The sweat, smoke, and cold misery of thousands of defeated fist-fighters never seems to leave the suspended air of Melbourne’s Festival Hall. Even though the venue’s famous boxing ring has been disassembled for tonight’s show, the hall’s echo-enhancing walls still reverberate with the tolling clang of the bell. It’s a big, bloodied, booming cavern.

I’m here as a wide-eyed 13 year old anticipating the presence of true rock’n’roll royalty.