74. Augustines

Roundhouse

8 December 2014

The Augustines, and their frontman Billy McCarthy, were always a band of extremes. Formed out of tragedy, forged in acrimony, and powered by a frontman whose entire existence seemed to teeter on the edge of glorious self-destruction, they were never built for longevity. If some bands are slow-burning embers, Augustines were a full-blown meteor, hurtling towards Earth with a spectacular, but inevitable crash landing.

So, when the Roundhouse gig was rumoured to be the one; a night so significant it was being immortalised for a documentary (Rise: The Story of The Augustines), you didn’t just buy a ticket. You prepared.

To say this was the most euphoric and celebratory gigs I ever attended feels like a biblical-level overstatement. However, this wasn’t just a concert; it felt like the end of something. The reach for the summit. We were not an audience, we were a congregation, and Billy was the preacher. What a preacher he was.

Billy didn’t just sing songs, he wrestled them into submission. He threw himself into the crowd, stage-dived like a man possessed, charged up into the balcony, and serenaded some unsuspecting punter who, moments earlier, had simply been enjoying a nice view, only to suddenly find himself in a deeply intimate, eye-level confrontation with his favourite frontman’s testicles.

The atmosphere was electric. The energy was borderline manic. This was a joyous, evangelical frenzy, a sweaty, screaming mass of humanity whipped into an almost dangerous level of ecstasy. Then, just like that, it was over.

We stumbled out into the cold winter air, dazed, euphoric, wondering if we should light a candle somewhere. Of course, this band, this beautiful, chaotic force of nature, was never going to last. Two years later, they imploded. The signs were already there. But none of that mattered in that moment. Because we were there. And nothing could take that away.