Outrageous rock’n’roll memoirs are hugely popular: books like Mötley Crüe’s The Dirt are full of drugs, partying and debauchery, and the public loves it. It’s apparently what the rock star lifestyle is all about – to quote Tommy Lee, “We partied like clockwork, bro”, even in their makeup and pantyhose.
So I’m continually confused as to why my own experience in a band is so different. The Transistors – made up of James on guitar and vocals, Colin on bass, and me on drums and vocals – are instead dogged by bad luck and small-time inconveniences, well illustrated by an ill-fated journey home after a gig in Gisborne in 2009.
The Transistors – from left to right, Colin Roxburgh, James Harding, and Olly Crawford-Ellis Photo: Supplied
Everyone had questioned the value in making the trip to Gisborne from Christchurch just for one show, but we thought it was a great idea, and couldn’t see the harm in a couple of long drives. The show went well, so we felt vindicated in our decision as we set off back home the following morning. It was a beautiful day, we had the music blasting, and we were feeling good. Colin was driving, Jim navigating, and I really just sat in the back seat.
But after only an hour or so, our precious car stereo suddenly went silent. We desperately twiddled with the knobs, but it seemed to have given up the ghost.
As the prospect of 12 hours in the car without music dawned on us, we rounded a corner north of Dannevirke to find a static line of cars stretching into the distance. Faint red and blue lights flickered on the horizon: must be a car accident, we thought. We sat for 15 minutes, then half an hour, then an hour, in frustrating silence.
The Transistors Photo: Supplied
Eventually, cars started turning around and driving back past us, so we flagged down one to see if they knew what had happened. Apparently, a gunman was on the loose, so all the roads were blocked for now. He also said to listen to the radio for updates. Because ours was broken, and this was an era before smartphone ubiquity, we had no information. All we knew was that a gunman was in the area – nothing more.
Because there was a ferry to catch and we were already running late, we headed back to Takapau to see if there was another way south. The gentleman at the garage informed us that the other main road was closed because of snow, but luckily there was a coastal road we could take, which should get us to Dannevirke in 15 minutes.
It was nearing 11pm, so we had no choice but to sleep in our car for the night. By the side of the road. Where a gunman was evading police.
As we set off the weather changed from still and sunny to heavy, thunderous rain. The road turned out to be a thin goat track, winding through dark, shadowy hills. Huge, black, macrocarpa trees towered above crumbling, abandoned wooden buildings. The 15 minutes turned into an hour, and then two more.
As the rain got heavier, Colin noticed that the petrol light was on. For some ludicrous reason we had decided it would be better to get fuel in Dannevirke rather than Takapau. The light blinked on and off, on and off, through sharp corners and down steep valleys, mocking our lack of foresight. I thought again about the gunman and wondered what it would be like if we ran out of petrol in one of these isolated gullies.
Luckily, one final turn in the road brought with it the glow of Dannevirke, and no small sense of relief. While filling up the tank, Jim and I chatted to the woman at the petrol station. She said that there wasn't any more news on the gunman – just that he was in the area and the police were looking for him. We agreed that if we just got driving and got away from the area quickly, we should be OK. So, refuelled with both petrol and caffeine, we hit the road south. For about five minutes.
As the rain had got even heavier, Colin had the wipers going full steam; the defogger was cranking, and the headlights on full beam. It became apparent that the demise of the radio was merely the first indication that something was wrong with our not-so-trusty wagon. We watched in increasing discomfort as the wipers began to slow, the car steamed up, and the lights dipped. Eventually everything stopped, including the engine. It had stopped raining when we got out to push the car off the road – but it was sleeting instead.
Olly Crawford Ellis and the rest of the Transistors spend a night in the car Photo: Supplied
Huddled inside the car, Colin rang the AA and tried to join up, hoping they’d at least be able to help us get back to Dannevirke. But they told us that the best they could do was send a tow truck in the morning. Optimistically, we took a look under the bonnet ourselves, despite the fact we had no chance of knowing what the problem was if even the whole engine was on fire. By now it was nearing 11pm, so we had no choice but to sleep in our car for the night. By the side of the road. Where a gunman was evading police.
Colin slept under the steering wheel. James had the passenger’s seat and a sleeping bag that wouldn’t keep you warm in Hawaii. I shared the back seat with my drumkit. Colin used the limited internet function on his phone to find a headline that read “Gunman on loose near Dannevirke” before the battery went flat.
I looked out the foggy windows into the sleeting night and imagined seeing shadowy figures emerging. A variety of villainous archetypes merged into one in my imagination, until I was sure an actual monster was coming for us.
All of the anxiety we’d kept to ourselves on the coastal road was now coming to a head. Still knowing nothing about who was out there or what they’d done, we started talking about famous serial killers and shooters in a perverse attempt to pass time. We feigned sleep for a while, but then someone spoke, and we realised we were all awake. Half-hearted games of I spy (is it a car? is it Colin? Is it a gunm.. don’t worry…) were interrupted only by the noise of a police helicopter overhead several times, its spotlight occasionally stopping on our car.
We may not be living the rock’n’roll lifestyle, and we may be slightly prone to stupidity, but things could have been a lot worse
Then we heard a clanking noise behind the car. It was impossible to see out of the frozen windows, so we just looked at each other’s equally terrified faces instead. Suddenly another tap came on the driver’s door. I shrank into my sleeping bag, hoping I would be mistaken for a sack of potatoes or a large puffer jacket.
We heard another knock and a muffled voice from outside. Colin gingerly opened the driver’s door to a man in overalls. Without a radio or a phone, we’d had no idea it was now seven in the morning, and the tow truck driver had arrived. It turned out that it was only the fan belt that had blown on the car, which could have been fixed with a pair of pantyhose – in the same circumstances, even Motley Crüe would have been fine.
When the full story of the gunman emerged in the following weeks, our own experience didn’t seem so bad. He had killed one person and shot at another, which is unquestionably awful, but he didn’t seem like the maniac we’d speculated about that night – just someone whose life had drifted into a terrible place. All the self-pity that we had been storing up and all of the monstrous images I had constructed in my head of the madman were replaced with a feeling of sadness, and a new perspective on misfortune.
Similarly, when I saw on the news the police officers who’d had to try and resolve the situation, I realised how much hard and draining work they had been doing while this all unravelled. The fact that all our band had to do was spend a cold night in a car didn’t seem so bad. So we may not be living the rock’nroll lifestyle, and we may be slightly prone to stupidity, but things could have been a lot worse.
And at least we don’t play hair metal.
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