Words by Tim Pugh
Photos by Tanya Andersen
I walk from a bedroom through a lounge room, past a flat screen TV towards a sliding glass door. The sliding glass door opens into a big, dark backyard. I hear what sounds like faint knocks at the front door. I leave my partially-finished Pure Blonde stubby behind and walk around through a kitchen and towards the front door. I open it. A young woman has arrived. I let her in and she follows me outside where another young man is waiting with two more unopened Pure Blonde stubbies. I only drink Pure Blonde while I'm in North Queensland; I much prefer ales. However, when someone else is buying the beers I find it rude to turn them down based on preference. I check my watch. It's just before seven and it's not quite time to leave.
Tonight the Exchange Hotel is re-opening its doors to the public after a $2.7 million facelift. I'm reminded that in 1964, Columbia records released Bob Dylans's third studio album entitled 'The Times They Are a-Changin'.' Over the years, the title track has been covered by acts from Nina Simone and Phil Collins to Bruce Springsteen and Eddie Vedder. It was pretty obvious that Dylan was attempting to write an anthem symbolic of the transient nature of all things and people's perception of it. For the most part, it worked - at least in the Hollywood sense. I can't recall how many times I have heard this track dubbed over some disgusting slow-motion coming-of-age montage. Although it now seems slightly ironic that so many artists would make copies of a song specifically created to be a catalyst for change. I check my watch again. We are late. We get in the car and head towards the city.
We arrive at just after half seven. We park up behind Melton Terrace and head down the hill towards the strip. The walk down along Flinders Street is bizarre. It's so far removed from all the imagery I already possess. I know where I am and have been there literally thousands of times; dodging the drunks and offering cigarettes to the bums - that's right, I'm a humanitarian.
I stop and look around again. This place is completely different. In the five years I've been gone the bulldozers and dump trucks and interior decorators don't seem to have stopped. The first thing I notice as we come down the hill towards the mall is brand new traffic lights leading into where McDonald's, and the mall itself, used to be. I can't say I'm disappointed to see the mall gone. For as long as I can remember it has been a filthy version of a former self that no one in my generation even remembers. Flinders Mall died the day David Jones moved out and the Townsville airport lost its international flights to Cairns. I know there were road blocks in place that left the local council unable to euthanize this terminal patient, however all of those seem to be gone now. The re-vamp has been finished for Flinders Street East and it seems the wrecking balls are heading west, towards the ever-cliched setting sun.
We wind our way into the old section of Flinders Street East. Its been converted into alfresco, which, combined with a seemingly conscious effort to have large windows and doors facing out of each building onto the street, makes walking into a bar more like walking into a big hug. I wonder how many dreamers this new warm and cosy atmosphere will turn into alcoholics and drug addicts and marketing managers and politicians. In short, it's absolutely mind-numbing and not something I believed I would ever see in Townsville.
We cautiously stroll towards the public bar entrance. But the public bar isn't the public bar anymore. The public bar is now a steakhouse looking like somewhere in North Texas where, at lunch time, people spit tobacco into their used coffee cups after eating brisket and potatoes and chilli. And what used to be Portraits is now a trendy-as-hell "Jade Bar" filled with couches, small tables, plush cubes and walls so new, no one has even bothered to pull out all the little annoying threads sticking out like tiny little reminders that new isn't necessarily perfect.
Other friends have already arrived and are sitting down with a couple of beers. I believe the"shock and awe" tactics of the US Government's offensive in Afghanistan were employed here. I swear I heard someone say that. The open mouths and wandering eyes spoke volumes. Everyone was a traumatized as I was. We all knew it would be different - but this? It hits home even harder when I realize I'm sitting at a table with several people who I'm either related to, or met at the old Exchange Hotel.
I try to juxtapose old and beautiful memories onto the bright room but I fail dismally. The images have already started to merge with the ones I'm creating right now. I'm standing in a place that has had such dramatic internal cosmetic surgery that it's absolutely unrecognisable.
At this realisation, and with the addition of several blue tongue lagers, I get just a little bit sentimental. Like so many others, especially those within the local Townsville music community, the Exchange was more than just a bar. When I was at university, if someone said they were going to "the pub" it was understood that the Exchange was where they meant. I knew where not to stand to avoid the notorious public bar drip, and I was part of a bunch of guys who built the upstairs stage early in 2004. Just after the turn of the century you could walk into the pub with a CD and have them play it in the public bar. This may not sound like much, but for those who felt nothing but disgust when hearing "Hot in Here" by Nelly over and over and over and over again, this was an ice cold beer for our collective ear mouth.
In 2002 they installed a jukebox in the public bar and in a single Saturday night the jukebox was ruined. If I remember correctly, someone jammed so many foreign coins in it that they started spewing out of the slot, and then others poured beer all over it. There was muso's night on Wednesday, and then upstairs on Friday and Saturday nights for rock'n'roll bands like Strapon, Ravene, Merlins Traffic or Reflux. It was where guys and girls with the long hair, tattoos, piercings and faded metal t-shirts used to feel comfortable; content not fitting in (or not being able to get in) on the rest of the strip. It was that quintessential "anything goes" vibe where the hippies and the musos and the students who couldn't afford anywhere more expensive would frequent.
Places like Molly's and Flynn's tried hard over the early years of the new millennium to bridge the gap by poaching Exchange bands. Which was understandable due to the week-in, week-out boredom found in the generic solo or duo acts of the day who played bad Fleetwood Mac or Stealers Wheel covers. In the end, they could never quite cut it.
On an online Townsville Bulletin article talking about the re-opening of the Exchange, "Simo" from Brisbane commented, "Oh no, they didn't destroy the Exchange did they? Now where will the rockers drink?" And to me, it's quite a valid question. Where will the rockers drink now?
I think about it for a while and come to the conclusion that I need to treat this as an entirely new place. It's no longer the place that the ever-trendy Mad Cow patrons call "full of rednecks and weirdos". It's a place that I've stepped into for the first time.
I need to treat it like stepping off a plane for the first time in a new city or country. First, you feel the annoying temperature-controlled cabin explode into the new reality you have found yourself in. Then, you notice the strange novelties available at the duty-free counters. After trying to reason why not to buy a bottle of cognac or wine which you could absolutely not justify buying back home, you look around and make a statement to the effect of, "my god, airports aren't actually all the same." You collect your baggage and make your way outside. Though seldom these days does one have a choice, when choosing a cab you try to choose a driver who doesn't look like he'll roll you for your sneakers. On your way to the hotel you observe the roads and how they are connected to all the buildings that seem to have sprouted like sugar cane all over the place. You try to count the lights still on in the high rises but you are distracted by the people. Their mannerisms, while similar, hold subtle differences, which once again remind you that you are all the way down the rabbit hole.
And as I walk into the front door of a place that was once as special to me as tea to the mad hatter, I am reminded that this particular rabbit hole has been gutted. The only question now is whether or not I can deal with the change.
The bright lights of the Jade Bar are getting a bit much so we decide to relocate to the Hill Garden outside area. We walk past an open kitchen, an open bar, and a bunch of middle-aged people sitting around having dinner. A guy sits by himself in the back corner on a small stage, playing his guitar. It's out of tune, and the sound grates against my spine. Apparently I'm not the only one who's noticed, as various members of my party look up, wincing. I don't mind though. He is making up for lack of ability with passion. I don't mind that.
I'm getting a bit hungry by this stage but when we enquire about the food we are told that the restaurant is not yet officially open to the general public, albeit tonight it was open specifically for the owner and his family and friends. I'm slightly perplexed and just a little disgusted by this, however I lose interest pretty quickly as I spot the only remaining remnants of the old Exchange. The smoking and non-smoking areas in the beer garden are divided by a series of polycarbonate panels forming a transparent barrier. In the smoking area, along with smokers, industrial rubbish bins, cleaning tools, ladders and other miscellaneous items, which can usually be found in a shed, I can clearly make out the familiar outline of the beloved upstairs barrels. What I notice now, though, is that they have become the proverbial fish out of water. After many years of faithful service, their worn and tatty appearance has rendered them redundant in this new sleek and stylish manifestation of the Exchange. I think I know how they feel.
The upstairs section, which now consists of the Tiger Lounge, Zanzi Bar and the Water's Edge Balcony, opens and we again relocate. As I walk up the back stairs into the new rear entrance I am completely disoriented. I can't even place the old upstairs here. Walls have been knocked down, bars have been erected, and pool tables replaced with zebra-print couches. I spend a bit of time watching the band in Zanzi Bar and then make my way out to the balcony. Upon inspection I'm relieved to find that no serious modifications have been made out here. Of course, all the old chairs and tables are gone, replaced with cane easy-chairs (whose durability I have concerns about). Strange tropical fans have been added, and while sitting in an easy chair I notice it is very hard to have a normal conversation with someone who isn't.
I check my watch and my wallet and realize that in three hours I've already spent nearly $80 on beer alone - and the fact that I'm able to still do that kind of math means I've not had nearly enough. It was time for tequila shots.
Four tequila shots with mojito chasers later, I ditch my friends and wander around by myself. I feel like a tourist in my own home town, like someone has bulldozed my childhood home and replaced it with a used car yard. I look around and find myself surrounded by young guys wearing button-up shirts with vertical stripes. They have trendy haircuts and expensive leather shoes. The girls wear high heels and tight dresses with sequins. It's hard to say whether or not these are the old crew dressed to the nines, or whether the new has inevitably replaced the old. Could it really be that the whole sub-culture has become extinct?
Someone commented earlier in the night that it's an amazing bar, but it's just not The Exchange. But what does that really mean? And is that really such a bad thing? Is it really such a problem that young Townsvillians choose to spend more money on overpriced alcohol and clothes and haircuts than on cars and records and plane tickets? Is it really such a problem now that when you see a band, they may have played Coachella or SXSW? Is it really so disappointing that when a guy meets a cute girl in a bar, she may have been Miss Indy or Miss Universe Australia? Is it really so shocking that when a girl meets a cute guy, he may be a painter, or going to NIDA?
I'm inclined to think that what has happened to the Exchange is just an example of a transformation that the whole city has undergone in the last five years. Townsville has finally transcended its sporting-centric mentality and is producing talent, which is being showcased on national and international stages (whether it knows it or not). The spotlight is on Townsville a lot more these days than it used to be, so why shouldn't people pretty themselves up a little bit for the camera? The lenses shift north to where the weather is warm, the sun is always shining and the beer is always ice-cold, and when the mirror is raised, it's important that we reflect the true nature of our beautiful city. We all have our favourites and tastes and style but we would all do well to remember the everyone is someone else's "redneck".
So if this is indeed the death of one of Townsville's most iconic pubs of the late 90s and early 00s and the sub-culture has died along with it, then we should stop, take a deep breath, play 'Stairway to Heaven' at full volume and have a minute's silence during Jimmy Page's legendary solo. We should pay homage to what it has produced and what it has influenced. And when we exhale, we must breathe life into this new place, which one day will quite possibly become greater than its father.
I can only speculate whether all of these changes are for the best or not, but in the end, does it really even matter? To me it's neither good nor bad. It just is. And for those who seek to reason how and why these things happen, I recommend you look to Dylan from back in '64, because just as he said, "the times they are a-changin'."
