Years later, the band would sit backstage at a sold-out gig in Sydney’s Enmore Theatre, laughing over a shared memory of how it all began. Or, more accurately, how nobody could agree on what really happened that night at The Howling Pint.
“I’m telling you,” Jesse said, leaning back in their chair and nursing a can of Solo, “it went down exactly like that. I got up, belted my heart out, and Alex here practically begged to drum for me.”
“Begged?” Alex scoffed, their laughter cutting through the room. “I was doing you a favor, mate. Your timing was all over the shop.”
Sam shook their head, pulling out their ever-present notebook. “Nah, nah, nah. If I hadn’t stepped in with some proper lyrics, you lot would’ve been singing about ‘feelings’ and ‘stuff.’”
“Oh, please.” Riley leaned against the wall, smirking as they tuned their guitar. “If it weren’t for me, we’d still be called ‘Drop Bear Riot.’ Remember that disaster of a name?”
“Disaster?” Jesse shot back. “That was gold.”
The band burst into laughter, the easy kind that comes from years of shared success and inside jokes.
The truth, of course, was far murkier than the polished story they told interviewers and fans. Jesse had shown up at The Howling Pint that night, sure, but only because a mate had dared them to. They’d been three schooners deep and barely remembered half the lyrics they sang.
Alex? They hadn’t tapped a rhythm out of admiration; they’d been annoyed by Jesse’s dodgy tempo and were trying to drown it out. When they approached after the set, it wasn’t with a casual swagger but more of a half-sloshed stumble.
Sam might’ve had a notebook full of lyrics, but the words they offered that night weren’t poetic gold—they were half-finished scribbles that barely rhymed. And Riley? They’d arrived late, sure, but only because they’d been kicked out of another bar earlier in the evening. That legendary riff Riley played? It wasn’t a spontaneous jam but a snippet of a song they’d stolen from their old band’s setlist.
The band would never admit these details to anyone outside their inner circle. After all, the story of four strangers coming together over shared pain and music was so much better.
“You reckon anyone believes the whole ‘hot chips on the curb’ bit?” Sam asked one night as they lounged in their tour van.
“Nah,” Jesse said with a grin, adjusting their sunglasses even though it was well past sundown. “But that’s the beauty of it, innit? Every band needs a myth. Ours just happens to involve chips and bad timing.”
Alex chuckled, tossing a drumstick from hand to hand. “Honestly, I can’t even remember what actually happened that night. Maybe it did go down like we say.”
“Or maybe it didn’t,” Riley said, strumming a lazy chord. “Who cares? All that matters is the music.”
And that, perhaps, was the real truth of Hoarders of Hurt: their origin didn’t matter nearly as much as what they made of it. The stories they told might have been a little blurry around the edges, but the music? That was sharper and more real than anything else.
