The air in this one is thick with memories, scents and the spirit of original Beaumaris bohemia. Bouncing off the curtains, beamed ceiling and wildly angular spaces one can almost hear the late night froth and thrash of ideas, barefoot guests, wine being poured and LPs turned. Such antipodean poetry the very germination and flourish of which, in the stifled anglo banality of 1950s Melbourne, must have been like a daisy in a city footpath crack – surprising, bright and vital.
We sadly fear the worst for this untouched host turned vestige of such indie, historical scenes as it paris off with its more standard built counterpart to be sold on the same day. What to say? Times marches on and the relics of small but important cultural instances are so often left scattered and forgotten in the thrum. *sigh*
