ASTRO TABASCO – THE BROWN PAGES

An Introduction by
Cassius 'Sugardaddy' Moore
Musicologist
"
It's like Astro Tabasco was there before any of us. A beautiful idea waiting in the ether
to be plucked by a beautiful cat. And man, Jeff Crawley is one beautiful cat.
"Jeff Crawley?" Don't get me started goatboy.
Goes way back to Christmas Day at Lady Jane Beach, Jeff pure diamond in a sea of
buff bodies stalking Sydney's no-go boho wasteland. We were just kids, see, but Jeff
had that tough glint of the mentor, and an ass-javelin for anyone fool enough to block
his sun. So what if he played trumpet like some people scrimshaw whalebone? Goading
prisoners on remand at Boggo Road will do that to you.
Speaking of which: Meet Magnet Man Col Bloxsom. See, word got around about a fret
jockey who could out-riff the pretenders into puffy clouds of mince meat. And only the
truly depraved were suss to this unbearable truth – the worst of them would just lay
their wounded axes at Col's door and back away mumbling reverential incoherences.
Hey, we knew the guy played guitar like other people sniff gnocchi, but who's going to
say no to a dude who rides two-fisted into 'The Man' at a Clayfield race-riot?
Not Andy Kell. An elastic mouth and the bonhomie of a former child star gone postal,
there were those detractors back in the sweaty beginnings who muttered that he was too
merlot to go the ten rounds even with a 600gram rib-eye strapped to his weapon of
choice. But who cared that he played sax like some people reduce balding, when the
aroma of scorched carcass had them salivating in the mosh pit every time.
And gorgeous George Bibicos? Scared me then. Still does, man. All those nights at the
Candy Gristle – hep homeboy joint for juiceheads and trippers – George a riot of dark
threads, wide-load Afro and flip asides, laying lobsters on the bar and talking up Friday
nights at the Greek embassy, then rolling off glissandos on the honky-tonk like other
people clean lamps. We were hooked.
Bibs flipped a hip digit at this guy one night. Guy with great ear-lobes and a dog-eared CV.
A cat who, you know, had been around. Been in the Big House, too, but you don't go there
unless your wardrobe is bulging with leisure wear that you don't have the time to get dry
cleaned. You know: the quiet type, but shiny. Played bass like some folks observe camels.
Are you with me? Then Mark Bradridge just was.
Sure, Astro Tabasco was, like, monumentising, but who or what was gonna rattle the
cans?
Then the buzz on the street was all about Faux Freckle, house combo for a Newtown bed-in,
four guys tearing beats apart and rearranging them into bite-sized chunks of lurid sputum.
Robbie Mudrazija on the traps, man. Five foot nothing of spite and butcher's fingers, a
beautiful man in a zeitgeist that's nineways from nowhere. Never went anywhere without a
kitten in his greatcoat and played drums like other people warm fruit. Welcome aboard.
Heady days, man, heady days. It's been a long strange, beautiful trip. Drink it up…"

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