First published in the September 2004 issue of Street Machine

What’s your idea of paradise? For some it might involve a spa bath, a case of chilled XXXX and the female cast members of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. For others, maybe a steaming cup of Earl Grey, a complicated cross-stitch pattern and a good episode of The Bill. But for your average street machiner, paradise is simply having the necessary space, mates and tools needed to build a really tough ride without having to worry about your neighbours throwing shoes on your roof. As they are likely to do when you’re panel-beating at 8pm on a Saturday night. Or is that just me?

We recently scored an invite to visit paradise, put together by a bunch of blokes from a large country town. Let’s call it The Compound. Sure, it looks normal — a bunch of old industrial units with a large courtyard in the middle, sealed off with a tall fence — but it’s what they do with The Compound that’s cool.

There are engines, parts, tools and stuff everywhere. It’s a space for blokes to work on their projects and make a mess without incurring the wrath of parents, partners or Neighbourhood Watch. There’s a pool table, a fridge full of beer and lots of car mags. As a bloke stuck with the tyranny of the one-car suburban garage, this joint sure looks like heaven, but tonight it gets even better: The Compound hosts the private burnout party from hell.

Outside, the rest of the car-loving community is cruising, hoping the cops leave them alone. The cautious are inside, watching Funniest Home Videos, with their rides tucked up safely in their sheds. Only the fortunate few get to witness the mayhem soon to erupt.

The numbers are kept down for safety’s sake and to keep a lid on things. See, The Compound’s in an industrial area, so the boys can make as much noise and smoke as they like — at least until midnight. That’s all good, but a few hundred uninvited guests could easily tip the scales into Disturbance of the Peace territory, which is not the idea at all.

So the spectators are few, as are the cars, but they are tough. Try a gorgeous, big block-powered EK for starters. It’s red, it’s shiny and it has a set of massive tyres out the back. As a life-long Holden fan, its one of the coolest things I’ve ever seen.

The rest of the line-up is firmly Blue Oval, led by a genuine XB GT coupe, with a blown, chromed and polished Clevo rising from its slick engine bay. Then there is a fairly innocuous-looking XD sedan. Under the bonnet is a you-beaut NASCAR motor, complete with dry sump and a stratospheric red line. Last is an XB ute wearing purple primer but with a stout, blown Clevo under the hood.

These cars are all here for one purpose — to make lots of smoke. Forget that the audience is tiny or that there is no prize money. These guys like to burn rubber and tonight they are in their own private Thunderdome.

Even the spectators’ cars are cool, like the Boyd-built AU ute, a mild-custom XP van and a tough VN Aero. Some of the spectators are pretty interesting too. There’s a legendary pin-striper sipping bourbon and Coke, a V8 Supercar mechanic and a very famous drag racer lounging in the mist and having a blast. In a world where corporate sponsorship has opened plenty of doors, parties like this are a rare opportunity to drop the squeaky-clean image and have some good, old-fashioned fun.

And fun is just about to start. The audience sits, stands and hangs at the edges of the courtyard as the boys fire up their beasts. This is a world without public liability insurance, without safety officials but with a little common sense. We’re all consenting adults here, we know motor sport is dangerous … but we’re here anyway.

And when that blown GT fires up, I wouldn’t be anywhere else. It’s a stick shift but that’s no impediment to the owner, who turns the big T/As with ease. The big coupe fills The Compound with smoke and the headlights cut through the haze, creating an eerie effect. Then something goes bang and it’s pushed back into the sheds for some TLC. It could be the clutch or even the gearbox. An expensive night out but it’s a small price to pay for these blokes.

Then it’s time for the NASCAR-powered XD to play. The owner gives it hell and it sounds fantastic. Jeez, if just one of these motors sounds this good, a whole field of NASCARs must be awesome! The owner took the highly-unorthodox step of fitting an HT Holden front end to his Falc in order to fit the motor with its gorgeous pipes, but looking at this baby perform you just know it was well worth it!

When all the tough cars have done their worst, it’s time to bring out the sacrificial lamb — a very tired VK Commodore. The six pot-powered pooch is tortured with a series of sickening skids, popping tyres and running on the rims. A fewer of the sicker puppies in the audience decide a little impromptu roof chopping is in order — starting with a log splitter, then a nice, big, angle grinder. The VK is soon roofless, and while it’s no Marilyn, the boys think its pretty cool. With some ‘new’ tyres on the back, and the wind in their hair, the poor VK is set spinning again. It boils, stalls and won’t start but some fevered bush mechanics bring it back to life for one last gut-wrenching skid. Somehow the dying 202 turns the rear boots to smoke before it goes off song and is no more.

Meanwhile, the constabulary has been, peeked through the cyclone fence, and left. The Compound is in one hell of a mess and the audience has had its fill of mayhem. We’ve survived, got some cool photos and had A Good Time.

Yep, it was dangerous, but it was a lot safer than doing the same thing on the road. Personally, I’m well past the age when cutting up Commodores is fun but I don’t think any street machiner would knock back the luxury of having a place like The Compound to tinker in. It’s certainly food for thought!