October 2024

My life in the Bush of Volkswagens

I passed my driver’s license in April 1968, the day after the Wahine disaster.

There were cracks in the road up on Murray Aynsley Hill in Christchurch and that’s where the traffic cop started screaming and yanked on the hand brake. He drove the rest of the way back to town and gave me a pass because he “never wanted to see me again.”

My first car was a Vauxhall J and it never went at all. The second was a 1939 Ford V8 Sedan which was a beautiful car. I sold it, then I bought it back. I put it off Dyers Pass Road because I was spooning and kissing my girlfriend at the same time as driving.

I remember running down the bank to the car (I had jumped out) and past my girlfriend to get to the vehicle. That’s young love for you! She was some kind of lover lady let me tell you.

But, it is best not to spoon and drive. No doubt the government will one day issue a fine (or worse) for spooning and driving. They are, after all, malicious sorts.

Two years after this I bought my first Volkswagen, a 1960 Beetle in a beautiful turquoise colour. It had arrived in a CKD (Complete Knocked Down) state and was assembled somewhere up near Auckland.

It had a large back window (as opposed to the Oval and the Split back window models of the 1950’s), and it had only semaphores for indicating turns on the road. It had no bubble indicators on the front guards. This was the European model and every single day I search for another one. It was 6-volt and so the headlights were dull and starting it was sometimes a dubious proposition. But to hear it sputtering up was pure heaven.

The only other thing I have to report from that era is that I almost bought a mid-50’s VW panel van from Five Star Motors on St Asaph Street, the local VW dealers. I continue to mourn my crooked reasoning about not buying this vehicle because it has also stuck in my mind all these years.

I never mourn the fact that I failed to buy a Standard Vanguard. They tended to rust before your eyes.

But, back to the story, so do old Volkswagens, rust before your very eyes. You have to watch them carefully and never drive them in the rain.

I have owned Volkswagens where the rust has been ‘fixed up’ using cardboard, newspaper, silver paper, gaffa tape and old tin cans ironed out flat and then affixed to the car using pop rivets. This is all part of the adventure.

The other common issue with Volkswagens that I should point out is their vulnerability to catching fire in the engine compartment. There is a fuel line that goes to the carburettor that often becomes corroded and leaks gas on to the hot motor. Check it often and always travel with a fire extinguisher. There are also a number of good aftermarket fire extinguishing products available as well. I have Blaze Cut systems in all my vehicles.

Currently, I own four vintage VW’s and I’m on the lookout for a nice VW “Notchback” from the mid 1980’s. I have owned two of them in my past and they were fabulous cars. In my lifetime I have owned probably thirty Volkswagens and I loved every single one of them whether or not one could see the road through the floorboards.

Currently, My 1952 Bug won Best in Show and Best in Class at the 2024 VW Nationals held in Kaikoura. This one I found in California and had it converted to rhd in NZ by my masterful VW restorer Mr Dave Hermans at Revive’m near New Plymouth.

My ‘52 has matching numbers and was restored beautifully by the bloke in California who wanted the cash (lots of it) to shift to Thailand. This Beetle is a grand driver even without synchro on the gears. Double declutching has to be carefully learned.

This car, instead of small side windows, has “crotch coolers” to cool the cabin down. Vents open on the side of the car just behind the front guards.

Life has let me down, but this vehicle never has.

I have a 1958 Volkswagen Transporter which is being converted to a Samba by Dave Hermans. It’s been eight years now. I have had it back, but it is back in the North Island getting some minor issues ironed out. It has part power steering and this is a beautiful thing. Before I decided to restore it I hooned around in the Transporter for about fifteen years. The rego plate was “Furtha”. It has never failed to start.

The previous owner, no doubt deciding to get rid of the rust, gave it a quick flick in red and white. He also blew the gearbox on Takaka Hill.

Then I have a 1963 21-window VW Samba that I bought in Australia. It was a prize winning car and has a 2.3 litre motor. It was restored by Steve Hopkins who, apparently, is famous for this sort of thing. It has a Super Race Crank with Chevy journals, Mahle forged pistons and an Eagle Race cam. Ignition duties are carried out by a MagnaSpark system. It also has a Kennedy race clutch and a Freeway Flyer Transmission. It has a lot of other upgrades as well, like disc brakes and so on and so forth.

It had been owned by Michael Ryan who was Hugh Jackman’s personal trainer. Apparently, the Wolverine himself was often seen driving around Bondi Beach in it. It has been featured in various Volkswagen magazines.

It goes like a cut cat and you could easily cruise around all day at 80mph in it.

It is a thing of Beauty, a work of art.

My 1956 Beetle I have owned for about six or seven years. A woman owned it and restored it in Australia before that. It is numbers matching and is in a very nice condition. It remains a 6-volter. The only problem I have had was that the exhaust pipes had not been heat-protected and so the paint bubbled a bit around them which lead to rust. I have had that rust cut out now. A local mechanic whilst servicing it had it on a hoist. He proclaimed that the underside was perfect. “You could turn this car upside down and eat your dinner off it.” To be fair, I have never tried that.

I have had a mighty good life with lots of spooning in it. I’m here for the enjoyment of it all.

Actually, I’m away to do some spooning now.

Spooning and watching test rugby is the best. A try is often scored!

Spoon on Brothers and Sisters!

Live at San Fran, 8pm 12^th September.

I rolled up to San Fran on an arctic Wellington Thursday night in a state of extreme ignorance with regards to the work of Troy Kingi. I’d begun to hear his name a lot and I was vaguely aware that he had become quite a major figure in the New Zealand music scene but I’d never actually got my shit together and given it a proper listen. Tonight, I’d fix that.

Leatherman and the Mojave Green marks the roll out of the eighth album on Kingi’s ludicrously prolific project of 10 albums, in 10 different genres, in 10 years. That is a level of productivity and accomplishment which is, quite frankly, slightly depressing to think about. He’s stated that the album is inspired by his all time personal favourite, the 2002 Queens of the Stone Age classic Songs for the Deaf. Kingi is speaking my language with that kind of talk. Songs for the Deaf were, for me, one of those works of art which hit a person in their impressionable high school years and permanently alter their taste thereafter. It was an introduction to a harder, darker, bluesy type of rock with more ambition and integrity than anything I’d heard before.

Troy Kingi takes the stage draped in the type of poncho get-up Clint Eastwood would approve of, with a buzzy Lawerence of Arabia style hat. He fits the part of a man emerging from the desert, having recorded this album at the iconic Rancho de la Luna studio in Joshua Tree, California. He oozes a larger than life charisma which seems almost too effortlessly cool to be from this slightly awkward country. 

This is the part where any self respecting gig reviewer is supposed to give a run down of the set-list on the night with a poetic little description of each tune but, in all honesty, I have no idea what any of the song titles were. As unprofessional as that is, I actually think it really lends itself to hearing an album as a whole when you have no singles you’re impatiently waiting for. Throughout the evening, you can really feel the desert vibe Kingi has brought home with him from that mad land, the US of A. Leatherman posses a dark yet fun, noir-ish quality to it. The band achieve what all band’s aim for; to be so tight and well-drilled that they’re able to relax and have fun while casually killing it. 

Troy Kingi and his band make a great case for the power and appeal of live music. My music taste has mellowed over the years as I’ve enthusiastically leaned into impending middle age and I think if I heard this harder type of rock as I scrolled through radio stations in the car, I’d probably keep scrolling but it goes bloody hard in the flesh. You can’t help but get a little hypnotised as the band draws the crowd in. 

Kingi eggs the crowd on to start a mosh-pit for the final song of his performance. I’m too repressed to join in but there’s something heart warming about watching people losing it in a mosh. It’s a reckless abandonment in the name of fun. I have the feeling this may be the first of many Troy Kingi gigs I attend and I might even buy the album to finally find out what any of those songs are called.