“Oh, great story to lead with,” says Charles Rushforth, lead singer of Flowertruck, popping a lone hot chip into his mouth.
Rushforth, liquorice paper-rolled cigarette tucked behind one ear, is glaring at the band’s guitarist Hamish Dobinson, who has kicked off an interview with a story about a female fan who called him “so pretty”.
“Hamish knew we were recording, so he started with that story,” deadpans Sarah Sykes, keyboardist, shielding her eyes from the sun. Drummer Will Blackburn is the only one who doesn’t take the opportunity to pile onto Dobinson, largely because he’s not here: the band reckon he’s asleep, despite the fact it’s just gone two in the afternoon. “He’s always the one getting up early and raring to go usually,” says Sykes. “So this feels like karma.”
It’s a warm day, a nice one to be spent at the pub. The trio share from a jug of Coopers, sitting close against a wall in the corner of a beer garden. But, despite the heat, there are clouds brewing somewhere over the horizon, and over the course of the interview they collect; grow. It’s fitting, really: after all, one of Flowertruck’s best-known songs is called ‘Sunshower’, and the band’s meditative yet melancholic tunes perfectly suit the kind of day where rain seems a split second away from ruining everything.
“We’re going up to Bigsound,” says Sykes, hand dropping away from her face. “It’s going to be so cool. So many of our friends are going to be up there: bands like Big White.” Rushforth nods, plucking the smoke from behind his ear and spending the next few minutes trying to light it with half a dozen matches. “We’re driving,” he says, his vain attempts to get the cigarette to catch sending up little blasts of phosphorous into the air. “Could write a story on the road – a Jack Kerouac kind of tale.”
Won’t the drive take them ages? “Ten hours,” says Dobinson. “It’s not that bad.” He turns to Sykes. “You should get your L’s so you can have a go on the road.” She stares at him. “Or you could just not drive?” he giggles.
This is the trio throughout the afternoon: talking shit and taking the piss, jovial, save for Dobinson’s occasional side-of-the-eye glances over to a distant section of the bar. When the chat is over, he’ll admit some of his friends were sitting in that corner, watching the interview, “blowing kisses the whole time.”
The kind of comradery Flowertruck have isn’t forced, or invented – Rushforth and Dobinson used to live together, and all that time spent rehearsing and playing gigs has solidified the bond between the men and Sykes, who joined the group after watching them play a show and offering her services as a musician. It’s that unfaked friendship that will prove key as they play bigger and bigger shows and as they blast through Bigsound’s exhausting schedule.
“In Brisbane, we’re playing more shows than there are days,” says Dobinson. “Yeah,” agrees Sykes. “It’ll be a test of our energy and resilience.” But Rushforth has a solution. “I’m gonna have a very clean diet,” he says with a shrug, finally-lit cigarette hanging out the corner of his lips. “Only quinoa, only kale.”
He’d better. Rushforth’s distinctive, stiffen-and-stutter performance style is one of the keys to the Flowertruck live experience, and his deliciously over the top dance routine – part Ian Curtis, part Andy Kaufman – often looks physically exhausting. It’s surprising then to hear that he suffers more from nerves than his bandmates: nothing about his live persona seems hesitant, or halting.
“Charles gets nervous,” Dobinson says. Sykes nods. “Charles locks himself in the bathroom and listens to Death Grips.” It seems like a joke, but nobody laughs.
“You get nervous before every show, in your own way,” Rushforth says, shrugging. “I mean, think about it: it’s some people’s worst nightmare. Trying to relate to 50 people at once. And that’s the trick – you gotta relate to every one there.”
The band nod. Dobinson looks down: there’s a dog hovering around the pot plant next to his leg, doing those distinctive, “I’m-about-to-pee” circles dangerously close to where he sits. “You have this orgasm moment when you’re playing,” he says, eyes on the dog. “It’s this moment of release, and it’s like, great.”
“Then you have to take the drum kit home!” Rushforth laughs. But suddenly his ear-to-ear smile softens, changes – the same way a Flowertruck song like ‘Tourmaline’ can snake through the hysterical to the painfully honest. And that’s the key, Rushforth says: honesty.
“When you tell the truth, that’s the key,” says Rushforth. “For me, the onus isn’t on consciously reaching out to the audience. You don’t think, ‘I’m gonna do an Adele and write these long songs about consciously relatable things like break-ups’. You don’t do that. You sing about the things that you relate to.”
Dobinson nods, then snaps his neck over to look at the pot plant-circling dog, who is pulling into a squat. Everyone turns to watch. “Is he weeing?” Rushforth wants to know. But the dog is not – it straightens and saunters back over to his owner. “Man, that would have been a great way to end,” says Rushforth. “So good: ‘They all sit and watch the dog wee.’” He laughs, leans back. Smiles. “Oh well.”
[Flowertruck photo by Luke Stephenson]
Flowertruck partake in King Street Crawl at Miss Peaches on Sunday September 4.Dirt is out now through Spunk.
