Dear Frankie’s,
You beautiful den of iniquity, you. The scene of so many of my bad decisions…
I could talk about one of the first gigs I ever played on your grungy little stage with the neon Schlitz sign, standing up there on the folds, one hand clinging to the curtain rack and screaming – probably off-key – to a packed out room, feeling like a rockstar for the very first time.
I could talk about all the friendships that have been formed over a rolled up $50 note in the Fun Room bathrooms. The pizza parties with metal icons. The lock-ins. The next-day comedowns.
All the times you let me sneak in through the side entrance when there was a fuck-off huge queue snaking up Hunter Street. All the secret hangs with the crew on the fire stairs. That one time we drank you out of apples. All the doing lines off each others’ body parts. All the way too many tequila shots.
I could talk about that time I got trapped in the fire stairs before my first-ever DJ set and Shane from DZ Deathrays had to cover me while I sprinted out the fire exit and legged it down Hunter Street, drink spilling all over the pavement. That time one of your security guards volunteered to go outside and pick us up ~a little something~ after the clock struck lock-out at 1:30am.
The time I accidentally set my hair on fire on one of the pizza bar candles. The time my mates got the staff to make me a special heart-shaped pizza for my birthday and broke a long-standing annual curse. The time we filmed DJ Azaria getting whipped by a dominatrix with a black strap-on dildo one bright Saturday morning.
Never once actually playing pinball.
All the times you didn’t kick me out, even though you probably should have.
How about all the legendary rock’n’roll stories? Dave Grohl skolling a bottle of tequila in the Fun Room bathroom stalls, while security refused to let anyone in unless they legitimately needed to piss. Phil Anselmo ditching his solo set list to play a full set of Pantera classics and demanding staff feed him more bananas.
How about Tom Morello rocking up unannounced with a USB stick full of tunes ready to go and demanding to be let loose on the DJ decks?
Or the time Stevie Nicks refused to skip the line even though the offer was firmly on the table, and instead waited outside with the rest of the riff raff on Hunter Street to be let into your garlic-adorned hellmouth?
How about the time I got seduced by a sleazy rocker in the Fun Room, singing Guns N’ Roses badly, fucking in the bathroom stall and losing my underwear? (I’m still convinced a secret shrine exists somewhere adorned with all the lost pairs of knickers that came both before and after).
How about watching two of my best friends tie the knot in the band room? Up there on that same grungy stage as I tried not to ugly-cry with happiness all over my pretty gold bridesmaid dress?
And of course your final night, the swansong just this weekend past, could not have been more perfect. Sobbing as two more of my favourite humans got engaged on your stage before we ripped into a cover of Rage Against The Machine’s ‘Bombtrack’.
For years you’ve been so much more than just bricks, mortar, riffs and cocaine residue. More than just Australia’s filthiest, most kickarse rock’n’roll bar. More than just the beating heart of hard rock and heavy metal culture in Sydney.
You’ve also been our home. The place where we could come to feel safe, welcome and part of something way cooler than ourselves. You gave us somewhere to belong. And for that, we salute you.
You may be gone, but your legend will live on for all eternity in our hearts and our hangovers. Frankie’s forever \m/
Your deviant daughter,
Emmy,
Further Reading
Here’s When Sydney’s Beloved Frankie’s Pizza Is Calling Last Drinks
Beloved Sydney Venue Frankie’s Pizza To Be Demolished For A New Sydney Station
Watch Stone Temple Pilots Frontman Crash Karaoke Night At Sydney’s Frankie’s Pizza
