The further you travel down Stirling Highway, the further you get from the reality of the grind. Mojos stands proudly in Fremantle: a weedy, bass & rift cathedral that sets the scene for long haired scruffions to discuss the Raw Kitchen’s room temperature offerings over a rollie cigarette and a collective will to shun the working life for a few free Coopers Sparklings during their gig.
Dillon never cared much for contact sports and found solace in his electric guitar. His wirey frame never lent itself to the rigours of changeroom shenanigans and group showering. Instead, he floats around like Captain Jack Sparrow and pulls gnarly Stevie Wonder faces when his favourite axe-men are shredding on the big stage. He is more likely to show a girl a little ditty then ask her to show him her tits. Meatheaded knuckle-draggers will forever rack their protein-powered brains as to why a weasely looking hobo pulls more woman than them. If only they could punch some sense into this enigma.
He is adorned in a plain white t-shirt with a green and grey crosshatch button up shirt over the top. He busts tight jeans and a collection of leather and ribbon bracelets around both his wrists. His hair is long and wild and only kept in check by a beanie that he will wear rain, hail or shine. The official headwear of the sensitive, lip-ringed muso. Could he get any more sensitive? You betcha, he breaks the cardinal sin of Perth, he wears a scarf.
Dillon is heading to Mojo’s tonight for Husband’s album launch. Truth be told the $12 entry fee is going to hurt the bank balance, but if he didn’t go he’d be doing a disservice to his constant social media tagline, “support local music”. He skins a King Rizzla in the tiny park across the road from Mojos and smokes with a collection of street buskers, scene kids and the token crust-lord old mate who has been rocking out for 50 years and is unlikely to cave into societies expectations of an elderly gent at this stage. Rock on old mate, rock on.
Dillon listens to long-haired and tattooed men wail on stage while he shoots a game on pool among a crowd of people that seems to have been surgically transplanted straight from a tent at Southbound. The operation is jovial, and the only thing that has a chance of flat-lining is Dillon’s stoned vibe. Not a problem, paging doctor spliff, and just like that, Dillon is whisked away for an emergency joint that will be administered by an Oxfam chick who is probably down for an orgy on the proviso you can handle full bush.
Dillon wears a scarf, he can definitely handle full bush.
Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?