I walked through the park to get there. Something you might not have done ten years ago. Two guys without shirts on were hanging out around the corner. Their eyes caught the moonlight spraying a white glow against the sandstone wall.

One was one the phone. “No baby,” he pleaded, “I love just one girl. Just you, baby just you.”

His friend stood up on the park bench and yelled “no he don’t, this man is single!”

I kept walking. No point in sharing this perfect air with that scene. I cut through the back streets and over the oval. Trudging on grass as pulses of curdled guitars bounced around the open air.

The place was full. Boulet at nine twenty, Tame Impala at ten thirty.

A fresh shyness was on stage. You’d look at them they’d look away, playing their music to escape. Hands made sounds through leads and steel mesh that boxed your ears minutes in. Some guys down the front yelled out “the Eels won”, they pretended to care so it wasn’t so obvious they were on stage.

I ran into my friends. Sam told us he needed to get laid just as his ex walked up behind him and ruined everything. I went outside for some fresh air, they rest went outside to smoke.

Soon the stage was filled again by bodies topped with mop like hair. The crowd dumped itself inside the pit aching to get closer to the sound. It was nice having that kind of music drip into your ear. Some sonic gooey nectar that just knew where to go. An hour left without saying goodbye as everyone stood looking at the stage, waiting for an encore.

Management waited a full ten minutes before turning on the lights. Soon the place was empty as grumpy young men collected plastic cups strewn around the venue.

It was time, I thought, to wander somewhere else.

(Tame Impala, The Manning Bar)