A Eulogy For Sydney’s Most Important Record Store

Daisy is five. She gets brought along to shows by her dad, Matt, and sometimes her mum, Jess. She does drawings on t-shirts — cats, dogs, clouds, anything — which get turned into unofficial merch for her favourite artists. She is wild, funny and creative, everything you’d expect of a kindy kid.

Just over a month and a half ago, she — along with her parents, all of their extended friend circles and myself — found out that Black Wire Records would be closing its doors. An independent record store and venue to the north of Parramatta Road in Annandale, Black Wire was one of the defining hubs of underground and independent music throughout the 2000s, not just in Sydney, but in all of Australia. Daisy only had one question, as relayed to me by her dad.

“Where’s Dave gonna go now?”

That’s me on the right, by the way. Hi.

It hadn’t even occurred to me, but it made sense — to her, I was inextricably linked with Black Wire. It was all she had ever known. It’s like when some kids assume their teachers just live at school — it’s not like they’ve seen them anywhere else. Every time she’d been taken there, there I was. In my 26 years, I have never been prouder to be associated with anything the way she — and, as it turns out, quite a few other people — associate me with Black Wire.

I first visited in 2011 for an acoustic afternoon show. I walked in (after trying the wrong door, naturally) as Sydney singer-songwriter Isaac Graham was playing — a man I would later become great friends with and play several shows alongside. He was later followed by Josh Mann, from Adelaide band Paper Arms (RIP), and Newcastle’s Jen Buxton, who had just recently released her debut LP, Don’t Change Your Plans, which I regard as one of the most beautiful albums to be released this decade and easily one of my favourite records of all time.

At the time, I was 20 years old. I was in my final year of uni, but I hadn’t made many friends and felt very isolated and uncertain of myself. I was coming to terms with the greater impact that my Autism — Asperger’s, to be precise — would have on my coming of age; particularly in my social interactions and my comprehension of the greater emotional spectrum. I was making music of my own after spending my teens playing in bands, but I had no idea what I wanted out of it or what would come of it.

Taking in Black Wire for the very first time set me on a path that would change who I was forever.

“In that little shop, I made friends that would last me a lifetime”

In that little shop, I made friends that would last me a lifetime. I discovered bands that I would go on to rave about to anyone that would listen until they finally got their dues paid — and even if they didn’t, my support never waned. I was inspired to continue my own musical endeavours, and had the privilege of playing there several times both as a solo artist and with my backing band, including one of the final ever shows held there. My walls came down, and I grew and learned.

You could argue that this would have happened anyway, but I know for fact it wouldn’t have been the same anywhere else.

People would find out I wasn’t even from Sydney, that I would spend hours on buses and trains just to be there. It was a foreign concept to a lot of people that I spoke to – hell, they were concerned about a trek from Enmore to Annandale and how much time that would take.

Looking back on all the time that I spent in Black Wire, I would have done it all again. I had a home in Black Wire, a place I knew inside out and off by heart. I was so excited whenever I got to bring someone new there, and I found it so much easier to make friends than I did at school or university.

There’s so many things that come to mind when I look at Black Wire over the years. I remember seeing bands like Camp Cope, The Bennies, Luca Brasi and The Smith Street Band; knowing there would be bigger and better things to come for all of them.

I remember international hardcore bands like Ceremony and Dangers filling the entire room, to the point where there probably couldn’t have been anymore without the place collapsing. There was a real sense of pride when local bands reached the same level — Making, Tanned Christ, Oslow, Milhouse, Burlap and Corpus may not be world-famous, but when they played, they were the biggest rockstars on the planet.

I saw beloved Sydney duo H A N N A H B A N D play both their second and third albums in their entirety at their respective album launches, the former of which I was honoured enough to play. I remember telling Newcastle punk veteran Jamie Hay at the end of 2012 — the year my mother died — that he and his music were one of the things that got me through that year; and hugging in the hallway for what felt like forever.

I remember taking a risk and putting on some shows myself in the beer garden, a mix of poetry and music on the last Sunday of January in both 2016 and 2017. Both shows were a great success, and I couldn’t be prouder of putting them together. There’s probably so much more that I’m forgetting.

Tom, the shop owner and runner, knew full well that I wasn’t his regular clientele. I was never in an obscure grindcore band. I didn’t grow up with anyone else that frequented the store. It never mattered to him. He treated me just the same as anyone else who came through – with respect and gratitude.

I’d always be in his ear about whatever he was playing over the PA in-between bands — “Tom what is this?” — and I’d learn all about bands like Deep Heat, The Promise Ring and The Organ. He gave me Black Wire shirts, made specifically to my size, out of the kindness of his own heart. One night when I was stranded after a show, he let me sleep on a couch in exchange for a bit of cleaning.

The day after Leonard Cohen died, we slow-danced together while his songs played. We’d always sing along to The Vaselines’ version of ‘You Think You’re a Man’ together — a song that, despite being completely antithetical to the rest of the playlist on any given night, would always find its way in there and somehow make perfect sense among the Carb On Carb and Mere Women tracks. Maybe I saw a bit of myself in that.

Once I found Black Wire, I never wanted to let it go. It gave me a home, a real sense of belonging and the feeling that I was a part of something important.

“Once I found Black Wire, I never wanted to let it go”

When I realised that was something that I was going to have to do on that fateful night in March, it was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do.

A matter of weeks later, I was setting up to open for Totally Unicorn — a band who were about to go through their own major loss as their founding drummer, Mike, was set to play his final show with them. I can remember walking out into the garden area out the back of the shop, walking around before the doors were open. I remember uncontrollably, inconsolably crying for a really long time.

It started up again while I was talking in-between songs during my set an hour later and again when I was saying my goodbyes to Tom, to Sarah (who helped to run the place in the last year or so) and to Mike. I’ve seen my fair share of venues come and go, and nothing had impacted on me the way that this did.

So, what now? Well, if you can believe it, I’m still hopeful. I know that my story is not a unique one. I know there are a world of others just like me that have had their lives changed for the better, their world view and their attitude influenced and inspired by what happened at 219 Parramatta Road.

If Black Wire does not rise from the ashes, its spirit will carry on through every band and artist that played there. Through every person that showed up every week. Through archivists like Zack Powell, Damian Marshall and Leigh Hawkins; who shot and filmed so many shows there over the years. Through the little ones like Daisy, as well as the adorable siblings Ava (four) and Francis (two), who’d often turn the venue into their own little playground.

Through the kids who were able to access Black Wire due to all the shows being AA — many of whom were inspired to start their own bands and musical projects. Through me — because I want to continue being the best person that I can be, and continue to support truly great underground and independent music to the best of my abilities. I wouldn’t have been able to pursue either if it hadn’t been for Black Wire.

So, to answer Daisy’s question of “where is Dave gonna go now?” My dear, I’m not going anywhere. Giving up now would betray everything Black Wire taught me.

David James Young is a freelance writer and podcaster. He tweets at @DJYwrites.

All photos by ZK Photo