Somewhere there is a place where songwriters and poets can feel like they belong
If you can imagine a room full of smokies and folkies , groupies and loopie’s , space cadets and steel claw addicts , then you’ll get the picture of what it was like on a Thursday night at the Syringe Inn . Any others who came where from God knows where , blow ins from Colorado or overlanders on route from some festival somewhere . The music scene was alive and anyone was welcome to join in at the Syringe Inn .
Wee to tell you the truth that was over thirty two years ago and my memory of those days is like ,kind of smoggy with a full crowd of people with long hair and beards , with pints and joints , jeans and clogs and the barman who picked up the needles from the floor and the odd few who had fallen over in the corner ,
You could have imagined you were sitting in Lower Manhattan in the enclave of Greenwich Village where musicians and poets had taken over the place without firing a single shot , you could have imagined you were anywhere else but thew Southern Highlands of New South Wales in Australia but there it was the Thursday night folk music , free for all night in Bowral .
Long before it was known as the Granny capital of Australia Bowral had some greay pubs with live bands every week .
It was a place where music was welcome and the echoes of some great songs where heard early long before radio stations ever played them .
I loved to play at the Syringe In because people listened to you . The crowd let you know that you were appreciated . They stood up and applauded , they cheered and the gave you the thumbs up when you where playing and singing .
Mant of the performers were regulars who were there every week to share their music and songs . Some of the melodies even were stolen with new lyrics added to the original song . The copyright cops of Bowral would often let you know if they heard someone else stealing your song but sure what does it matter anyway no one really gave a flying front kick about plagiarism in the Syringe Inn where people liked to play for the thirsty crowd on a Thursday night . Everyone hung out there and we all had a good laugh during the folk music session .
There was a list of names on a blackboard with all those who wanted to sing or tell a story ort recite a poem . The blackboard list of performers were at times a million miles away and never heard ground control and Major Tom never bothered to respond after suddenly collapsing in the corner there , The barman would do whatever he could to help them out on one of those Thursday nights at the Syringe Inn . It was a cool place to write or play and it bever ended until the last song was sung . Some songs were catchy , some were scratchy , there rough voices and tough voices coming through the microphone and the crowd joined in and got on their feet when the4ry felt the urge while Rab sat on the mixer desk recoding and mixing the best he could
When it was time to go we all left the bar and stood outside on the pavement talking for an hour or two about our music and songs and we all felt like we belonged there in that place and it was ok to be together with whoever it was , a poet or songwriter, a musician or storyteller , an artist or journalist as we were all one and we played and stayed together there for a while once a week at the Syringe Inn in Bowral .
We sang our songs to the same crowd who came from God knows where to be there My memories of those days still remind me of how lucky I was to have been there at that time .
The name of the place is an eye catcher for sure, but I think that it is fictitious in order to protect the real place where drugs were freely used and people were shooting up to get high.
From your description, it sounds like a place that was iconic for rock 'n' roll musicians during that period. And I can tell that you had a good time every time you were there performing.
During that time I found that the action was at a place called, strangely, the Swiss Chalet, and looked at like it– a gingerbread house–in San Francisco. But when the band played their buttery rock 'n' roll, the walls were warm and one couldn't help get out on the dance floor, drugged or not. The strangest name that I recall for a place was the Minute Bar, in downtown Dayton, Ohio. I didn't go in there but stopped at a restaurant next-door. The name referred either to how quickly you could pick up a prostitute or how quickly one could have what one came for, a quickie.
