Doongalla

 Doongalla

The past glories of the Dandenong Ranges.

A look at our early pioneers who became our first elite and their lives on the Western face and foothills of the Dandenongs.

Walking around the Basin these days, especially up around the Town Centre/Triangle Park area, you could entertain the thought that it was shielded by some kind of protective bubble. It has the sleepy quality of a small country town and is unique to most outer suburbs of Melbourne that it has an English village atmosphere rather than the adjoining suburb to busy centres like Bayswater and Boronia and I doubt people not familiar to the area must get a shock when they first arrive in the Basin via these roadways.

This became more prevalent after a recent trip to the Doongalla Picnic area, the site of the once grand Doongalla Estate.

Traveling up to where the once palatial 32 room mansion once stood it’s hard to believe such a building existed what appears now in the middle of a forest, nothing left but a set of front steps.

But delving back into the history books – in this case Rick Coxhill’scomprehensive History of the Basin – among other works, I soon discovered The Basin was littered with grand houses owned by quite well known and well-to-do families of means.

These included the Millers. Chandlers and Griffiths , who where big in Racing, Horticulture, Politics and Tea respectfully.

The Basin and the Western side of the mountain would have been a great escape from the crowd and the stink that was pre 20^th Century Melbourne.

Doongalla itself was originally  called Invermay and was built on top of an earlier chalet built in 1891 but damaged by flood. . The owner and builder of Invermay Sir Mathew Davies was an MP and like most MP’s of his time a land developer. Who used their inside knowledge and influence to create large fortunes for themselves and change the face of Melbourne via projects like the now dismantled Outer Circle Railway line. Davies’ wealth would be short lived as he had to hand the bank over to creditors – in his case the Bank of New South Wales- after the collapse of Land Boom in the Mid 1890s which he was more than likely an active participant and reason for it occurring.

The only remaining section of Doongalla- the front stairs.

After being tendered by caretakers for a period, the property was purchased by a wealthy Toorak women by the name of  Miss Helen Simson who was related to the prominent Melbourne Business and racing identity L.K.S McKinnon on his wife‘s side. Miss Simson was to use the property for her country residence and then went crazy spending on upgrading facilities like electricity and irrigation and establishing vast gardens. The new Land Lady must have been a women of means and haste as she paid laborers far above the going rate of the day to achieve her goals. Miss Simson didn’t live very long to enjoy the fruits of her labour and died only four years after purchasing the property. She left the entire estate to her fifteen year old niece to be administered by her father the aforementioned McKinnon. From their it just continued to change owners and caretakers until it was destroyed by a bushfire in 1932.

Though Miss Simson is credited as renaming Invermay Doongalla I found conflicting stories regarding its meaning. At the site of the old building and in Parks Victoria literature Doongalla is said to mean “Place of piece” whilst historian Coxhill claims it comes from the earlier name of the  Parish that is now Essendon named  Doutta- Galla. This is also the name of Melbourne founder John Batman’s native servant Jika Jika wife’s name. Another source says that the name Doutta Galla (or Dutigalla) was the name of the tribe of aborigines on the original Batman treaty deed, signed on the banks of the Merri Creek, at Northcote. I did find it hard to finding references for Doongalla meaning “Place of Peace” Though these days as a meaning it is very apt.

Doongalla in its heyday was so imposing it could be seen from the current round about that now splits Mountain Highway and the Basin –Olinda road. It is quite surprising with amount of money in the hills around the turn of the century and the influence of racing identities such as the McKinnon Family and another local James Miller originator of  “Miller’s Racing Guide” who also established a stud farm and full size training track that foothills of the Dandenongs didn’t become a race horse industry Mecca much like Lloyd Williams has at Macedon Lodge.

Actually looking at the pictures of the grand homes that once were dotted all over this side of the Dandenongs like Millers Homestead and the Griffith Family’s Ferndale and the original Como House, to look at the mountain now and see all the land          re-established by native forest and then at the Basin shops you would be hard pressed to imagine such a time existed and it conjures up places like boom towns that once existed in rural Victoria. Perhaps even like one of those English countryside villages that have a ruined castle that hints at a greater time in the past. Hardly any trace of the grand houses exist today, those on the mountain taken by fire and those on the lower lands swallowed by development.

What I’m saying is the Basin these days shows no hint of the grandness and privilege that was once spread through the area.

We are very lucky to have such wonderful parks and reserves on our doorstop and not bundled up behind someone’s property boundary, Funny, when you think about al the properties that were established in the area, they all failed in some way. Maybe it was the way it’s meant to be. I say that I wonder what it would be like if things turned out different but I’m very happy the way things did turn out.

 Originally published in the Boronia and Basin Community News April 2014

Remains of retaining wall of original driveway entrance

The old property well.

DECADENCE BE MY DANCE PARTNER.

DECADENCE BE MY DANCE PARTNER.
*This article originally appeared in Rolling Stone Issue #43 April 1971

I’m writing this sitting in the emergency ward nursing a strained ring finger and hurt pride. Whiteley is in the next room in some stupid full body cast ordered by his hysterical agent and being drip fed morphine, the nurses ran in awhile ago when it was realized he also had a drip of Glenfiddich going straight into the breathing hole in his head cast.
They are still at odds how it got there.
 I wish they had left it there and let the bastard drown.

Brett Whiteley by SIMON SHERRY

 It all started when I was commissioned to interview an artist as part of a new highbrow arts magazine release The type of publication that had sprung up all over the city in the last couple of years and were a God send for guys like me. Just out of Uni with hair just a little too long for the traditional publishers. Mind you, they all ran on the smell of a two-dollar note and payment often came in copies of the rag your work got printed in.
Australia, so they keep telling me was going through a renaissance; we now had people who were celebrated back in the Old Country, though, most of them were arseholes and spent most of their time shit bagging their old home. Still people wanted to know about the new crowd, especially those who hadn’t jumped on a plane yet.
 I’d made a bit of a name myself interviewing subjects no one else would touch. They thought I was progressive. What they didn’t know was that I was an opportunist. I interviewed a soldier, a young lad back from Vietnam and he retold all the horrors of the jungle ,the crazy yanks shooting at everything and how he never ever saw the enemy he was sent over there to fight. All very powerful stuff, I just got lucky. I only lined up a meeting to see if he had any dope to sell, ‘cause I heard the vets had access to the best stuff. The fact he wouldn’t shut up about “over there” was a bonus. My other notable piece was an interview with a prostitute in Kings Cross, the only reason I got that one was because I thought if I acted if I cared I might get a freebie. Somehow these two gritty, real life stories had caught the attention of the editors at Whistler’s Mother. A new imprint rumoured to be financed by one of the big newspaper publishers, thus having money to throw around. Since my mailing address was my mum’s place it took me a few weeks to actually know I had a job. The Offices of Whistler’s Mother were situated on the third floor of the Bank of New South Wales building in Martin Place in the centre of town, it was a top notch address and my hopes were up for a big payday if this worked out properly.
 When I stepped out of elevator I looked at the floor directory and saw at the bottom of all the Solicitors and Financial Advisors listed someone had stuck a piece of paper with Whistler’s Mother written in pencil on the bottom with sticky tape. A small painted arrow further down on the wall pointed up the hallway. I found the office , it also had a piece of paper stuck to the glass door. This one slightly larger and the words Office Of written on it.
 I knocked for a minute or so and decided to let myself in after no one answered. The office space was small but made smaller by the massive ornate hand carved 19th Century desk occupying most of the floor space. The rest of the floor was covered in stacks of Whistler’s Mother Magazines. Basically all one could do was open the door, take two steps and sit opposite the desk on a stack of papers bundled together with string. The man I assumed to be the editor was hunched over the desk writing on the only thing other than a telephone on the huge surface. His hand. I waited looking around the office, the walls had many of the great masters sticky taped to wall, mainly because they had all been cut out of magazines, books or encyclopaedias. After a good look around I turned back to the man behind the desk and found him glaring at me.
“You’re late” he snarled. He was a young man with long greasy hair and a floral shirt open to his belly button. Around his neck and sitting on his hairless chest lay a large gold medallion. Embossed on it was a naked Rubenesque lady with a pig.
Before I could answer he said ” It’s designed to shock, like the new art, like the new artists, welcome to late 20th Century man” he delivered his words in a rapid fire speech pattern, I just nodded.
“I like your stuff man, it’s brave, and it’s fresh. It’s like the new artists, their new art, it’s shocking” he continued
I just kept nodding.
“That’s why I want you, your style, to interview the greatest living artist in Sydney, in Australia today” I nodded. But he didn’t continue. He just stared at me as if expecting something.
Then the penny dropped.
“Oh, yes, uhh who would that be?” I asked.
“Brett , Brett Whiteley of course”
He held up his hand there were numbers and names written all over it” “This is where to meet, this is my phone number, Brett’s Agent’s number, that is the day, and that is how many words I want” he spat with each direction pointing into his open palm. I took out my trusty notepad and started copying what was written on his hand. When I had taken down everything I could, he slammed a ten dollar note on the desk. “Expenses, it comes out of your final payment, when you deliver, I need it by the end of the week” With that he put down his head and continued to write on his hand. I stayed sitting a little bit longer to see if any else transpired but he just kept on scribbling. I got to leave and as an after thought asked “If this magazine is about Australian art how come it’s called Whistler’s Mother?” Without lifting his head, he stopped writing on his hand and pointed towards the door. So I left. Off to interview Australia’s Wunderkind of splashing paint onto canvas.
Brett Whiteley.
 My meagre research on Brett Whiteley revealed a painter on par with today’s rock stars. Elegantly wasted, trendy and notorious for being unpredictable. Silly me for thinking unpredictable referred only to one’s punctuality. The meeting place was a small chemist in Oxford St suggested by Whiteley to the editor and when I arrived he was nowhere to be seen.
 After waiting for 3 hours I rang the office and they assured me: He’ll be there, just be patient, then quickly reminded me don’t come back without the interview or else I’ll be paying him back the allowance. So I just sat in my shitty little Hillman and kept sticking coins in the meter. After afternoon became evening a figure approached my car, its silhouette caused by the florescent lighting from the chemist, which was still open, much to my relief. If it hadn’t been for the free jellybeans at the counter I would have not eaten at all.
 The figure slapped the window of the car and demanded I open it. There was no mistaking that curly halo. “Mister Whiteley?” I enquired.
“You got cash?”
“Well yes, a little for food. Are you…”
“Give it to me, it’s meant to be spent on me, give it to me now”
I reached into my coat and placed the money into the waving hand in front of me. “Now follow me” and with that he went into the chemist shop. As we walked towards the counter I realized this guy looked like Harpo Marx, in as much that he, like Harpo, looked like he’d been dead for some time. Whiteley was bone thin with a the wasted and emancipated look of a bulimic , his dress was nothing short of spectacular. Double breasted three piece in brown with silver wide pinstripes, he carried an umbrella and his shoes though very shiny had traces of blood on the heel and toe.
He turned to me saying “Sorry I’m early , I get that AM and PM confused”
“Had you ever noticed one is dark and one is daytime” I offered.
 “This is why I love this establishment” he said ignoring my suggestion entirely. With this he ordered the pharmacist to bring him “His lolly bag” with ‘the good stuff’ the last with his hand beside his mouth in an exaggerated motion and a big ill timed wink. “What on earth do you need that for?” I enquired, curiosity being one of my weaker points. “They’re for you, so you can survive the night,” he said taking a big bag of what looked like mixed pills. “Keys” he demanded. “Oh no. No way, that is the total amount of my belongings parked out there,” I protested. “No keys, no interview” I handed him the keys defeated. I thanked the Lord that it was late evening and a Tuesday because Whiteley had no idea what side of the road to drive on; he even managed on a regular basis to grind the gears even though the car was an automatic. All the while he kept swigging out of a bottle he produced from his jacket and swallowing hands full of tablets, capsules and assorted other pills from the paper bag.
 “Ah my son. the life of the artist is a troubled one… What the ?!!!”
Just as I thought I was going to get a quote , or even some sense out of Whiteley he swerved recklessly to the gutter braking heavily, my car bounced over the curb, I closed my eyes and thought of Christmas.
 “Damn, vandals” cried Whiteley and jumped from the car reaching for something in his jacket. I followed as fast as I could. The target of Whiteley’s anger was a man in his twenties painting graffiti on the wall of an alley. He had written DOWN WITH CAPITILIST PIGS in big white letters with a paint brush. Whiteley sprang at him before he could react and slashed the young man across the head with his umbrella. As the man lay writhing in agony on filthy wet cobblestones Whiteley grabbed the paint brush and proceeded to paint RECKLESS VANDAL IDIOT on the man's face , waist and trousers. All the time kicking him if his cries grew to loud, when finished he threw the brush and can at the man's head and we returned to my car.
“Respect for other’s property, I was taught that early” he said as he backed my car over a rubbish bin and dented the rear guard. As we proceeded down the road Whiteley was playing pin ball with my car and several others parked on the side of the road when once again he slammed on the brakes.
“You better drive now” and moved to take my seat.
“The steering’s getting very heavy in all this sand and those eye bats are giving my peripheral vision a work out with all their swooping and diving” he complained “Your turn”
  I felt better now I had some semblance of control back I turned to look at Whiteley he was wrestling with his jacket and was losing; he surrendered to a hopeless cause then started to insult his refection. Much to my dismay when we started to move on Whiteley had had enough of arguing with himself and decided to leave the car whilst going at speed. I managed to slow down and grab his jacket tail moments from him jumping head first onto the road. I snapped. “Will you sit down and shut the fuck up. Please?” I screamed, pleaded.
“ How long has that tentacle been growing out of your forehead son?” He then proceed to throw up all over himself, when I thought he could vomit no further he turned and vomited out the window, a thick stream of it coating the passenger side of my heavily dented car. It was at this point I aim the car at the tree. I never did get the interview, my car is ruined and the magazine won’t pay me .
 I think I’ll go plug that whisky back in Whiteley’s pie hole.

FIN

Festival Of The Photocopier 2015.

Sticky Institute once again took over Melbourne Town Hall for its annual Zine Fair, as the closing event of Festival Of The Photocopier 2015. Over 100 zine stalls, run by zinemakers and distros from across Australia and The World, were present in Melbourne's biggest room for one afternoon only.
 It also gave me a chance to catch up with Geelong icon , all round top guy and artist Glen Smith who was there with long time associate and world renown ‘zine and group printing organizer/artist David Dellafiora. 

Glen Smith

On a day where the mercury was already smacking 30 degrees by noon the Melbourne Town Hall was a pleasant place to be. A line of punters was all ready to enter before the kick off and when I entered it was evident that this event had come along way since my first visit in 2008 when it was held on a Saturday morning in the Degraves St subway out front of the Sticky Institute.
Today there were rows of keen artists and activists all willing to show off their wares as well as publishers and comic artists.

I must state as my good lady wife pointed out that this was a collection of the friendliest group of people you could come across in a market type atmosphere. Everyone was pleased to meet you and encourage you to look through their works; many had freebies and special offers. Everyone was pleased to have someone view his or her work.
 No precious types here.
 I remember creating my first ‘zine back in the late 70s, it consisted of lots of glue, scissors and visits to the Mount Waverly library with a pocket full of 5 cent pieces. It was great to see that little has changed when it comes to the process considering all the social media tools at our fingertips.
A lot of people love the tactile and grass roots style of doing it yourself.

Steve and Antoinette from SCAR studios

Scarlette Baccini

Tim Malloy

 Highlights were of course catching up with Glen and his collected works. We met artist Tim Molloy and bought his Ledger Award winning Mister Unpronounceable for a bargain. Having a pleasant conversation with horror print legends S.C.A.R Steve Carter and Antoinette Rydyr. I also caught up with the lady embroiled in last years Supanova controversy when her book was removed from sale (mind you it was on open display today and no one gave a shit) Scarlette Baccini and bought her beautiful (and totally inoffensive) little book BUG, a mini comic dedicated to her little sister.
All up it was a wonderful couple of hours and when we left it was great to see the crowds had swelled immeasurably and local comic anthology Oi.Oi.Oi winning the Golden Stapler prize for best collective 'Zine. Congrats to Nat Karmichael for his excellent work.

Glen, David and the growing Town Hall crowd.

Another 'Greatest Cartoon Bands' - version 2015

Another youtube greatest cartoon bands but I give this one has some cred and the author has good knowledge and may I say a touch of passion for the subject.
 First published August 2014.

Gorillaz return

There has been several heavy hints laid down by Damon Albarn recently but on Saturday 31st 2015 Jamie Hewlett confirmed on his Instagram account that Gorillaz are going to release another album.
When? We are not sure as Albarn is currently working on Wonder.land with Moira Buffini for the Manchester International Festival in July.

SEE HEWLETT'S POST HERE

Admiral Byrd’s Antarctic Snow Cruiser

Admiral Byrd’s Antarctic Snow Cruiser.

This article is about one of the more crazy vehicles from our exploring pastI love the way in the 1920s,30s and 40s if you needed something larger, bigger or more powerful you just made a scaled up version of something that already worked.
Both admiral Byrd and George Pullman owner of the Pullman  Company is both worth a revisit later because of their colourful histories.

Admiral Byrd’s Antarctic Snow Cruiser was built in 1939 to support his third Antarctic expedition. It was a huge, one-of-a-kind invention designed to house scientists while they travelled to the South Pole and back over a 12-month period. It sported four, independently-steered, pneumatic tires 10 feet tall, and carried an aeroplane on its roof in support of the expedition.
This Jules Verne-like vehicle also slept four comfortably, boasted a galley, machine shop, darkroom, and radio room, and carried a year’s supply of food. Byrd’s Snow Cruiser was designed by Dr. Thomas C. Poulter, Director of the Armour Institute in Chicago, and built by the Pullman Company of sleeping car fame at a cost of $150,000.
The vehicle was so large the only way to get it from Chicago to Boston, its port of departure, was to drive it across country very, very slowly.
The trip attracted huge crowds and newspaper headlines along the way especially when a series of mishaps spurred speculation that Byrd’s Snow Cruiser was a white elephant in disguise. While in eastern Ohio a hydraulic line which controlled the steering broke in an accident, the Cruiser limped into the Borough of Albion on November 01, 1939 using only the right-side motors. In need of repairs, the cruiser continued on, for the next three days, slowly crawling to the City of Erie, arriving on November 04, around six o’clock in the evening. Lumbering through the city it finally arrived at the General Electric Plant in Lawrence Park to receive much needed repairs.
Work was begun, under the supervision of Dr Poulter. The cruiser repaired and modified, left General Electric and continued on to Farmington, Massachusetts, 20 miles from Boston, where the worst traffic jam was caused when 72,000 vehicles were unable to move on the highways.

When he Cruiser finally arrived in Boston on November 12, 1939, it was driven to the wharf only to find that about five feet of the rear of the machine had to be cut off before loading it on the ship, the North Star. With the Cruiser lashed to the main deck, the ship headed for the Antarctic by the way of the Panama Canal and New Zealand. By January 1940, the North Star was lashed to the ice about a mile from the base camp of the expedition. The problem of unloading the 75,000-pound Cruiser from the deck of the ship to the floating ice was thought to be solved by Dr. Poulter who had an 80-foot long ramp built to serve as a bridge. As the machine moved slowly down the long ramp, sudden creaking and popping sounds were heard as the front wheels broke through the cross timbers, the vehicle coming to a dead stop. Dr. Poulter, in the driver’s seat, abandoned caution and gunned the motors as the Cruiser pulled itself free, then inched down the ramp to the solid ice, while all the while Admiral Byrd was hanging on to a length of rope on the very top of the vehicle.

 Unfortunately, the Snow Cruiser proved much slower in the field than her specified cruising speed of 10-13 miles per hour. Though she may have been adept at fording crevasses, she was unable to climb the 35 per cent grade she was designed for, a serious problem given her 30-ton weight caused her to sink in the snow more times than anyone cared to remember.

The Cruiser moved slowly along on the ice for about three miles, where it was halted by a slight grade which proved to be too steep. The huge wheels stopped turning and the $150,000 machine never moved again. Engineers figured that power had been sacrificed for speed in the gear-reduction unit, and that the machine was too heavy for the four tires. The texture of the Antarctic snow was found to be different from that of the sand at the Indiana Dunes, where it was originally tested.
 The big Cruiser was used only as living quarters for several of the members of the expedition, who continued their pioneering in the ice and snow of the Antarctic until 1942 when, because of World War II, concern led the explorers to return back home.

After the Second World War in late 1946, Admiral Byrd and a massive operation including three ships and six specially fitted planes returned to the Antartic.  Operation Highjump, as it was named was fully funded by the US Navy and was recorded using the latest film and sound technology. The resulting documentary The Secret Land even won an Academy Award for best documentary in 1948. It is even available on Youtube to watch, though, sadly the Cruiser is not mentioned. It was recorded in the records that an expedition team found the vehicle and discovered it needed only air in the tires and some servicing to make it operational but it’s usefulness was surpassed by the more modern and war tested tracked vehicles. As a point of interest, the 1946 expedition has often been a favourite of conspiracy theorists who believe a secondary mission was to search for a secret Nazi base situated in what was an entrance to a hollow earth.

In 1958, an international expedition uncovered the snow cruiser using a bulldozer. It was covered by several feet of snow but a long bamboo pole marked its position. They were able to dig down to the location of the bottom of the wheels and accurately measure the amount of snowfall since it was abandoned. Inside, the vehicle was exactly as the crew had left it, complete with garbage scattered all around.
Although there was some unsubstantiated speculation that the (traction-less) Snow Cruiser was taken by the Soviet Union during the Cold War, the vehicle most likely is either at the bottom of the Southern Ocean or buried deep under snow and ice. Antarctic ice is in constant motion and the ice shelf is constantly moving out to sea. In the mid-1960s, a large chunk of the Ross Ice Shelf broke off and drifted away; the break occurred right through Little America. It is not known on which side of the ice shelf the Snow Cruiser was located.

Byrd’s Snow Cruiser proved so problematic that it only managed to cover 96 miles in 12 months of activity, most of it in transit to Boston, and much of that in reverse! As a result, when the expedition ended the vehicle was abandoned.

Nevertheless, history has a warm place in its heart for Byrd’s impractical Snow Cruiser even though sled dogs would have performed better. 

Sources: Wikipedia and www.historyandmemorabilia.org

PUSHER JONES - 2015 UPDATE

It appears Pusher Jones are getting closer to realizing their promise of a new virtual band.
This notice appeared on their Facebook page this week.