Thanks for the casual deadline. I've sat up all night trying to put pen to paper, recycled of course, re this bloody live Oils tape you sent me, "easy" you said, "just a few words about the Oils live... you've seen it enough... describe it from your side of things."

I remember them alright. Prospect Hill Hotel, Melbourne, a hot summer's night in 1980. The crew weren't saying much but the three-inch nails being used to secure the equipment to the stageshould have alerted me to the forthcoming onslaught. I watched with fascination as the monitor engineer tuned the lead singer's wedges whilst standing on top of a box. On questioning him he replied with a smug "you'll see." An ominous warning but what the heck, it was only a "one off" job for the day, just another band, it couldn't be that bad. Custer probably made the same observation.

That night a gargantuan figure cavorted recklessly across the stage ducking and weaving around three manic guitarists as some lunatic at the rear was trying his hardest to destroy the drum kit I had laboriously assembled in the afternoon. Two hours later I stood among the ruins, soaked in sweat, and still unsure of what I had just witnessed. I collected my day's pay and contemplated a safer career as a mercenary in a war zone somewhere.

Since that eventful introduction I've had the opportunity to follow the Oils to many diverse points of the globe. All shows memorable, but none more so than perfroming in the middle of the most beautiful hrabour in the world in the band's hometown, with "the Coathanger" as a backdrop and a view straight down to the Heads. This show ranks as the most technically difficult and the most vibrant in feel. The Oils have always tested the resilience of their fans, but the memory of watching the kids risking shark attack and mutant offsopring by swimming across Sydney Harbour just to get to Goat Island still amazes me.

To the punter. You're the same worldwide; frantic. I take this opportunity to finally communicate with you. You've spat at me, hit me, thrown missiles, dragged me off the stage, then back on; you've broken the amps, stolen the drums, you even stole our dingo in Broken Hill (the local copper probably still thinks I was having him on), but I'm still standing, and by the way, "Don't touch that!"

In my experience an Oils show is felt rather than seen, I feel it in the morning when we first arrive to set up. The loaders have the feel, the promoters, the ticket sellers, everyone. There's an air of anticipation throughout, 'The Oils are Coming' as one old poster used to announce.

There are no spectators here, if you're in the same room you're involved, and an Oils audience always gives as good as it gets.

Afterward when we're packing away the gear surrounded by the remnants of the gig/battlefield, that 'special' feel is still in the air. Something astonishing has just taken place. In that respect this set of songs has revived that feeling for me. I remember when each was recorded. I remember the laughs, worries and tantrums. Nothing replaces the atmosphere, but if you turn the volume knob to 11, put on three sweaters and jump up and down like a lunatic for a couple of hours, you can get pretty close.

And it's never dull. Touring across the top of northern Australia performin in the desert on red dirt to 50 Aboriginals then six months later, perfroming at a peace rally in Central Park, New York to 100,000 was to say the very least, amazing. Although the response was much the same, stunned. THe Oils are like that, subtle as a brick in the head dropped from 50 feet, ask the directors of Exxon! - another Midnight Oil statemnet gig - the New York police depatment made a few statements that day that don't bear repeating. The Oils have tried to speak everywhere through the years; Daintree Rainforest benefit in Sydney, Indigenous peoples show in Arizona and a worldwide television link-up for 'Our Common Future' are but just a few.

The most striking moment I can recall would be the making of the 'Forgotten Years' film clip in France. A grey dismal and misty day spent surrounded by endless rows of crosses marking the graves of the thousands of dead soldiers was a most sobering experience. This day brought home to me what Midnight Oil were saying - listen and enjoy but learn and don't forget.

The Prospect Hill Hotel seems a long way away now, but those five angry young men still belt out the best rock and roll that I have heard. Catch their music, catch their message, but above all catch them live at your club.

Michael Lippold - Oils live stage and production manager
Reproduced from the inlay to Scream in Blue - Live