It seems like a three dimensional rock dream at the moment, now that we've been connected into the international rock grid.

When every act you ever dreamed about is passing through Auckland airport like it was the last stop before the Great Antarctic Rock Paradise.

Well what happens when a country the size of New Zealand is confronted with the legends of a distant culture?

And tomorrow the Tourist Board may get the Beatles. Anything. And at the same time there's a national scene which craves definition, recognition: and bands not owned by the Breweries; whose managers walk the streets, the country dangling their acts like an unclean cock that people don't want.

But it's not a cock. It's a perfect arrow, and a sign which says: Here! .... Now! And why aren't you writing about us? Helping. We've an audience: we've got the music: the spirit. Everything but the goddamn press who can take rock out of the men's room! Liberate it from the wretchedness of eternal Saturday night partying!!!

Will the rock press please stand up! ... Oh I see ... you're already up, . . and did I see you moving?