END OF FASHION'S TOP FIVE MEMORIES FROM THEIR DEBUT ERA

MILKY
Jul 28
8 min read

Image: Supplied.

Perth band, End Of Fashion are celebrating the twentieth anniversary of their self-titled debut album with a national tour and a special anniversary vinyl edition of the record. To mark the occasion, Justin Burford has shared with MILKY his top five memories from their debut era.

Kicking off at The Brightside in Brisbane on August 15, the run of shows will continue on to Sydney, Melbourne and Adelaide, before wrapping up in Melbourne on August 30. Tickets are on sale now.

OXFORD, MISSISSIPPI

We recorded our debut album in a deep southern USA town called Oxford, Mississippi. Built around Mississippi University (or “Ol’ Miss” as the locals call it) the picturesque town square and surrounding suburbs are a stunning snapshot of heritage Americana. Think Hill Valley from“Back to the Future”, surrounded by impeccable, oak lined neighbourhoods where every house looks like Kevin’s from “Home Alone”. Everywhere we went we were the odd ones out, which made for some thrilling experiences, as well as some confronting ones. We went to a few “keggers”; college kid parties of unhinged decadence, held in enormous Georgian mansions. By contrast, you’d only have to venture to the edge of town limits to catch a glimpse of the poverty within some of the local African American communities. There was a stark sense of haves and have-nots.

My favourite memory though? Every Thursday night we’d hear the gospel choir rehearse in the baptist church across the road from the studio we were working at (Sweet Tea Studios - how Southern can you get!?). As we were finishing up one week, our producer, Dennis Herring, told us the pastor had invited us to come along to that Sunday’s sermon. It was mind blowing. Straight out of a movie. It was all music and “Praise Jesus!” We felt pretty self conscious at first but the congregation, dressed in their best, was so welcoming that all too soon we were clapping to the live band’s perfect back beat and lifting our hands to God right along with them. It was pure joy and an experience I’ll cherish forever.

BIG DAY OUT 2006

Every year, the Big Day Out selected one band to do the whole tour in the festival’s luxuriant tour bus. It was just the band, the band’s crew and the driver. In 2006, I don’t know how but that band was us! This meant, for that brief moment, we got to avoid many of the more annoying aspects of tour life - especially early morning airports. We had to keep to their schedule but that was easy because the bus pulled right up to the site and stayed there all day. We were usually asleep in our bunks by the time the bus hit the road each morning. It was by far the easiest tour we ever did and I think the other band’s, especially the Aussie ones, were pretty jelly. To be fair I don’t blame them.

crew and the driver. In 2006, I don’t know how but that band was us! This meant, for that brief moment, we got to avoid many of the more annoying aspects of tour life - especially early morning airports. We had to keep to their schedule but that was easy because the bus pulled right up to the site and stayed there all day. We were usually asleep in our bunks by the time the bus hit the road each morning. It was by far the easiest tour we ever did and I think the other band’s, especially the Aussie ones, were pretty jelly. To be fair, I don’t blame them.

For the last show of the tour, I’d decided to give my guitar away to the crowd. At the end of the set, while the band were making a bunch of noise, I jumped off the front of the stage, climbed over the barrier and dove in. I made sure I had a really long lead so my guitar was hot the whole time. While I was crowd surfing, I took my guitar off and just let it go. Security came running over to pull me out, doing their best to rescue it for me while I was shouting “leave it! It’s theirs!” Eventually they got the message and started laughing. As I was walking away, one of them, a massive man mountain yelled out “that was fucking sick bro!”. Might be my most rockstar moment ever. A few years later, I met the fan who took the guitar home. I was delighted when they told me it ended being the instrument their daughter was learning to play on!

MY REAL FIRST TIME

Back when radio was still king, getting your song played on triple j was a massive, massive deal. In a lot of ways, they ruled the industry and could make or break a band. Especially Australian. The very early days of End of Fashion emerged when I was still in The Sleepy Jackson. I was part of Sleepies for about two years, touring, writing and recording what would become their first album, “Lovers”. Luke had asked me to join Sleepies because we were best mates and he liked my ideas. Now, while a lot of me ended up on that record, it was always made clear, in a round about kind of way, that Sleepies would never be my baby. So, although I’d heard songs I’d helped create coming out of the radio, they never really felt like my songs. Sleepies had a solid relationship with triple J and were signed to a major label by the time I joined, which in no way was the case for EoF. When I made the difficult decision to leave Sleepies and pour everything into EoF, I knew for all intents and purposes, I’d be starting over from scratch.

I was now back home in Perth, recording demos of my own to send to labels and managers. While I was aware of a bit of buzz around my band, nothing could prepare me for what happened next. I got a call from someone at triple j telling me Richard Kingsmill had heard the demo for one of my songs, “Rough Diamonds”. They said he wanted to play it on his Sunday night show if I was ok with that. I was ok with that! At that time, I was living in a share house that had a bath (a rare luxury). Come Sunday, I had the house to myself so I filled the tub, brought a radio into the bathroom and tuned in. After about 30 minutes, the moment I’d been waiting for finally arrived. Kingsmill started by saying he almost never played demos on air but this was an exception. He said we were a WA band with a very bright future, if this song was anything to go by. It was surreal. Just hearing Kingsmill’s iconic voice uttering my band’s name was a dream come true. The song started and there I was, appropriately naked and vulnerable, listening to something I’d written all on my own in some messy bedroom somewhere, something that was personal and truly mine, actually being played on my favourite station. Well, that was it as far as I was concerned. I’d made it. If I’d died in that moment, I would’ve died happy.

HIGH SCHOOL BULLY

I was expelled from my first high school in year 10. It’s a long story but basically I was an idiot who hung out with the “bad” kids. Apparently, the school had decided to purge its trouble makers with a sweeping cull of undesirables and even though I was never even close to being one of the worst (I was more cheeky and silly than anything), I got caught in the net. Next thing I knew I was at an all boys college in an ill-conceived attempt by my disappointed folks to set me straight. Almost all the other kids had been students together since primary (this school had both primary and high) so I was about as “new kid” as a new kid could get. Now, I’d seen some bad apples before but the things a few of these boys got up to was next level. I was miserable and although I did everything I could to stay under the radar, I was a natural target for bullies. One in particular made my life hell.

Fast forward a few years and my band has just played an in-store performance at Perth’s iconic 78 Records. We’re shuffled over to a signing table, Sharpies out, fans in line. It’s going well and I’m just beginning to relax when lo and behold, up next is none other than my former tormentor! I sign his CD and we take a picture. He tells everyone in ear shot that we were high school mates. He turns to me and says very quietly, “sorry if I was a jerk to you in school. I didn’t realise you’d be famous…” I smile and say, “thanks! Yes, you were a jerk to me at school. And no, I’m not famous. Is that the only reason you’re here?” He looks uncomfortable and fumbles for a reply before sheepishly walking away. In that moment, I feel a fraction of the weight I’d been carrying from those three pretty shitty years lift a little, leaving me with a small but satisfying sense of closure. A bandmate asks me who that was. “Someone I used to know”, is all I say as I smile and greet the next eagerly awaiting fan.

5. A STRANGER’S GIFT

I’d like to end on this memory because by far, it holds the most significant place in my heart. Once you strip away all the rockstar moments, the awards, all the crowds, all the tours and fans, the long drives and early flights, after all of the fleeting noise and nonsense, all you have left is the music. And yes, I know how cheesy that sounds. I know it’s a cliche. But it’s a cliche for a reason. My single most favourite memory reminds me of this truth. How a song can speak to someone so deeply it touches their soul. I can rattle off a bunch of songs written by other people that have had that effect on me but to think something I’ve written can be that for someone else, is a profoundly humbling notion.

When End of Fashion were touring a lot (and I mean a lot!), we’d often include Unis on our runs. I was out mingling with the crowd after one of these Uni shows when a softly spoken, impeccably polite student approached me. The small talk is now a blur. What I do remember is awkwardly dodging his very generous praises. I’ve never been comfortable with compliments but this young man seemed determined to make me understand that when he said my music was important to him, he meant it.

Suddenly, almost abruptly, he tells me, “My little brother passed away recently”. This admission catches me off guard and I’m a little taken aback. I offer my condolences. He thanks me with a sad, knowing smile, describing how his brother fought with bravery and optimism for the longest time. Ultimately, he explains, his brother’s body had simply become too weak to go on. Meanwhile, he and I are surrounded by Uni students drinking, laughing and generally being, well, drunk Uni students. I wasn’t sure of the right thing to say. “He wanted to plan his own funeral,” the student continues, “You know, while he still had the strength”. I nod and reiterate how sorry I am. Now, while I appreciate his openness and vulnerability, I can’t help but wonder why this polite stranger is sharing all of this with me. As if on cue, he pauses, looks me in the eye and with something like a playful grin, tells me - all other funeral details aside, the most important thing to his brother was that they play his favourite song. “Your song” he says, “Rough Diamonds”.

These words hit me like a truck. All I knew in that moment was pure emotional weight and it took everything I had to hold back tears. Here I was, just a kid myself, being told by a stranger that their beloved younger brother picked a song I’d written as their final goodbye. That’s when I realised, these aren’t my songs anymore. When you create something, when you share it with the world, you give to the world too. It’s as much theirs as it is yours. It takes a certain amount of ego to fulfil the desire to create, but it takes humility to let some of that creation go once you have. I invite him backstage and we share some drinks and laughs. When it’s time to go, we hug and thank each other. He drifts off into the night. I never caught his name and we haven’t spoken in the twenty years since, but I think of him often. Wherever you are, my dear friend and stranger, I hope life has been kind. On an otherwise unassuming evening, surrounded by the sloppy revelry of young adulthood, you gave me a gift I will treasure forever.