I watched the suedo-Finn child feed his base guitar to the amplipher - the feedback screeching back from the dark corners of Cherry Bar. There were people there but it wasn't over crowded, and hardly warrented the queue the bouncer made the three of us form and then stand in before granting us entry. As I watched the unknown band's cresendo I wondered if I would ever experience a night like this when I move back to New Zealand.

It was very difficult to believe I ever could in the New Zealand I left behind.

The evening started as many Friday evenings do - with a beer at a bar close to work. I had been fidgetty and flighty all day and deciding what to do and when to do it proved beyond my capablitlies even after I consumed any alcohol. Earlier in the week I had decided to go and see a band I enjoy who were playing at The Edge, Federation Square. A fantastical multi-faceted space in the middle of Melbourne city, Fed Square was hosting a group of performers - among them, the Graveyard Train - a perennial favourite of mine and a mine of fantastic, foot-stomping good times if ever there was one.

But as I mentioned, I was figetty and flighty and I decided not to go to The Edge to see them play; then I decided I would; then I wouldn't come. In the end, my roommate Willo knocked the sensible back into me and I duly arrived at the venue in time to purchase beer and find a front row seat.

I've never known bands before and don't get me wrong, these bands do not know me - but they are all nice boys; polite boys; boys raised right and they always say hello. I get to tell them I think they did well, that their session was fantastic. They are obliging and grateful and do their mums proud. And we're off, we three - my roommate Willo, my colleague and friend Mars and myself - off to find more music in Old Melbourne Town.

That brings me to Cherry Bar and this unknown band of Hendrix guitar feedback lovin' youngsters who make me wonder if moving home to New Zealand will mean missing out on this life I have with new bands and great bands right on my doorstep. Music with chains and hammers and steel guitars and pistol-toating, beard growing, blues loving mother flippers. Where I can cross the road for dumplings, then traverse a few lanes for foot-stomping horror-country charm. Followed in quick succession with local unknown rock, sugared Stones and covered prayers to live by.

Does such an evening exist anywhere in New Zealand?

[sorry I'll fix this in the morning.. tired now 3:30am: OUT]