Gentrification. It’s quite a new word, one invented specifically to describe the process undergone by the parts of town which once stood derelict, populated by junkies, hookers and musicians, but are swamped in a veritable flood of 25-34s, cashed-up and entranced by the ‘bohemian’ nature of this particular foul-smelling, filth-encrusted shithole. They move in from the picket-fence, looks-sterile-but-is-full-of-paedophiles, upper-middle class land of their upbringing, intoxicated by the sense of vibrancy that all the unemployed musicians and painters have bestowed on this inner-city cesspool, raving to their friends at the water cooler about the wonderful ‘atmosphere’ and ‘ambience’ (which they, naturally, pronounce ‘ohmbiohnce’) their new home possesses. And the night life. ‘There’s so much live music here, we can’t wait to head out and check it out!’

And so the process of gentrification begins. No doubt this has occurred in countless cities internationally since the late 80s. These folk set up shop next door to the seedy bar which houses killer local acts every night of the week, and then proceeds to spend their evenings curled up on the couch watching repeats of The Simpsons. Then – and this is the coup de grace – lying in bed one night at 9pm, struggling to sleep over the sound of the next Rolling Stones pumping out next door, they reconcile to call the council and complain. They decide, consciously, to attempt to make their new home more like their old home. Gentrified.

Pubs close. Cafes open. Bars appear with words like ‘Retro’ in the name, with couches and stools carefully sourced to look like they’ve been collected at various op shops, yet are strangely colour co-ordinated. The bad haircuts of pedestrians who couldn’t be fucked forking out sixty clams for a trim are replaced by the bad haircuts of pedestrians who happily shill out 80. Soon, the very musicians, painters, poets and prostitutes that gave the place its peculiar appeal have been hounded out by landlords who can afford to dispense with such undesirables.

Suddenly, venerable, unforgettable live music venues are shut down, only to reopen three months later as pizza bars – selling discount ‘gourmet’ (i.e. less topping) pizzas by day, only to have an anonymous DJ turn up at 10pm to pump out horrendous remixes of songs that were barely passable in the first place for a crowd of ignoramuses who have ventured in from the very place the new residents recently vacated.

Writing this in Melbourne, the mountain of anecdotal evidence is growing. The Punters Club, gone, now called ‘Bimbo Deluxe’. The Continental, gone. The Duke of Windsor, now ‘Lucky Coq’ (and what a delightfully subtle piece of innuendo that is). Rumours that the Tote is next. This story could, no doubt, be retold in cities across the globe ad infinitum, replacing the above names with those of equally well-loved, now sadly obsolete, temples of rock for their respective towns.

But I digress. This is not entirely about the process of gentrification, which is, sadly, inescapable, but a particular symptom that inevitably follows. Back to those who moved in in the first place. They lie awake at night, listening to the very music that enticed them to migrate in the first place, deciding to, like bored pensioners, send an angry letter to their council and/or newspaper. Soon, the letters to the editor section is aflood with other new residents falling over each other to vigourously agree. All these bars and pubs are keeping us awake at night! All these drunkards stumbling out of said pubs, yelling and vomiting, are giving this place a bad name! My kids are learning all kinds of swear words!

Well, here’s a swear word for them: Fuck off. Quickly, if possible. This level of vitriol is rarely unleashed by your humble correspondent, even when confronted by the new Coldplay album, but people who decide to set up a life in a live music precinct, excited by the notion of being ‘cool’, in lieu of their marked lack of coolness in high school, have absolutely no right to then campaign to have these places shut down.

And, of course, councils invariably side with the residents, who pay their dues. These new residents happily pay more dues than the aforementioned undesirable, whereas a pub can be easily replaced by a café specializing in low-fat, soy frappaccinos, which, no doubt, would configure more closely to the tender sensibilities of these whiny complainants.

So, this all begs the question, ‘What can I do? I’m just one man/woman/insignificant bug on the wall of the social elite.’ Well, the one thing we can all do is simple. De-gentrify. Go to the pub on a Wednesday night to see a hitherto-unknown local act. Drink beer, not coffee. Boycott try-hard ‘bohemian’ cafes and bars. Openly point and laugh at blokes walking around in pastel/fluoro t-shirts with artfully directed haircuts carefully crafted to look nonchalant.

Take back what is rightfully yours, good reader! The live rock scene is not dead, and will never die! But it needs foot soldiers. Take up arms, support your local, fight to keep pubs grimy, open late, and populated by denizens. But most importantly, fight to have rock played, in Dylan’s immortal phraseology, ‘FUCKING LOUD’. Then, and only then, can we truly claim victory over those most heinous interlopers who choose to colonise great centres of live music, occasionally deigning to rock up at a gig and then tastefully ignore the whole thing, then go home and continue their correspondence with the letters page. Then, and only then will we be able to say that we have saved rock and roll.

WB Note: For those Melburnians who are willing to do a bit more, please visit www.musicisntnoise.org, a website established for just this purpose. It needs our support. They do good work.