I wake up early on a Sunday morning, lying on an all-enveloping yellow couch of grand comfort and am greeted by a family silhouette of bottles of Coopers Pale Ale positioned directly in front of a bright white window, wondering where I am. A surge of initial trepidation runs through me as I furiously try to make out my surroundings: rainbow-washed paintings of ancient Greek goddesses, black and white posters from the 80s of pilot-shade-wearing models with baggy pants and singlets, a Frank Zappa DVD and, the giveaway, the case of GTA San Andreas sitting on a PS2, its controllers dangling over the beer covered living room table. “Ah” I let out in a sigh of relief, the worry replaced with cheerfulness. “Steve’s place”. 

Steve is a muso, you see. He looks like a muso, he drinks like a muso, and he most certainly lives like a muso: he even speaks in lyrics. If one were to try to conjure up a single sentence to sum up Steve’s place, the very first thing that comes to mind is “A kaleidoscopic trip directly into a Crowded House album cover or, depending on what flavour of incense was burning at the time, an LSD-period Beatles video“. And even then, a mere sentence hardly does the place justice.

Located on a large, accessible and very conveniently bus-serviced road considering the drunken nights out he is famous/legendary for, Steve’s home couldn’t be any better placed: just off a ”Flower Street” and next to a balloon store. Think about that for a second. A Balloon Store. That in itself counts as fairytale-level street cred in my book, but then there’s the sheer colour of the place itself.

Steve’s musical and pop culture sensibilities shine through the decorations of his home; a wondrous collection of artwork hangs off the walls alongside posters of Jeff Buckley, Gollum, The Young ‘Uns, John Lennon, PJ Harvey, and Grand Theft Auto. Wall-sized Ken Done-style paintings provide the backdrop to his computer. And the best piece(s) of antiquity to be found? Possibly this, but definitely this:

The lucky bastard

What better way to know someone than to take a look at their room; to see what makes them so. Thus I’ve taken that long hard look at Steve’s room and have come to several conclusions:

Steve is what Kurt Cobain would’ve been like if Kurt Cobain lived in Australia and played video games and appreciated Brian De Palma and Quentin Tarantino and didn’t own a shotgun and/or date some possessive junkie of a girlfriend, the latter of which may differ depending on your theory of the final events of the life of Kurt Cobain. Otherwise, Steve is what Jeff Buckley/Billy Corgan would’ve been like if Jeff Buckley/Billy Corgan lived next to a balloon store and quoted Lord of the Rings, just without the drunken ocean swimming/adolescence full of angst, respectively, and with a beard. Failing that and taking that beard into account, Steve is John Lennon, on drugs and staging a Bed-In for Peace with an admiration of Japan that included sushi, Ninjas, and Samurais and not eccentric bohemian artists, even though Steve does appreciate that from time to time as well. Shit. Which naturally brings me to another, this time final, definitive conclusion: Steve is John Lennon. So the rumours are true! Oh wait… that was “Paul is dead“… but Steve knew that all along anyway.