I very much believe that social events are far more likely to be stored in our minds as “memorable” when they occur unexpectedly and through happenstance.

Take last Saturday night, for instance, when my wife and I had planned to grab a bite out. All the places we’d had in mind were full, so we drifted down Melbourne’s Victoria Street until we arrived at The Last Chance Rock & Roll Bar.

If you’ve never been, Last Chance (as its patrons affectionately call it) is a small but utterly authentic rock n’ roll pub. It comprises one modest main room, a small band room, a small kitchen, and an outdoor area – yet its modest physical dimensions belie its gigantic heart.

A case in point: consider the intense outpouring of support from punters during the dark days of Victoria’s peak COVID lockdown.

It doesn’t require much imagination to picture the context – like every live music venue in Melbourne, Last Chance was hit hard by the pandemic, so in an effort to keep the business afloat, the operators reached out to their punters.

Here’s a snippet from their public announcement to highlight the existential danger of imminent closure (and how talking about the real possibility of closing was “the hardest thing we are ever going to have to write”):

The Last Chance is the venue you play your first gig.
It’s the place you headline your first show.
The Last Chance is the first “sold out” sign on a front door you will ever get.
We’re the very first link between rehearsal and every other thing a band will do.
We’ve always been proud of that fact.

The announcement explained how “live music will not return to our stage in time to save us” on account of the venue’s prime revenue stream comprising drinks sales to people watching bands. It then detailed practical ways in which one could financially support the venue.

The subsequent outpouring of support was impressive, by the way, and I was rather pleased when I received my shirt.

So yes, Last Chance really is one of Melbourne’s most loved venues.

Now, I’ve seen been to Last Chance on various occasions, though nowhere near as often as I would have liked to. For my wife, though, it was her first visit. She’d wanted to go for some time, but we hadn’t gotten around to it on account of this deadly global pandemic business. And so, in the spirit of events being the most “memorable” when they occur unexpectedly, it was fortuitous that when we arrived – having initially planned to go elsewhere, during a week when we were just beginning to emerge from iso-hibernation – on a night when there happened to be a punk gig on, as evident by the number of marvellous patrons with vividly green spiked hair and grotty, black shirts.

It was a warm night, so my wife and I sat outside, enjoying dinner and a pint. As we talked I began to explain a little of the history, aesthetic, attitude and ethic of punk. In fact, I was veering dangerously close to something resembling an academic explanation of that tired cliché: “what is punk?”

But I shouldn’t have bothered.

At that moment, one of the punks appeared in the venue doorway, complete with glorious green hair, a shredded assortment of black DIYed clothes, and a tattoo collection that suggested they’d been acquired well before it was fashionable for normal people to get full sleeves.

“DickLaser are about to start,” she called to her mates. In response, half a dozen equally ratty and boot-wearing types stood up and lumbered inside.

I can’t recall my precise next words, but they went something like this: “Yeah, that pretty much sums up punk.”

It was a miniscule and yet glorious and unspoiled moment that conveyed so much more than would have otherwise been possible with any amount of words.

And there was one little segue, too.

The DickLaser show ended and the punks piled back out. Meanwhile, my wife and I had finished our meal. Or rather, we’d attempted to finish it. We’d ordered far too many hot chips (which The Last Chance does exceptionally well), so I shuffled over to the adjoining and now-full table, a near-full serving of chips in hand, and asked if anyone wanted them.

“Yeah, I’ll take some free f****n’ chips!” was the loud and enthusiastic proclamation from the punk who’d earlier announced that DickLaser were about to start.

Bless you, friend, I thought, and keep it real.

And the fact that this occurred is just one of many reasons to love The Last Chance Rock & Roll Bar.

Postscript: my wife and I had a bit of a laugh after I showed her this story. As I said, although I’ve frequented Last Chance on various occasions, I can’t actually remember what happened on my first visit. For my wife, however, the memory of her first visit to Last Chance will forever comprise sitting outside on a warm summer’s evening, ordering amazingly good hot chips, and a green-haired punk announcing that “DickLaser are about to start” to her mates. Oh, and “free f****n’ chips!”

Glorious!