Mumble Mansion
Many living in Dunedin in the 70's may remember Mumble Mansion at 37 Hope Street.
Click here for some photos from the early days.
Or read an account of its history (1972 to 1977) below as I remember it.
A History of Mumble Mansion
Why Mumble Mansion
Mumble Mansion was a place in Dunedin where a bunch of like-minded young folk experienced life.
We had been living in assorted student flats in Dunedin and decided we needed a place for us all to enjoy our lifestyles together. At the end of 1972, a solid 2-storey 8-room house on the corner of Stafford and Hope Streets became available for rent at just $50 per week. There was also a basement that covered the entire floor area of the building – this clearly had potential as a lounge area / party area.
There were a couple of flats in Dunedin that had names, so we needed to give our home-to-be a name. Jacqi came up with 'Mumble Mansion' … Yes!! That's it!! See, by that stage, the word 'Mumble' had become a big part of our vocabulary. What? 'Mumble'? Ok, there's a story to 'Mumble' ...
Underwater Airlines
A few months earlier, Benny was having an 'Underwater Airlines' party for his 21st ... Ok ... 'Underwater Airlines' was a sub-group of 'Dinosaur Swamps' at varsity the year before ... right ... 'Dinosaur Swamps' was the name of an album just released by Flock, and a bunch of us at the time wanted a name for our group at the 'Mini-Congress' being held near Palmerston in early 1971 ... well, it's all history.
So anyway, many of us travelled to Christchurch for this amazing Underwater Airlines party at Benny's house. There were three separate worlds, each with its own music and lighting. Folks were absorbed in what was going on around them and in their brains (that had all been enlightened with Hofmann's Potion). Tony had gone on an amazing long-distant journey to galaxy Andromeda, just lying on the floor of one world, unable to speak for hours. Meanwhile, a bunch of us were out on the lawn of another world getting ready to fire rockets at the stroke of midnight of 5/6 August. Russ was trying to light the first rocket, so we all huddled round in a close circle to give some protection from the breeze. To help, I tossed in the words "Mumble Fuck", which then were picked up by all in the circle, and we all began to mutter "Mumble Fuck" as assistance. At that point, Tony had returned from Andromeda and was able to walk again, and joined our huddle. "Mumble Fuck" were the first words he spoke after being reborn. "Mumble Fuck! Ha ha ha! Mumble Fuck! Ha ha! Mumble Fuck!" he kept laughing as he wandered off again. Before long, 'Mumble' was included in every sentence Tony spoke that night: "Let's go and get a Mumble Burger" ... "You're all just a bunch of Mumblers!" ... "Have you got a license to Mumble in a built-up area?" and so on.
In the following months, 'Mumble' became part of our vocabulary, and soon was used to denote that enlightened state of mind we all enjoyed in those days. So when Jacqi came up with 'Mumble Mansion', we looked no further for a name to give our new home.
The Early Days
By the start of 1973, there were about 10 of us living at Mumble Mansion - some varsity students, and some employed workers. The neighbours had not seen anything like it in that part of town ... "Oh, there's a strange lot of young people that have just moved into that flat down the street" was overheard at the corner-shop. But we were proud of our unique identity, a bit like a bunch of hippies in an urban commune. We felt we had our own 710 Ashbury Street (but perhaps not quite the same level of musical skills).
The basement below ground level had rough stone outer walls, an asphalt floor, and brick archways that followed the layout of the double-brick walls throughout the house above. Access was through what looked like just a cupboard under the stairs by the kitchen, and down a narrow steep staircase. Benj had already converted a corner of the basement into a workshop for his first self-made wood lathe. Our plans for a common area in the basement were just a dream in the early days. But after several months, we finally got to work. We partitioned off an area as our lounge, using recycled timber and heavy cardboard within the arches for walls. The floor had recycled carpets with newspapers as underlay, and the entrance near the staircase had a heavy curtain. Then, with some old furniture, speakers mounted in the rafters above us, and a kerosene heater in a fake fireplace with a real mantelpiece, we had our lounge and party room.
The Parties
The parties became regular events. Some were just a bunch of us listening to music and smoking herbs. Others were larger events that became quite popular with many regulars who would always turn up. Some were theme parties, eg: Shakespearean Party, complete with classic invitations to ‘Come along attired as the character of your choyce’. Ian came along in his normal clothes, claiming to be Yorick. I was Hamlet’s father. We had a cauldron hanging by a chain from the ceiling, and inside that was a pot of Sue's mulled wine. In the space between the two containers was water kept hot with an immersion heater; lumps of dry ice in the hot water provided a dramatic cascade of fog flowing over the sides of the cauldron as guests dipped the ladle into the mulled wine. Some guests were too scared to partake in the wine due to concerns of its content, ala Electric Kool-Aid Acid Tests.
Another party was a Mexican night with ponchos, sombreros, and tequila … lotsa tequila.
After a year or so, it became clear we needed more space for our functions. Temporary walls were moved; more recycled carpets put down, and velvet curtains were hung up to close off the lounge when needed, or open up a large party/music room. Russ installed coloured lights on dimmers, and I extended the sound system. The Mumble Mansion party basement became a popular venue on Saturday nights. The parties were varied with many themes and fancy-dress nights. They were enjoyed by all, and no trouble was ever experienced in those times.
Mumble Events
Then there some were ‘special’ parties with a select few present, psychedelic music, and Russ’s oil wheel projecting some amazing fluid images on the rough stone walls. The music was always a major element on those cerebral journeys: Jefferson Airplane/Starship, Cream, Beatles, Pink Floyd, Santana, King Crimson, Grateful Dead, Small Faces, Hendrix, etc. We would fly Jefferson Airplane (‘guaranteed to blow your mind’) through the purple haze and clear light into the orange sunshine, over the strawberry fields of Hawaiian lime, and past the tangerine trees into the marmalade skies. There we all were, sitting in a rainbow at Itchycoo Park, and all that we knew was the hole in my shoe was letting in water (letting in water). So we’d turn off our minds, relax and float downstream, listening to the colour of our dreams. We came across an empty space that trembled and exploded, left a bus stop in its place; the bus came by and we got on, that's when it all began; there was Cowboy Neal at the wheel of the bus to never ever land. Floating down the stream of time, we’d carve deep blue ripples in the tissues of our minds. We’d wonder if this is tomorrow, or just the end of time. And if tomorrow was today, it would be yesterday. So we’d set the controls for the heart of the sun, go up on A-Deck to see the stars tonight, and watch the sunrise from the bottom of the sea. Yeah, the music left some smoking craters of our minds …
Basement Music
As well as frequent 'mumbling' (a bit like Bob Weir in 1966), most folks were into music. I had a drum-kit, as did Tony. Then Chris joined the flat, also with a drum-kit. For the sanity of the neighbours, we agreed to play the drums (in our own rooms) only between 7 and 8 pm. When the basement party area was extended, I moved my drum-kit downstairs (this was kinder on the neighbours), and we began to have Sunday afternoon jams. Grant (guitar) and James (flute) would turn up regularly. Tony took the drums, and I learned to play my imitation Hofner bass (as used by Paul McCartney, hence known as ‘Beatle Bass'). We’d pick on a few standards like ‘Black Magic Woman’ and ‘House of the Rising Sun’, and explore our musical paths. As flat-mates came and went, many were musos (Paul, Dave, Andy, to name a few) who would also enjoy the jamming.
Craziness
The fun times in that place were boundless. We all had an affinity with Monty Python and hence bouts of crazy behaviour came forth regularly. One day, Reg tied knots in the corners of his handkerchief, popped it on his head and started talking like Mr Gumby. Next thing, 4 or 5 of us had hankies on our heads, trousers rolled up, shoulders hunched with fists by our sides, all talking Gumby style. This craziness soon escaped the flat and we marched to Pathmark Supermarket two doors along Stafford Street. Russ and someone else did the cameraman/soundman thing as we wandered around the aisles looking for Spam in our loud Gumby voices. Mothers with worried looks clutched their children to their sides. A week later, we descended on Pathmark dressed up as gangsters with trench coats, hats, dark glasses, stockings on our heads, violin case, etc – again to the delight of the staff at Pathmark. In each case, one flat-mate had gone ahead to warn Dave the manager of the impending visit – we had a great relationship with our supermarket.
One full moon, a couple of us put on grotesque masks, Benj stuck black hair on his face, Mary made up Gothic (10 years before Gothic became a thing), and we took to the town in my black 1947 L15 Citroen. We would stop by pedestrians asking them the way to the morgue. One lonely constable was waiting at a pedestrian crossing when we accosted him. “Tell us the way to the morgue.” “Huh?” was his response. “Where is the morgue? We’re hungry.” “Huh?” as he shone his torch in the car at each grotesque face. “Where is the morgue, we’re looking for the morgue.” “Huh?” was all that poor cop could say, so we drove off leaving him wondering if it was time to quit the job.
Over the four and a bit years living there, the population changed considerably. Ages ranged from 18 months to 70 years; some stayed for years, some just a few days. The mailman knew where Mumble Mansion was and we always got the mail if it was addressed to ‘Mumble Mansion’, even if it was addressed to the wrong street. And the police knew of the place, not that we ever caused any problems. But in those days, the drug squad had conservative views on those who quietly smoked some herbs without disturbing anyone else. Consequently, there was the occasional early morning visit, which was a great waste of time for everyone concerned because no illegal substance was ever found in anyone’s room.
Mr McL
Alec was our landlord for the first four years. He was great. We only saw him if we got behind in the rent. But at the end of 1976, he put the house on the market. It was taken over by Mr McL, a small man with a huge ego who wouldn’t stop talking. He arrived and announced he was putting the rent up to $90 (almost double). We had 24 hours to agree to his terms, or he’d bring in a new motorcycle gang that wanted a place to rent. He proudly announced that he had muscled other tenants out of flats by using this tactic. He also told us that our basement was not part of the flat, and he was taking it over. Then while we were all out, he had kicked in the door and set up in our basement with a couple of his unsavoury mates in motorcycle leathers. They were throwing our stuff around and acting like menacing morons. We could not negotiate with this megalomaniac so we retreated upstairs, and called the police. Eventually two young constables arrived, one male and one female, and after hearing our predicament, they went down into the basement. We could hear Mr McL ranting on and on, and then the cops came back upstairs, apologised, and retreated, saying it was a civil matter.
Meanwhile, we could hear the morons downstairs getting drunk and more obnoxious. So I phoned Mike, the only lawyer I knew of. He informed me that McL was well outside the law and he had to go. "Just toss him out!" But we did not want to deal with those unpleasant morons, one carrying a large knife, and the other a chain. While on the phone to Mike, McL came upstairs, saw the many friends who all arrived to support us, and started ordering them out of the house. One large visitor did not take kindly to being ordered around and next thing was holding McL up against the wall by his throat with his feet dangling about 6 inches off the floor. “No don’t!” was the response from one of the more peaceful friends “Don’t kill him. Not yet.” So he was unceremoniously dropped. Meanwhile, I was still on the phone to lawyer Mike and told him things are getting out of hand here. He said to call the cops. “I have, they came and left, saying it’s a civil matter.” “Well, go down to the police station and talk to the senior sergeant!”
The Senior Sergeant
So Eddie and I got in my car and drove to the central police station. We were taken to the senior sergeant’s office, and he was talking to the two young cops that had visited and retreated earlier. He said that Mr McL had to go. Next thing he was giving orders to several officers on who would do what. After a while, there were a large number of policemen with their batons in the office, and the sergeant turned to me and said: “Ok Mr van Eerten, you lead the way!” So Eddie and I hopped in the Mk I Zephyr and headed towards Mumble Mansion with a squadron of cop cars in tow. The neighbours were probably thinking, "Ooh, the Mansion is being raided again…"
Once inside, all the police gathered in the hallway. I could hear McL in the kitchen now with the flat-mates. One officer instructed me to ask all the residents and friends to move to the upper floor. McL in the kitchen saw me with a police officer, and started his ranting again, "Oh, so you’ve brought another one of your friends this time ... ". The officer nodded at me: "Mr van Eerten …"; to which I gave McL his first trespass warning. "Yeah Ok, but I’m gonna say …" and off he went again. After more blithering, the police officer rolled his eyes: "Ok, Mr van Eerten" and I gave McL his second trespass warning. McL, knowing the law, immediately stopped short… "Ok, we’re going. May I just get my bag from downstairs." Only then did he see the hallway was bristling dark blue in cops!
The Lawyers
The next morning, McL came in early and talked at me while I was still in bed. He told me he had three of Dunedin’s top lawyers on this case, and we’d still be out in 24 hours. About all I said to him was “Ok”. But as with many megalomaniacs, he was just full of shit. After a few weeks without been given any means of paying the rent, Benj and I visited his lawyer – not a team of three, but a timid elderly gentleman. We handed the lawyer a written list of the goods damaged, told him McL will forego a chunk of rent as compensation (about 3 weeks), and that we will pay $200 every 4 weeks to him (the lawyer).
... the End
But by then, with the uncertainty of our future, the magic of Mumble Mansion was waning. Sadly one of the residents had started on heroin, and this brought in the dark clouds. In May 1977, I was offered a house to rent at the end of North East Valley and told the others I was leaving. Within hours, everyone was making plans on where they were going to go, and by the end of the month, Mumble Mansion sadly came to an end.
But it left helluva story!
