Chapter 1

The Most Misunderstood Teenager On The Planet

It all began when I was about 12 or 13. My stepsister handed me a box of tapes that would contain the key to my listening obsessions forevermore. Einstürzende Neubauten, Siouxie and the Banshees, The Smiths, The Birthday Party, The Cult, Joy Division, Boys Next Door and so many more. All the ingredients were there.

I was of course The Most Misunderstood Teenager On The Planet, and this was the soundtrack to my supposedly unique feelings of isolation and impending doom.

But I couldn't just listen to these sounds in my bedroom on my old ghetto blaster or tinny Walkman on the school bus and feel sated, I needed a visual aesthetic to accompany my internal pain. I needed dark clothing and makeup and I had to recruit my close friends into my burgeoning cult.

An Australian summer is, of course, every goth's worst enemy.

We stalked through the school in our black dresses, looking downcast and dreaming of a life outside those hideously banal walls.

I would argue with my parents about the necessity of wearing my 10-hole Doc Martens on a 38-degree day.

An Australian summer is, of course, every goth's worst enemy. Make up slides off, tights are horribly impractical, long black velvet jackets impossible. That evil sun destined to tan our pasty white skin.

Weekends were spent dissecting song lyrics in cafes, watching indie music videos, trying to get into gigs and scouring markets and op shops for the next crucial outfit.

We would hang out in the alternative section of the record store; I once bought Echo and The Bunnymen's Reverberation on the strength of a cute goth boy's recommendation. No small undertaking given cassettes were so expensive and pocket money was low.

There was plenty of dodgy, angst-ridden poetry. In Year 11 drama I directed a bad play based on the literary classic Salome, with Nick Cave song interludes and red gel lighting.

There may have even been cheap red wine consumed in graveyards; the ultimate melancholy pastime.

We weren't run-of-the-mill goths in our mind. Our attempts to outwardly recreate how we were feeling on the inside made us a cut above.

No one understood us – not our parents and certainly not our peers. The next step was to find like-minded souls to wallow in the dark aural goodness and feel at home, that's where Sanctuary Nightclub came in.

Chapter 2

She Sells Sanctuary

My first visit to the club in the early ‘90s was a ground-breaking moment. Everyone was dressed like me, in black netting and lace, with carefully applied makeup and the same deadpan expression.

I'd found goth Mecca.

The music was phenomenal, and the woman behind the mixing desk was DJ S.H.E – aka club founder Wallemina Von Dutchland – who started the venue in 1989 as a safe space for those on the outer fringes. The name Sanctuary was particularly relevant for this haven of counter culture.

“For me Sanctuary has a few meanings,” S.H.E explains. “One of the things behind that and my DJ name is a love of the band The Cult and their song ‘She Sells Sanctuary'.

“I looked up the word Sanctuary and thought well, it's a safe space, shelter, retreat, hideout, den, asylum; perfectly well suited I thought. Somewhere people can feel relaxed and themselves, just a safe place. I just thought that's a perfect name for the club.”

People just felt very comfortable, no one was judging anybody. DJ S.H.E.

S.H.E experienced alienation and very real isolation at an early age, growing up in children's homes in Holland.

At 18 she moved to Amsterdam, where she lived with punks and goths in squats and found her tribe.

When she first heard Bauhaus and Nina Hagen, like me, her musical future was cemented. She travelled through Europe and the UK, eventually making her way to Sydney in the ‘80s.

“I was working behind the bar at The Site (formerly The Picadilly Hotel) in Kings Cross,” she recalls. “The owner liked what I was about and liked my interests and said, ‘Do you want to start up something alternative and see how that goes?'.

“Back then we only had a licence till 12. The licence got later and the night just took off.

"People just felt very comfortable, no one was judging anybody. Finally, you found a place you would be respected and where you could meet like-minded people, meet people who dress like you, who would listen to the music you were listening to, suddenly finding yourself on the dance floor not wanting to leave.

“People would say ‘Oh wow, you look like me!', they felt they had a connection somewhere. Eventually the place was just chock-a-block every Saturday.”

The club eventually found a more permanent home at The Jungle Bar above Wynyard station. On Saturday nights the place was transformed into a theatrical wonderland with all the accoutrements of the underworld. A major step up from my own faded band posters, candles in glass bottles and black sheets.

“It was scary stuff!” S.H.E. says. “We used all sort of props. Crucifixes, cow skulls, human skulls etc. There were velvet drapes and huge slide projectors. On anniversaries we would spend the whole day dressing the venue.

"At one stage you had to step through a guillotine before you could even enter the venue. You'd have to step over gravestones; it was often a whole journey just to get in so as to make it interesting for people. A feast for the ears and eyes.”

On the music front, S.H.E prided herself on introducing the dancefloor to international, new and emerging acts. In the days before curated Spotify playlists this was how you could discover fresh sounds.

“I introduced bands no one had heard of in the club scene here including Fields of the Nephilim and Fear Factory. I used to launch lots of new albums for artists.”

The club was also often used as an alternative performance space.

“When the Jim Rose Circus came over, we featured them. We had fashion parades, the Rocky Horror Picture Show, Ratcat played there and [so did] Box The Jesuit.”

My hair was huge, my eyebrows were wild. People didn't like to request songs because they were scared. DJ S.H.E. - Double J, 2018

S.H.E was thriving in an era where female DJs were virtually unheard of.

“Back in the day there were so many male DJs, I thought I might as well call myself S.H.E.” she says.

“When people asked what it stood for I'd just say Shit Hot Entertainment and it's stuck ever since.”

To look the part, S.H.E sought out clothing in op shops and markets, but she was also handy with a sewing machine.

“I used to make my own clothes and buy corsets and dress them up with accessories. I would always get a little more dressed up on club nights.”

I was one of the many punters who was more than a little intimidated by her otherworldly presence in that DJ booth. I aspired to S.H.E's aesthetic, she was the queen of goths to my mind, with her beautiful clothing and slightly dangerous aura.

“People didn't want to come up to me, if only they'd taken the time to actually speak to me!” she remembers. “My hair was huge, my eyebrows were wild. People didn't like to request songs because they were scared.”

This was always the irony of being a goth. The outward appearance seemed a little scary and strange, but the people that were usually incredibly friendly.

Often, we had been ostracized by society for going against the grain and not belonging anywhere else. Identifying as a goth was a way to celebrate those differences and feel a sense of inclusion. The last thing we wanted was to make other people feel uncomfortable.

Whilst her clothing is a little more subdued these days, S.H.E still thinks back fondly to the reaction she used to get walking down the street.

“Sometimes I still want to gather a whole group of people to dress up and just go out shopping in K-Mart or something normal like that, just for a good laugh!” she says.

Sanctuary eventually closed down in the mid ‘90s but the thirst for alternative venues never subsided. Being consistently asked to DJ at people's club nights, plus a Sanctuary reunion in 2012, sparked S.H.E's desire to resurrect the club permanently, so, in 2016, the club reopened at the Valve on George St.

I went along to the club recently – dressed a little more elaborately than I do on the school run these days – and all the old memories came flooding back.

As I danced to all the beautifully dark sounds of my youth, something you'd be hard pressed to do in a regular club, I remembered why I sought out that lifestyle; to find a community that understood why the music is everything and black eyeliner is king.

My inner misunderstood teen is sated.

You can still head to Sanctuary on the second Saturday of the month and ‘80s New Wave club Atomic on the last Saturday of the month at the Valve Bar, Sydney.