It’s December 1976 and amid the scents of rotting mangoes and frangipani petals, Brisbane is sweltering. The humidity is oppressive and so are the cops. Under the reign of premier Joh Bjelke Petersen—who’s proven you can rule with just 17 per cent of the vote—conformity is expected. In the distant south, Malcolm Fraser is the prime minister. 

Brisbane’s still just a big country town with white lines down the footpath reminding us to keep left in a state that’s so far to the right it ain’t funny. The local music scene is a joke. Performers in bands wear flared jeans and knee-high boots and satin bomber jackets and big hair and they pump out covers of songs by Status Quo and Deep Purple, Bachman Turner Overdrive and ZZ Top. Only the most adventurous attempt originals or covers of Led Zeppelin songs. There’s the scent of pot behind closed doors, the lingering stench of gang-bangs in the back of the panel van. The Top 40 stations take their cues from programmers in Sydney and Molly Meldrum’s picks on Countdown. Down at the local Musicians Club there’s contempt for the one band in town that refuses to play by the rules, a band that’s being hailed by critics on the other side of the world.