Photos: Luca Capetta

Words: Penny Brand

Photo: A female fan looks adoringly at The Smith Street Band.

It’s a quiet one on the Ocean Street strip as the majority of Maroochydore’s bars are closed up for the Good Friday midnight curfew.

But it’s packed to the rafters at Solbar, with Sunny Coast revellers and devout The Smith Street Band fans eagerly awaiting the band’s sold-out, 15-year anniversary show.

But not before local rockstars Chamber Lane give the performance of their fledgling career to an all-loving home crowd.

Performance of their life

In a faded pink Cruiser hat that he paid $40 for, Connor Hanson is a true entertainer, making clever gags between sets, while his bandmates wind up the crowd.

The boys are well loved on the Coast and the room is not short of fanatical punk groupies singing each song word-for-word.

They rip through their set, with new single “Say Something” catching a few extra feels, and “4pm” continuing the high-energy momentum.

But not before an epic guitar battle ensues between Connor and bass player Josiah who are back-to-back on their knees having an absolute gas on stage.

These guys are FUN.

They finish off with crowd-favourite, “Liana”, and by this stage the drummer’s shirt is long gone, and the guitar wingmen are basically making love to the crowd.

Feedback from punters after the show is that Chamber Lane is about to take flight into major-league, punk-lord airspace, and should be stoked with that performance.

A beautiful toxic masculine mess

They are the quintessential beer-loving, footy-worshiping, punk-rock Aussie bogans.

And they just so happen to make really fucking good music.

Decked out in a pair of black Dunlop Volleys, with his famous long, fluffy mane planted atop his head in a messy man-bun that has a performance of its own, Wil Wagner enters the stage to a massive roar.

The stage is flanked in symbologies of woke-ism, and just like that Melbourne has officially entered the chat.

The Smith Street Band make songs for the lads and the ladies who resonate.

They’ve made a living from gigging and touring the globe for 15 years, through regional music halls and across international stages.

There’s been controversy, a public break up, legal threats, and a very real suicide attempt.

Wil openly sings about his wounds and we’re here for it.

There’s no mucking around as they pelt out hit after hit, singing about love, break-ups, and surviving it all with Lexapro.

It’s all there: raw, vulnerable, and loaded with tear-soaked notes atop anthemic, beer-fuelled riffs.

Life after football

Wil gives a shoutout to his mother-in-law Rhonda who lives locally and is babysitting the new Wagner cub.

This moment serves as a seasonal reminder that behind every dark cloud, a silver lining awaits, proving there really is “Life After Football”.

But for now, I’m in the thick of a fist-pumping, male-dominated crowd, which reeks of sweat, BO and vape juice.

It’s patriotic, visceral, and bordering on agressive.

In these moments I take two steps back, yet a part of me wishes I was still an alcoholic so I could just get amongst it and noogie all these bastards.

Not a feminist in sight

Ah the irony when “Death to the Lads” plays and a drunken mosh-meets-footy-field-scrum explodes.

Shirts off. Aggressive, albeit happy, punks.

There’s not a feminist in sight. And it’s wonderful.

I stand back and smile at this beautiful toxic masculine mess.

Before we know it the lights are on – no encore required – and a satiated crowd is revealed making a mass exit.

As I wait for my friend outside, I see Wil leaving the venue among a sea of his own fans, who are walking out a bit wonkier than when they walked in.

He’s hiding under a white towel Rocky Balboa-style, stopping only for a few photos for those who recognise him.

Before I can get too close to the ringside champion, Wil politely says he has to run, disappearing into a deserted street.

Probably his turn for the night feed.

Oh, how times have changed.