By Dann Lennard
I NEARLY saw Amanda Palmer die in Sydney last month. The Boston belle was perched precariously on a balcony ledge in the Enmore Theatre, singing Mein Herr to a rapt capacity crowd at the start of the Dresden Dolls’ encore.
That was when I spotted the drunken (perhaps drug-fucked) dumpy chick staggering towards her.
She’d been standing near my row for much of the concert, swaying constantly or screaming randomly, “We love yooooooooou, Amanda!” But now Ms High As A Kite had a real opportunity to interact with her idol and she was gonna do it, no matter how hard the act of walking had become.
As she weaved and wobbled towards Amanda, the singer was serenely walking through the balcony aisles, completely unaware that a whirlwind of black lace and second-hand satin was heading unsteadily towards her. Every time Amanda changed direction, her biggest fan would find herself caught out and left stranded at the other end of the balcony.
But undeterred, she’d wheel around and again pursue her prey, like a zombie with a whiff of human brains in its rotting nostrils.
Surely, the several security guys wandering behind Amanda would notice this chemically altered force of nature. But they did not.
At one point, a security guard stood directly in front of me. I felt like crying, “Oi, mate! Stop the possibly insane chick who’s stalking the star you’re supposed to be guarding.”
However, to my shame – and probably that of the fans around me, who I suspected had the same thoughts run through their heads
– I said nothing.
A few seconds later, Amanda stood still long enough for Ms High As A Kite to catch up to her. And like the zombie in the original Night Of The Living Dead, she didn’t pause or hesitate as she dived on Amanda and bit her neck hard enough to give her a hickey (which Amanda tweeted the next day).
It so easily could’ve been not her teeth, but two hands in the small of her back, pushing her off the balcony and onto the horrified audience members far below.
Ms Palmer was sporting enough to laugh off the brazen assault (although online footage shows she was a tad concerned) as a security guard eventually (after too long a delay) pulled away the attacker and guided her back to her seat. Remarkably, she was allowed to stay for the rest of the gig – there’s no way that would’ve happened if a guy had attacked Amanda. Hypocrisy thy name is feminism.
As for me, I still have the overwhelming feeling that I played a passive role in the near-death experience of one of my most beloved musical artists.
As for the gig itself? It was awesome. Dresden Dolls are amazing: both their original songs and the covers they performed on the night, including Beastie Boys’ (You Gotta) Fight for Your Right (To Party!), Nick Cave’s The Mercy Seat and Black Sabbath’s War Pigs.
And I’m even happier to know that Amanda and Brian Viglione will continue to make their incredible music for years to come. No thanks to me.
* This story was originally published in ROGUE #1, on sale now. Email me at danhelen [AT] idx [dot] com [dot] au to buy your copy of this brilliant (if I say so myself) 12-page zine. Or find ROGUE (or me) on Facebook. :)
