed idealism, I packed the Tin Lid and the Cowboy into the Holden and pointed her nose to Soviet wastes of Homebush and the Royal Easter Show.


What better environment to bear witness to the deranged mania of our cultural psyche than an oversized paddock swarming with small humans high on sugar and roaring with adrenalin, mobs of cattle lowing with good health, outlaw clowns, balls of fluff that careen into ankles with squeaking abandon, roustabouts clutching half-crushed cans of brew and harried parents with fairy floss smeared across their peripheral vision?


This raging maelstrom is the crucible of Australiana: a small child coos lovingly at a helium-filled bunny snared to her wrist; an old bushie adjusts his hat to better see the young stags riding stallions in the rodeo; working dogs yip and holler, tucking sheep into corners as neatly as cobwebs. A stock whip cracks the air like a rifle, quivering knees or hearts depending on your view, and a sheep-handler sings a Kylie song out of key.

Here Chiko rolls and Dagwood dogs parry for supremacy, the doughnut stand puffs cinnamon into the air to attract its prey and pizza comes in cones. Here apples are juiced in front of you, offering a tart taste of the highlands, slabs of meat roast in the open and you get to have a beer with Duncan…


The stark truth though is it is the cheese-on-a-stick stall that they queue for, lines snaking with sinuous indecency. A small sign in each booth reads; Hold on to Hope, a gentle message for those struggling with life. It’s a curious marriage, cheese-on-a-stick and hope. Perhaps the message is reassurance that if you can get cheese to stick on a stick anything is possible.


Here ugg boots mate with flannelette in broad daylight and merry-go-rounds have heritage orders. Sensible shoes carry middle-aged knitters to the wool display passing Kermit and Miss Piggy, who hang suspended from their feet and, though clearly indisposed and eager to clamber down, are impossible to win.


The wooden monkey racetrack tests the Cowboy’s prowess and his dismal failure does not go unnoticed, however a rapid retreat into the arms of a horse named Stan lessens the blow:


Beneath a big-wheel shadow too small for its owner we find what we have come for, a barn that smells of the crush of fresh straw and the acrid smell of urine. It is fat with infants – human, poultry, bovine, ovine and swine – and life burgeons from the seams like jam from a well-held sandwich.

Obeying strict stroller parking instructions we duck to enter, and the Tin Lid hurls himself  in the teeming melee – he has found his mob…



The public order riot squad lingers outside twiddling its thumbs, anxious to quell expected carnage. The bawking, squawking, bleating oink of the animal sheds does little to rearrange stultified expressions of derision, though a lone oik attracts attention, low-slung dacks and a tattoo of a Chinese symbol on his upper arm (which may or may not read #66 chicken chow mein) a dead giveaway of his criminal intent.

In the dairy shed a bored ringer cruises Facebook, a beer at his feet, his stock oblivious to his distraction;


While in the poultry shed the art section cuddles up close to the Pigeon Fanciers Association. This little gem says it all really:


In a quiet corner there is evidence of fowl play – a paper plate despoiled by sauce and sticky fingerprints, tiny bones littering the straw bale next to it, serve to remind of the tenuous nature of this show and tell…


The Country Women’s Association beckons. A nice sit down and a cuppa is the ticket, before a stroll through the cake decorating pavilion, a shrine to iced invention and the dark arts.


Closely followed by the fruit cake display…


The necessary deliverance from this atavistic alchemy comes in the form of cold beer and a leather-carcassed biker slouched against a temporary bar discussing the drought out west with a mob of weathered stockmen, weary after a week in the city.

And as the sun melts from the sky smearing gold and crimson across the horizon the show comes into its own. The fading light sparks a flurry of fluorescence, neon flares stab and fizz and a cast of carnies loom from the darkened reaches of churning machines.


Rides emit a shrill pitch, lights flash and sparkle and the tension mounts, an amplified unease that heralds the birth of night.


Sideshow alley is the Apocalypse Now in this twisted grimace of entertainment, where life bellows in angry rebellion, strobe-lit in hot pink and lurid green. It is a giant step from fluffy bunnies to this greased oblivion, but the Tin Lid takes the steep learning curve in his stride, howling back his appreciation, slicing the air with a whirling blur of light that shrieks the opening chords to Waltzing Matilda.


It is the revelry of fools, a poisoned spurt of excess gilded by feel-good fantasy, yet I cannot wipe the grin from my face and the boys know no limits, cramming hot chips slathered in chicken salt into mouths sluiced with saliva.

This is the home of the brave, an unmanned crossroads deep in the heart of Australiana.

A Midnight Star

I have a memory, floodlight with nostalgia, of an achingly cold building lost in the suburbs. Yet though her eyes were blind and haunted, dark slots in a weathered face crumbling with decay, the heart of this one-time beauty still pounded.

Her glory days were over, but that night a mob milled beneath guttering street lights out the front, the bell was pressed, the side door opened and we were ushered deep into the guts of a swirling, pulsing riot of sight and sound.

The year was 2002, the heart belonged to the Midnight Star, a derelict deco theatre left to waste on Parramatta Road in Homebush, and the celebration was a wild night of bright lights, big sound and thudding escapism.

Time I went back to see what this slice of Sydney looks like now.

With the secretary in tow we cruised the strip, neglected, decrepit and dank. This main artery west emits a sense of morose despair, of having fought and lost. Clinging to the asphalt the boarded windows clutter shoulder to shoulder,  their purpose lost to a more prosperous time.

Glancing up at the boarded-up front of the Midnight Star, once the epitome of elegance in a working class suburb, it’s hard not to shudder at her demise, the sad culmination of time marching by.

Once the audience’s muse, who can claim to love this place now?

Built as the Homebush Theatre in 1925, in its heyday the Midnight Star encouraged crowds that snaked around the block, flickering flights of fancy the taste of the future. Renamed the Vogue Cinema this place had a palpable sense of owership, of belonging. Yet in 1959 the reels stopped rolling and the Star became an ice rink, before being refitted again and turned into the Niterider Theatre Restaurant, promising the world:

The old girl’s last incarnation was as the Midnight Star Reception Centre, which clung on until 1996 before the site slumped into derelict resignation. And that was when it was loved, briefly; as nature ripped at the seems and the cold closed in, the building became the heart of a community again. Coined “a theatre for the dispossessed” the Star was embraced by the Social Centre Autonomous Network, (‘squatting activists who occupy and organise around squatted buildings’) and in 2002 the Midnight Star Social Centre was born, an experiment in autonomous direct action. It was a non-residential space focused on creating a space outside the control of the state and market, a reclamation of public space that ‘no longer exists under capitalism’.

Featuring a pirate cinema that screened unusual and rare films, including Hindi films for the local Indian community, the lobby became home to a phalanx of hard rubbish computers, sparked-up and ready to surf, the downstairs bar a clamouring meeting space for activist groups and the cavernous ballroom – soaring ceilings lit by vast chandeliers and ruby-red velvet drapes – a venue for gigs and thumping sound and dancing tribes.

The halcyon days of this new life were short-lived, but for 10 months the Star thrummed with activity again. Inevitably, in the post-Olympic security frenzy and in the face of fractured WTO protest, the media wrongly identified the space as a nerve centre for anarchists and violent and politically motivated dissent. By December 2002 SCAN were forcibly evicted and the theatre left empty again, echoing sadly.

Today the Midnight Star shines inwardly and only to herself, a translucent memory of a happier time. The stutter of her heartbeat is barely audible and could be mistaken for pigeons in the roof.

Across the road the deliciously insalubrious Horse and Jockey pub squats ungainly on the corner. It’s an old-timers joint, tiles slick with age and Friday arvo teetering totty, collecting glasses and tips in their knickers.

But it is a place to meet in a strip that sags tiredly, beset by the clang and hiss of never-ending traffic.

The name Homebush is thought to refer to the pastures that drovers would camp in en route to the saleyards, located in what is now Flemington Markets. Reaching the end of their journey through the bush the drovers would settle in the lee of the yards and adopted the name ‘home bush’. Today there is little that speaks of home here but a kind word from a random stranger,

“Are you looking for something? Oh. Homebush? There’s more over there, the other side of the tracks.”

piques our interest and we scuttle away from the screaming road towards the other Homebush, shaded beneath vast gums far from this dust-choked despair.

It is a tidy town, huddled quietly along a street at right angles to the train tracks. While not entirely integrated Homebush is far from discordant. It is a quirky mix of blue-rinse perfection in a timely fashion and the scented glory of an ingrained Indian and Sri Lankan Hindu community, ripe with the spices of another life and happy to share.

From a neatly ordered line-up of Federation and inter-war fronts, tidy shops spill onto tidy pavements where passers-by step aside for the tin lid and his trolley. Tidy front yards display prize-winning blooms and the scent of cardamom spins my head in search of its source. We stop for a sticky-sweet cup of chai and glance around at a world from the past. It is peaceful here, a calm systematic amalgamation of very different worlds. The houses have a simple elegance, muted, functional and conservative:

Perhaps the shy, staid elegance on show here is thanks to the suburb being shaded by Sydney’s white elephant, the echoing Olympic Park. Vital for the Olympics, no-one seems to know what its purpose is now. Aside from creating a shadow. And spawning a rash of boxy housing developments that lack not only character but increasingly tenants. But this little suburb, once the writhing, bellowing stock pen for Sydney’s meat market, benefits from its relative anonymity next to the elephant. From here Homebush can continue its leisurely stroll into the future.

If the Midnight Star had been located here she might still shine as gloriously as she once did, protected and cherished as the heart of the community.