Almanac (Pub) Life: The Last Chance to Save The Tote

 

Pubs are in my DNA – my dad was raised in one (one I don’t think would merit a place on this kind of list, but maybe I can write about it in full one day.) The Grand Central Hotel in Cobram, owned by my Nan and Pop, a fiery pair who divorced long before I was born and only sat in the same room for Christmas again less than one year before my pop passed. It’s where Dad grew up, his first job and where he lived when he met – and started dating – my mum. I think this plays a major role in why they’re so important to me – Dad had these standards growing up that I think he must’ve passed onto me.

 

If you aren’t familiar with my past pub yarns I’ve written for the Almanac, I’ll fill you in on my standards for what constitutes a good pub: a good happy-hour special, a bartender who’s kinda an asshole, but in that loveable way that keeps you coming back for more, and a pool table (preferably one that doesn’t need coins, because I’m 22 and haven’t carried cash in a decade). I say it now and say it almost every time I write, I’m a pub purist. I don’t want renovated, flashy hotels, I want nitty gritty. Carpet that’s worn down to its shiny underlay, paint that’s peeling off the wall. It’s real and it’s authentic; it’s where you feel most comfortable. While on paper, these sound like easy criteria to meet, it feels like pubs like this are few and far between these days. We live in a time of increasing pub gentrification, swapping worn out carpet for tasteful exposed brick walls and industrial-style hanging lights.

 

When I last wrote – in my opinion – on one of Australia’s greatest pubs, The Humpty Doo Hotel – my profile was riddled with personal bias. And that’s not to say that it’s wrong. To be human is to be riddled with stories and sentiment that impact who you are. But it is to say that what I would say is the best, may totally have missed the mark of someone who does not share those same stories.

 

All this is a long way to say that I wanted my second instalment of The Footy Almanac mandated booze cruise to be viewed through a more objective lens. I live in Melbourne, which we can all collectively agree is the nightlife capital of Australia, so I was in no, no way short of options on what should be my focus. But, if you’re local to the area, or a lover of live music, there’s one pub you’ve heard about more times than you could count in the past year alone – The Tote Hotel. I think I’d run out of breath before getting a quarter of the way through the list of legends who’ve played at the Tote: Paul Kelly, The White Stripes, Courtney Barnett, Violent Soho, The Scientists and – give me a second, I’ve got less in me than I thought – Lydia Lunch. But before The Tote became The Tote, it had already lived a whole ‘nother life.

 

The hotel was first built in 1870 as Healey’s Hotel, when Daniel Healey purchased the land that had been occupied by shopkeepers operating in a wooden shanty. The beginning of the pub set the scene for its first few decades in operation, with Danny boy supposedly insolvent at the time of purchase, and cheekily (and fraudulently) transferred the deed over to his wife Bridget Healey. By 1871 Healey was looking at his second insolvency for a whopping ??£212 and 7s (someone should’ve told the bloke to stick to his day job), and by 1876, the joint had been renamed Healey’s Ivanhoe Hotel.

 

The first Healey croaked in 1894, but another, in the form of Danny’s son Mick, quickly took over the reins (though interestingly enough never belonged to him, the deed remained in Bridget’s possession until 1906, at which time it was skipped over Mick onto his sisters). Lucky enough for both the pub and you, dear reader, this is where the story gets interesting. There’s an air of legend that clouds this era of the pub and Mick ‘The Human “Tote”’ himself, a famous bookie in his time. There’s stories surrounding Mick and his mates using the venue as a betting shop – something highly illegal at its time – From a year before Danny got knocked off till about 1905. A big name of the bunch, and the most prominent tie to these tales is John Wren, an infamous figure immortalised in Frank Hardy’s novel Power without Glory. However, stories may just be that, with many historians dubbing it a tall tale, another tea shop was being used for the cover up only 200m down the road during this time. Closely tied to these tales are those of tunnels, rumoured that the Ivanhoe Hotel and Wren’s totaliser were connected by a network of tunnels, though historians will tell you the same thing as the prior – the distance between the two properties makes for an unlikely truth.

 

The 70-year reign of the Healeys ended with Mick, who died in 1940. The pub was snatched up by Stanley Bell, then owner of Richmond’s Eureka Hotel, but bar a few renovations there’s not much of note within this era. So I’ll get back into the likely untrue stories – ghosts. Whispers around the joint will tell you all about the ghoul that inhabits the Tote, often seen on the pub’s steps. As for who it is, that’s where the stories start to differ. The easy picks are Daniel and Bridget Healey, who both died on site. Then there’s Ellen M’Carthy – a domestic servant who gave birth at the pub and hid the infant in a box beneath her bed, by the time the baby was found it was too late.

 

 

(a clipping from The Age, 16 June 1905, p. 4)

 

 

There’s not much more that I can say about the time before The Tote was The Tote, and I know that’s not what you came here for. The main part of this backstory starts in 1980 with the Doherty family – Jack, Joan, and brothers John and Paul – took on the Ivanhoe. Chatting with John, he tells me how the pub looked a little different in its time, with the pub featuring Italian restaurant Tony’s Trattoria. He also tells me how in Collingwood’s pre-gentrification period, this left for a humorous contrast, with the middle class eating in the restaurant and crims in the front bar. “The stolen from out the back and the stealers out front,” John jests.

 

After a year in operation, it was clear the Ivanhoe was in need of a major reinvention was needed to turn a profit, so the family, with Paul and friend Micheal Lynch in the lead, took the old pub and made it something new. The new joint was set in a new direction the site hadn’t seen before, with a focus on local bands.

 

As for the name, John tells me of Frank Hardy, and how the wordster  was a regular at the pub (and borrowed a bit of money off Jack). When the venue started, discussion formed around a rename, and John Wren was brought up, so with Frank sitting in the front bar, Jack asked him if they could rename the joint “The Tote”. The rest is history.

 

I also got the opportunity to chat with Paul Doherty, one part of the duo that started booking gigs at the Tote. He tells me how the government changed the tax loopholes around business lunches, and without workers coming in for a bite to eat Tony’s took a downturn soon after. After which, it was neither him or Michael but rather dad Jack who booked the first band at the pub to drum up new business. The Dancehall Racketeers was the pub’s first major gig, with 300 people packed shoulder to shoulder in the pub to watch them play.

 

The Tote got its advertising the old fashion way, through word of mouth. Bands soon started showing up to ask to play, and brought the crowds with them. This is actually how Michael came about, a school friend of Paul, the then radio host and band manager showed up at The Tote having no clue Paul’s family was running the joint. The two had a handful of catch-up drinks, got to chatting and Michael got roped into the whole ordeal. The two then went on to book The Tote into infamy, and eventually once their reign was ending, Michael suggested Paul play with a little band called The Johnnys –  Paul is still a band member to this day.

 

 

The Johnnys

 

 

While the Lynch and the Doherty’s impact made The Tote the legend it is today, there’s no reign lasting like those from Healey’s days, since its rebranding it seems keys to the joint have passed through owners hands as much as a pint glass passes through its patrons. After Doherty there was John Soccio, and he stuck around for about seven years after he bought the joint in ‘94. In the early noughts, he told a story to a journo at The Age about how after a health inspector told him the carpet, hardened by booze, shoes and a disturbing range of bodily fluids, was not up to code he responded “that’s not carpet. It’s lino”. But lino or not, the floor stood no chance against his successor Richie Ramone who wasted no time ripping them up.

 

After Ramone there was licensee Bruce Milne, who then passed it on to Jon Perring, Andy Portokallis and Sam Crupi, who owned the establishment until last year. Perring, Portokallis and Scrupi faced an uphill battle during their time: in 2010 a change to licensing requirements by the Liquor Licensing Commissioner saw the Tote’s doors temporarily shut, deeming the venue ‘high-risk’ and in need of additional and insurance after a number of high-profile booze induced violent attacks. To its rescue came 20,000, who brought Melbourne’s CBD to a grinding halt on a Tuesday with the SLAM (Save Live Australia’s Music) rally, and the Tote lived to see another day.

 

Of course, no pub history is complete without mention of ‘Rona, and for the Tote the virus caused a bit of a stir. Prior to 2020, The Tote was Australia’s busiest and most active venue, staging 2,500 bands a year, but in March of last year Perring and Scrupi announced they were departing with the much beloved venue, stating that the pandemic and the passing of Portokallis, who had lost his battle to cancer the year before, had left them with ‘no petrol left in the tank’.

 

The Tote was left in need of saving again, and this time The Last Chance Rock & Roll Bar stepped up to the podium. But with a steep price of $6 million, some community action came into play. Led by owners Shane Hilton and Leanne Chance, Last Chance set up a crowdfunding page to raise $3 million of the cost, with private investors to match the other half. With fundraising shows, t-shirts, and most ironically tote bags, 12,000 Australian music lovers donated to meet the sum that eventually saved the hotel.

 

 

Artwork for The Last Chance Save The Tote, branded on posters, mugs, and totes. @thelastchancerockandrollbar

 

 

It’s a Sunday afternoon the day I go to visit the Tote with this piece in mind. It’s an unseasonably warm early spring day and the sun is out. I haven’t taken the time to get to know the Tote in the daylight, see her nooks and crannies up close. At the time of entry it’s me, my boyfriend, the barkeep and a man charging his electric bike under the stairs having a pot. Amongst sharpie tags, picked off paint, and an assortment of community-donated stickers, the walls are covered in posters of bands who had once played; Rawtism, Dental Plan, The Hellacopters, The Datsuns, The Havenots, The Thes (that last one is of my own contribution).

 

I have a pint or two and perform perhaps my best game of pool in my career (boyfriend down to the eight, myself with four stripes left, proceeding to sink five consecutively for the comeback of the century, but I digress) I find the confidence to talk to the bartender about the bar. It’s an awkward sort of conversation (Siri, how do you have a normal conversation after you tell a stranger you’ll be transcribing everything they tell you?), and the band, Echo Social Club, is starting to sound check with a speaker way too loud for the room it’s in, but I manage to get a little bit out of him about the last few years; how the joint crawled out of Covid on its last legs, how the new owners are fixing up the kitchen and a couple other bits and bobs, and a shout out AARDVARK, a heavy metal quartet that had done a Sunday residency and played their first show at The Tote.

 

You have to walk through the bathroom to get round to the beer garden out back, though I’m not even sure you could call it that. The concrete still had the reminiscent mark of painted white lines, hinting to me that I was sitting in a parking space graveyard, and the plywood benches barely held together. If anyone else was writing this you’d think these were negative marks, but I loved it. Beyond the fact that this is quintessential northern suburbs (ungentrified) nightlife, there’s an entirely different nostalgic feeling to it. I can only relate it to the feeling of being 19 and drinking in the backyard of your mates’ first sharehouse; dead unmown lawn, cracked concrete and that outdoor living set they got for free off marketplace. I don’t think life gets a whole lot better after that.

 

On the outside of the Hotel writes ‘END INDIGENOUS DEATHS IN CUSTODY’, an obvious statement that should obviously raise no questions. But on the off chance that you want to work in a word or two of ‘wokeness’ – this value system is the Tote at its core, always has been.

 

 

‘Don you all your gay apparel … lesbians, gay men & their friends gay xmas – party & cabaret’

 

 

While the specific year is still up for debate, the use of The Ivanhoe Hotel indicates a strong idea that this party was held in 1981, mere months after its rebrand. And though not nearly as acceptable as it is today – it really shouldn’t come as a surprise. Queerness, intersectionality, and punk culture have historically always been in close relation to each other. A strong connection still existing today shows nothing more than an unwavering dedication to values it has upheld since its beginning.

 

And I think, if I could summarise the Tote in one sentence – it’s just that. There’s soul in the Tote, and it’s not just the ones supposedly haunting it. It’s one that you can sense has always been there and has no intention of going away anytime soon. It doesn’t need to be pretty or have all the bells and whistles because it’s real, and that’s a rare commodity these days. So, here’s my second recommendation of the series; If you ever find yourself in Melbourne, head up to Collingwood and have a pint or three, catch a live band, stop for a pit stop on your way out to the beer garden. You might even catch me there again, but it’s just as likely you’ll find me out looking for the next spot worth writing home about.

 

 

Read more from Grace Mackenzie HERE

 

 

 

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