The neon sign on Goodwood Road has Vintage Vegas vibes. Its glow evokes Sinatra, the Sands, and the faded 1950s. As such it promises the clientele they’ll enjoy a glamorous experience. Will an otherworldly Dean Martin tend the door with white-gloved hands and a toothy smile?
Hotel Panorama opened on June 17. In an era where pubs are routinely demolished or heartlessly converted into student housing, how often do we actually get to welcome a new inn? It’s particularly delightful because this part of Adelaide has long been that most dreadful of urban disasters: the pub desert.
With its foothills position and five-story tower, there are transfixing views from the rooftop bar, Wonderland, towards the CBD. It is the city seen from the south and, while its skyline is modest, it heartens Claire and me. It’s no Manhattan but we know it so well, like an ageing uncle. Peering over to our beloved metropolis, I consider how it could easily pass for a city in the American Midwest or Germany.
Claire has an Alpha Box and Dice Tarot Pinot Grigio while I opt for the reassurance of a Coopers Pale Ale. Our setting allows for wintry sun, and it courses across the gulf, and the western suburbs, in through the rooftop windows and finally out from the hoppy prism of my ale glass.
We begin our gentle interrogation of the week’s minor triumphs and skirmishes. At five bells, beer, golden light and a smiling wife all make for a picturesque scene.
The resident DJ is magicking that endless Friday DJ mix which manages to be both likeable yet also immediately forgettable. This, I guess, is the trick. I’m drawn in when the following chorus drops into the room-
Oh, thunder only happens when it’s raining
Players only love you when they’re playing
Why is this 70s song, ‘Dreams’ now everywhere? Fleetwood Mac is terrific but so much of the contemporary cultural machinery operates beyond my understanding. Is this a sonic version of frequency illusion or the Baader–Meinhof phenomenon but for old soft rock tunes?
Continuing this theme, Claire says, ‘I’d never heard the saying, springing for tickets and then I heard it twice in a couple days.’ Baader–Meinhof again, friends. Later, Steely Dan liquifies in my ears. They, too, are lurking.
As dark rises from the July soil, the pine trees of Largs Bay and Semaphore curve along the becalmed gulf. Twin stars appear as faint blurs. Through the rectangle of night sky planes land and take off in Kubrick silence. On our window table is a small lamp which generates, for an Adelaide venue, an enticing intimacy that Melbourne pubs seem to better execute.
The toilet/bathroom/restroom/dunny also offers a view over the city through colossal windows, though it’s not quite a poo with a view. But there’s burgundy wallpaper of a fantastical bent that might be categorised as safari chic. A jungle of giraffes and absurd elephants in Adelaide’s suburbs? It’s entirely at odds with what we’ve experienced in this sparkling new boozer, and I’m sure that this is the point. Perhaps globalisation has shrunk our world so arrestingly that decontextualization has become one of the last reliable forms of surprise.
I finish my pee and then, reunited in the lift, we fall back to earth, safely.
mickeytales 