From the pages of Tracks Issue No. 581 – Sign up to premium to access our extensive archive.
The first article I wrote for Tracks magazine was, ironically, about some Tracks magazines. It was a true story, a sordid little tale, set in Kings Cross in the mid 80s. It included both theft and betrayal. An old schoolmate who had become a crim asked me if I still owned a ute. I had this old truck, a ‘67 Toyota Lite Stout, and a reputation for turning a blind eye to criminality. So, this old school chum, Roy, asked me if I wanted to join him in a little debt recovery job.
“This prick owes me thousands, took off up the coast with a brick of hash. Putty.We’re gonna kick in his door and take all of his shit and sell it.” Roy explained.
“Sounds fair.” I confirmed I was in.
“Tops.”
“But I’ll have to charge ya $200 for the day.”
“200!”
“Danger money eh.” I was acting like a tough guy, driving a hard bargain.
“Fair enough.”
I don’t think Roy ever had any intention of paying me anything. Up in Kings Cross I parked on the corner of Bourke Street and St Peters Lane, just down from the old Sydney Filmmakers Co-op, where I first saw Morning of the Earth 15 years earlier. Roy grabbed his sledgehammer from the back of the truck, and we entered a six storey bombed out building that smelt of piss and shit. It was a revolting place and reminded me of the stinky underground WW2 air-raid shelters that we played in as kids. As we climbed the stairs we passed open doored rooms, where Roy pointed out what he called, “The dregs of society” unashamedly going about their daily business. Drug deals were going down, prostitutes were turning tricks, and alcoholics were rotting away on mattresses that looked like people had been murdered on them. A more desperate place I had never been. I loved it.
On the top floor we were met by a chain- locked door. Roy attacked it like Leatherface in The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. He smashed that door right off its hinges and we found ourselves in the open air on the top of the building. The morning sunlight was a welcome relief from our ascension through Dante’s Inferno. I was impressed to see a small forest of herbs and vegetables and a complete outside undercover gym. It was obvious from the dead plants that no one had been there for a few weeks. Roy charged down the door to the stylish penthouse like his children were being held hostage in there.
I followed Roy into the clean and tidy living space and we took a look around. It was a stylish, fully self-contained unit and completely at odds to the rancid accommodation on the floors below. Roy pointed out what he decided was of value. There was a nice TV and stereo, and a big record collection. Roy turned the place inside-out and upside-down looking for any hidden money or valuables. He discovered an expensive looking wrist watch and some dubious jewellery. I saw that one of the potted plants outside was dope. I plucked the perfectly dried single head from the plant and asked Roy if he felt like a puff.
“Na mate, you go for it. I’m gonna run this stuff over the road to the hock shop and see what I can get.Take what ya can down to the truck and I’ll be back soon to load the rest.”
It didn’t take me long to find some Tally Ho papers and roll a joint. As I smoked the strong weed I poked around to see what else I could find.That’s when I discovered the neat pile of mint condition old Tracks magazines. I knew right away they were worth something. They were stacked in chronological order, from 1972 till ‘75 and while not a complete collection, a mighty impressive one.
Stoned out of my mind, I journeyed through the pages of those pristine magazines.They were like a time machine that took me back to a completely different era.There was the classic issue with Michael Peterson on the cover, standing with a briefcase with ‘MP’ written on it. A sepia Jeff Hakman driving a searing turn off the bottom at Honolua.There were stories about travelling the Hippy Trail from London to Goa, and Chile to Peru. I was in heaven.
When Roy got back I made the mistake many a novice wheeler-dealer makes. I gushed profusely about how fantastic the magazines were.
“Really?” Roy asked.
“Mate, they’re priceless.” I wanted him to be as happy as I was.
Later that day, after many loads to different hock shops and second hand stores, selling everything from the emptied water bed to the gym set, Roy told me I could keep the Tracks magazines in lieu of payment.
“What… Instead of cash?” I asked.
“Mate, you said yourself they’re priceless.” “I know but we agreed on $200.”
“Yeah, well…things change.”
And so it was that I came to cart around that box of old Tracks magazines for the next 35 years. I moved house pretty much once a year and stored them in a multitude of places when I was either living up the coast or overseas. I left them at Mum and Dad’s for five years, in my brothers garage for two, and under mate’s joint for another eight.They were almost chucked out a half a dozen times but somehow survived. I can’t tell you how many times I have lifted that box and been tempted to look again at those classic old magazines. But I never did. I figured a good part of their value was the excellent condition they were in, so
I decided to not to turn a single page, for the whole time I was in possession of them.
Those magazines are the only surf memorabilia I have ever hung on to. Except for a surfboard I found under a house in Avalon about 25 years ago. I spotted it from the house next door and realised it was a banged up old Plastic Machine twin fin from about 1970. I knocked on the front door of the house and asked the bloke who lived there if I could swap him a brand-new Webber for the old twinny under his house.This was before the whole surf vintage thing took off so he was stoked to get a new board for an old one.
Then, a few weeks ago one of my daughters rang and told me she was coming to Sydney and we could spend a day together. I found myself in a hole for money. I didn’t have time to organise a ‘bridging loan’ so decided to see what I could get once and for all for the Plastic Machine. I had no idea what it was worth so joined an online vintage surfboard collectors valuation group but couldn’t get anyone to tell me what it might be worth. A guy pm’d me that he would be happy to come to my place and take a closer look at it.When he arrived, I had no plan to sell him the box of old Tracks magazines. But after he gave me $300 cash for the surfboard, I asked him if he was interested in looking at the magazines. He pretended to be uninterested, and then unimpressed.
“Oh yeah, I’ve already got all these issues, but I’ll give you $200 for the lot.You know, so you can have a nice day with ya little girl.”
I jumped at the chance to have $500 to spend on my daughter. He left quickly and
I went back upstairs into my flat and felt a sudden pang of regret. It wasn’t the board I regretted selling, but the magazines. For the next couple of days I couldn’t get those old Tracks mags out of my mind. It was like I was being haunted by them. I rang the bloke I sold them to and asked him if I could buy them back from him. He told me that he had already blended them in with his collection in chronological order and that he would never be able to remember which ones they were.
I looked back online and saw that some of them were for sale for over $200 each. I spotted the one with Michael Peterson on the cover holding the MP briefcase and saw that it was for sale for $500. I fretted for about three days, feeling like I’d been robbed.Then my daughter arrived and we had the most fantastic day together. Ironically, I didn’t even spend the $500.We had heaps of fun doing inexpensive things like walking around in town and catching the ferry to Manly for lunch. A few days later I told a mate of mine what had happened.
“So, you helped someone steal them 35 years ago and accepted them in lieu of $200 payment for your day’s work, and now you finally get paid $200 for that day’s work, all these years later.”
“I suppose.”
“It’s your karma.”
“What about interest? Rent paid on storage? Pain and suffering?”
“$200 seems a lot of money for a day’s work 30 years ago.”
“It included danger money.”
“What price would you put on your day with your daughter?”
“Ah well.That was priceless.”
