W
hen Westies cross the Waterview overbridge and look out over the Northwestern motorway, it’s with the same sense of wonder Moses felt when he reached the River Jordan and first saw the Promised Land. If you’ve spent 40 years in the wilderness, or even just 40 minutes in Parnell, the Northwestern snaking across the Waitemata mudflats is like a stairway to heaven. A couple of minutes hard driving in the fast lane and you hit the Rosebank Rd off-ramp; some Westies dream of a day when giant Angus Young Argonath statues will herald them home, but for now the great wreckers yard Pick-A-Part is an adequate sentinel. Just past the Rosebank River is the Whau River which runs from the Waitemata Harbour towards the Manukau, almost cutting the isthmus in two (Auckland City fathers insist this is the West Auckland frontier: Westie zealots lay claim to Avondale, Blockhouse Bay and even parts of Mt Albert, Waterview and Pt Chev.)

It’s good to go back. I moved to the Republic of West Auckland — to Glen Eden — in 1973 when I was two. Eight years later the whanau moved to New Lynn; stints in Green Bay, Titirangi, Henderson and Cornwallis followed. Though I’ve spent years in exile — I’ve done the Ponsonby/Grey Lynn flatting thing and am now living in town — there’s no doubt where my heart lies.

Most Saturdays, I head back to the family home in Henderson. I get off the Northwestern at Lincoln Rd, go past a lone vineyard, past big box retailers — the Pak ’n’ Slaves and Mitre 10 Megas — past Pizza Hut, Valentines and other West Auckland gourmet eateries and head into the heartland. I turn right on to Henderson Valley Rd where the new modernist civic buildings sit, pass Henderson High School, alma mater of Michael Jones, and then, on an 800-metre stretch of road, no fewer than 44 car-related businesses, including Al’s Blower Drives, purveyor of fine superchargers.

Outside West Auckland Engine Reconditioners, a huddle of black t-shirted brothers mooch, arms crossed, shades on, mullets gently fluttering in the breeze. I’ve no idea what these masters of inscrutability are talking about and in all probability neither do they…

I stop for a $1.80 pie at a quantity-not-quality Westie bakery; across the road, outside West Auckland Engine Reconditioners, a huddle of black t-shirted brothers mooch, arms crossed, shades on, mullets gently fluttering in the breeze. I’ve no idea what these masters of inscrutability are talking about and in all probability neither do they, but it doesn’t matter. They are members of a great tribe that ranges across the Anglo-Saxon world: there are comrade Westies in Wanganui, munters in Masterton, bogan hordes in the Hutt Valley; there are yobbos and Westies in Australia, crackers and trailer trash in the US, and chavs, slappers and Essexpersons in the UK. (Note: the mullet, sometimes pronounced “moo-lay”, is the signature haircut of the Westie male. Styles vary but it is typically short, even shaved, on the sides and top, with longer plumage flaring out the back. Bleached blonde, ideally with dark roots, is the favoured style of the Westie (iron) maiden. These beautiful creatures — Britney Spears is one — wear jeans so tight they’ve been poured on, tasseled jackets and “FM” boots. They always sit in the back).

My two long-haired, bearded brothers who live in Henderson are fine examples of the genre. They consider themselves “full-breeds” — Westies to the bone. Open the garage door and you find Alex, 18, working on an electric guitar — he’s hand-made nine from woods including recycled kauri, rosewood and African sapele. Matt, 23, who has just returned from the Saturday morning shift at Dulux New Lynn, checks on the home brew in the bath, then repairs to the garage to work on ‘Punani’, his 1974 Holden Premier HQ. The Westie Holy Trinity — hard rock, big cars and cheap liquor — is all here.

You’re defined by your wheels out West. There are no statues to people here, but there’s a statue of a car, the black Batmobile-like ‘Oblivion Express MK3’ down on Railside Ave, opposite King Dick’s Liquor Store. Billed as local artist Frank Womble’s “salute to the West Auckland racing fraternity”, it’s unclear if it’s a Holden or a Ford, though most Westies favour the former.

Certainly we’re a Holden family. And while Punani, its white flanks streaked with rust, has seen better days, Matt’s been saving hard for the past two years to rebuild the great machine. “I’ve put away plenty which we’ll spend mostly on panel work,” he says. “It’s got good running gear — it has a fresh 308 out of a VL Commodore and a strong T5 gearbox out of a ’94 Commodore. It’s breathing through a new Edelbrock carburettor and we recently had the LSD diff re-co-ed (reconditioned). But unfortunately the body lets it down.”

God knows what he’s talking about, but there’s no doubting the power of Punani. “When you drive around in that car,” Matt says, “you feel like a King. I have no idea how much horsepower it makes, but it’s more than adequate for any situation.”

“It’s a big monster,” Alex concurs. “It rumbles and shakes and roars — when you floor the thing, the engine writhes and twists like a caged beast.

“A couple of months ago we were cruising through Ranui and these little munters with mullets just ran out on to the street. There they were on the side of the road pumping their fists in the air and just going ‘Yeee-Ah!’

“That was the greatest moment of my life.”

A great moment in mine came eight summers ago when I packed up Grapes of Wrath, sunblock and some Vogels sandwiches and cycled along Scenic Drive, then on to Te Henga Rd, to Lake Wainamu at the back of Bethells Beach.

I stashed my bike in a clump of toi toi, then set off across the dunes where Xena and Hercules have fought. I found a nice spot by the lake, fell asleep in the sun, woke some time later and jumped in for a swim. For the next hour, maybe two, I floated on my back looking up at a crystalline sky through half-shut eyes. When I exhaled, my feet would slowly sink, when I breathed in, they’d rise. I remember thinking… about nothing really.

I don’t think anyone else was there, but then the vast West Coast iron-sand beaches always feel empty. Bethells aka Te Henga is my favourite, but there are also the primeval swamps of Whatipu, the splendid isolation of Anawhata, Murawai’s endlessness and Piha’s mighty Lion Rock, looking away from the tawdriness of what’s happening behind his back. And then, if you’re fan of The Piano, there’s Karekare, the perfect beach. Waitakere City Mayor, Bob Harvey, wrote a book about the West Coast, but another, Rolling Thunder, specifically about Karekare, where he’s been a surf-lifesaver for 40 years.

Like most frontier towns, there was always wildness and wilderness in West Auckland. There was a pine forest at the back of our house in Glen Eden, a vineyard next door, orchards down the road. This was a young boy’s dream playground — but progress has seen them swallowed up by Legoland houses.

Even the mighty Waitakeres — those dark, Satanic hills — are under assault, facing death by a thousand cuts. Just around the corner from my brothers’, up on Sturges Rd, an orange-tile army marches towards the foothills, its developer generals demanding more land.

Unlike most local governments who act as craven rubber-stampers for the wreckers, Waitakere City, and notably its leader, have done their best to halt the onslaught. Says my brother Matt admiringly, “Mayor Bob stands up against the Get Rich Quick property developer types who want to carve up the Ranges to make a buck.

“For a Mayor, he’s absolutely heroic. Bearing in mind he’s a public figure, he’s true to the Westie type. Piss him off [as one persistent opponent did] and Bob will drop his pants and moon you.”

It’s Tuesday evening and I’ve returned to my brothers’ to watch the documentary Outrageous Fortune. “Genuis,” says Alex. “Brilliant,” avers Matt, “though it does pander to the stereotype that Westies have one foot in the criminal camp. That we’re all outlaws and bandits on the fringe of the city.”

To this he could add: unwashed work-shy stoners; oil-smeared car monkeys; and indolent manual labourers.

“We can play up to the stereotype if that’s what people want,” says Matt. “But we’re more than that.

Matt Shapcott: “Without the tradesmen, the big fucking mansions in the city would never get built… Westies do the work. We’re the engine room of the economy.”

“We’re just a lot of average people really. Sure we can be a simple breed — many Westies just want to make a decent living, get a house in one of the new subdivisions, a boat, maybe a new Commodore… watch the ABs in the weekend — that’s their aspirations in life.

“Like all working-class areas there might be a few bludging the benefit, but most Westies are hard-working. They work long hours. They might not have glamorous jobs — there are heaps of tradesmen out here. But without the tradesmen, the big fucking mansions in the city would never get built.

“You know, I really fucking hate it when people look down on Westies as some kind of lower breed. I was in St Stephens Ave [Parnell] last week pricing up a job with some painters. There were some ladies of leisure out walking their dogs and I could see they were pissed off that these painters’ vans were there. Well… how else are their houses gonna get painted? They’re not going to do it themselves!”

My brother’s wound up now. “Westies do the work. We’re the engine room of the economy.”

There are several West Aucklands Outrageous Fortune overlooks. Kelston, Glendene and Glen Eden have significant Pasifikan populations, Titirangi is not called Remuera West for nothing and then there are the old hippie colonies in the hills. I lived for four years at Cornwallis beach where my neighbours would invite me over for vegetarian feasts, followed by ruminations on Rudolph Steiner and reiki healing over chai tea.

They’d host yoga classes in their lounge on Thursday evenings and sometimes, if the moon was up, we’d stumble through the bush to the beach after, nude up and splash amongst the phosphorescence. But no matter how attuned I become to the cosmos, it only takes the opening riff of Back in Black for the air guitar to come out.

We often slip on AC/DC post Outrageous Fortune. Recorded five months after the death of AC/DC lead singer Bon Scott (who died of alcohol poisoning in 1980), the album Back in Black was AC/DC’s tribute to their fallen frontman, as well as an emphatic statement of perpetual adolescence. It also happens to be the second biggest-selling album in history.

The title track, a paean to roguish resurrection, might just be the greatest song ever recorded. Even without the Young brothers’ driving guitars, the Shakespearean lyrics hit you in the heart:

Back in black, I hit the sack,
I’ve been too long, I’m glad to be back
Yes I’m let loose, from the noose,
That’s kept me hangin’ about
I been lookin’ at the sky, ’cause it’s gettin’ me high,
Forget the hearse, ’cause I never die
I got nine lives, cat’s eyes
usin’ every one of them and runnin’ wild

’Cause I’m back! Yes, I’m back!
Well, I’m back!… Yes I’m back in black!

Twice in its 4:14 duration Back in Black starts to wind down, only to rip back at you like a rabid wolverine. There are other great Westie rockers in the canon — American bluesmen ZZ Top, famous for their Rasputin beards and leggy blonde concubines; Jimi Hendrix, who you may refer to as “Jimi” or “Hendrix” but never both; cock-rockers Led Zeppelin whose Whole Lotta Love has been played at the precise moment of conception of a thousand Kanes, Shanes and Waynes; and of course The Doors whose shaman Jim Morrison professed in the elegiac The End, “The West is the Best”. But AC/DC are the maddest and the baddest and indisputably the best. “Nobody else plays deafeningly loud nuts-and-bolts basic rhythm and blues like AC/DC,” declared the Guardian’s Keith Cameron. “So long as there are riffs to be played, AC/DC are the only ones fit to play them.”

“They’re a hero band,” says Matt, “They’re what all of us want to be.”

And if you doubt my brother, gentle North & South reader, then I suggest you purchase Stiff Upper Lip, the AC/DC concert DVD filmed at the Munich Olympic stadium in front of 80,000 crazed Krauts. You’ll revel in the band’s excesses: the colossal Angus Young statue, smoke issuing from its ears; the giant bell descending from the heavens; the enormous blow-up doll cavorting on stage during Whole Lotta Rosie; the cannons firing all over the place.

And you’ll be enthralled at their frenzied energy, astonishing when you learn this concert was recorded in 2001, nearly 30 years after the band was formed. These are old blokes — as a blogger wrote on an AC/DC fansite, “They’ve been around long enough to have stripped the knickers off your grandma, your mum, your sister AND your girlfriend”. Yet they play like dervishes: Brian Johnson, 54 at the time, all muscle and menace in black singlet and cheesecutter, belts out the anthems in his rasping concrete-cutter voice (the bourbon-soaked body of predecessor Bon Scott resides in a Perth cemetery, his grave reputedly the most visited in Australia and now a national heritage site). He’s backed by drummer, Phil Rudd 48, a never-ending cigarette dangling from the lip, mulleted guitarists Cliff Williams, 51 and Malcolm Young 49, and a maniacal little man in a school uniform who plays his 1968 Gibson SG guitar like a god.

This is Angus Young, 5ft 2in tall, recently ranked number one by Maxim magazine in their list of the “25 Greatest Short Dudes of All Time” (ahead of Napoleon Bonaparte, Martin Scorsese and Yoda). He’s a master of the one-handed hammer-on and he is also The Greatest of All Westies. When I was living in the UK in 2001, my little brother Alex, then 12, would ring me up and play the opening riff of Thunderstruck that he’d taught himself: I’d be moved to tears with homesickness.

Four songs into the 21-song Stiff Upper Lip’s set, Angus has lost his schoolboy’s cap and blazer; by Back in Black, he’s shirtless, gasping, sweat-drenched. But he plays on; his 15-minute guitar solo in Let There be Rock climaxing in his “spasm”, where he throws himself to the ground, kicking, convulsing, and spinning like a burn-out. And still he plays on!

To see this — and my brothers and I watch these sacred DVDs on a weekly basis — is an affirmation of the West, Matt reckons.

“You watch those videos and concerts — we know all the words to all the songs — and it just makes you feel good inside to see five men in their 50s going hard out for two-and-a-half hours. Harder than any band.

“What they do is very honest. They give everything on stage.”

Alex: “Look at Angus — the sweat pouring off him like a waterfall. He plays to exhaustion.

“Anyone who says they don’t like AC/DC, haven’t listened to them. Anyone who knows anything about music likes them. How can you not like this?

Too right! After a decent session, it’s time for me to head back into the city. At the lights by the Henderson shops, a big red Commodore pulls up alongside. I’m listening to Radio Sport, but I hear the familiar three chords of AC/DC from his:

I’m rolling thunder, pouring rain
I’m coming on like a hurricane.

I look across and grin. The brother looks back — gives me the raised eyebrow salute. He understands.

Essay first published in North & South magazine, August 2007.