The Candle Dancer / The Way That You Found Me (4 page)

‘Will you at least think about it?’ pleaded Selima. ‘I’ve got a feeling it could go right off.’

‘What does Benjy say?’ I asked, picking up an old crystal salt shaker and rolling it between my palms. Of the four of us, Benjy was the most gifted musician. He could be drumming with any band he liked. He only practiced with us because he could leave his drum kit set up in our garage.

‘Benjy said he’d be happy to do it for a set time. A year maybe, something
like that. If we get good,’ replied Selima.

V.

The first time we played as
The Roxy Rollers
at Milk, the cop turned up. It nearly undid me. Between that orange moustache and Doll waggling her eyebrows suggestively at me, I could hardly manage the guitar and the lyrics of “Devil Gate Drive”—let alone straddling the air in that Quatro stance I’d studied on YouTube. My fingers thudded stupidly over the strings. I couldn’t hear myself sing. It was a nightmare, or so I thought.

‘
Omigod
, that was fantastic,’ gushed Jackie afterwards, bringing free drinks to our table.

People were clapping us on the back. Dad and a couple of his mates waved at us from the corner.

‘I’ve had at least ten people tell me you were the best thing they’d been to in ages. It’s been our busiest night ever. You guys
rocked
.’

Beer tasted good out of the thick, cool glasses. It moistened my parched throat. I looked across at Benjy, who was smiling. His skin was flushed and shiny, his curls wet and flat over his bear-like head.

‘Did you see the cop? Who the fuck do you call when a cop starts stalking you?’

I laughed.

‘I wondered how you’d go, performing,’ Benjy went on. ‘You’re a natural.’

‘If I stood up now I’d fall over,’ I replied, hoarsely. I could hardly believe that we’d done alright. ‘It’s like I’ve got aftershocks going through my body. Like when you get off a ride at Luna Park.’

‘Yeah,’ said Selima, nodding. ‘I feel, sort of, well—
blasted
.’

The cop was trying to catch my eye. Beyond him was a table filled with guys our age. One of them looked at me. He wore his hair in a ponytail and had a striking face that did nothing to ease my giddiness.

VI.

We managed to practice under Bill Dudley’s radar until winter, when Shorty and Coppers came again and warned us we’d have a six hundred dollar fine if we didn’t quit. After they left I marched up to Bill Dudley’s and would have confronted him if Benjy hadn’t followed me and pulled me back.

‘It’ll just make things worse,’ he warned. ‘We were too loud tonight.’

‘Disturbing him while he sits in front of his stupid television without a creative thought in his head,’ I fumed. An aching tooth was worsening my temper. ‘I’ll pay him back, you wait and see.’

‘Revenge is not good for the blood,’ said Benjy, gently leading me by the elbow back to the house. He kissed the side of my head. ‘Let’s have a nice cup of tea and calm down.’

‘You’re more like an old granny than a rock musician,’ I said, grumpily.

Several nights later, I heard that stupid car engine for the first time in months. It roared up the street, startling me out of sleep. I tumbled out of bed, grabbing my big coat and jamming my feet into thongs. I’ll scare the living daylights out of him, I’ll run out in front of him, make him hit the brakes. Waking everyone up, the selfish prick!

When I got out onto the driveway the car had vanished into the cold, clear night. A curved trunk of white moon flaunted itself to the stars. Rain had left a damp aroma in the air. I was so wide awake that I started walking, stamping my feet to warm the chilled bare toes. My teeth chattered unexpectedly and knocked the aching molar. I paused opposite Bill Dudley’s house. A porch light shone over the trim lawn and hedges pruned into boxes.

I’d had petty thoughts of revenge. Like ordering takeaway from five different vendors to arrive at the same time. A nasty—and potentially expensive—practical joke. Our band couldn’t
really
be disturbing his peace, not that much. He was a bored old whinge-bag with nothing better to do. In the distance, the howl of the car was starting up again and getting louder, and I retreated behind an oak tree. (So much for my plan to run out and confront him!)

Music thumped through the car’s open windows and its headlights reflected brightly on the wet bitumen. I recognized
The Dead Weather
’s “Cut Like A Buffalo” and my lips parted in surprise.

The car slowed, and pulled into Bill Dudley’s driveway. No!
Not possible
. The hypocrisy would be too much. I snuck up a bit closer and watched the man get out of the car and close the garage door.

It wasn’t Bill Dudley. It was someone much younger, with curly dark hair pulled up into a high, short ponytail, and sporting a cropped beard. He was handsome. Leggy. He looked around, as though he expected to be watched, despite the hour. He looked in my direction. I froze and squinted my eyes, so he wouldn’t see their moonlit gleam. Did he see me? After he disappeared into the house I walked home, keeping to the shadows in case he was watching through the window.

When I got inside, I rang the police and made a complaint. Suffer, Bill Dudley! Your son or whoever it is will get in trouble now. Yes, I told the police, it was very loud. Yes, I can tell you the plate numbers. No, I have no idea what sort of car, but it’s black with orange flames painted along each side.

Tingling with
Schadenfreude
, I watched from a front window for half an hour until a police car pulled up outside the Dudley place.

VII.

The high point for our cover band was our gig at St Kilda’s Esplanade Hotel, better known as The Espy. Playing there had been a dream for Benjy and I, which began when we went there as underage teenagers to see Phil Para play the guitar with his teeth.

Playing as a cover band wasn’t quite what we’d dreamed of: but it gave us our chance. By now, we were tight. Maybe one day we’d play there, Benjy and I at least, in our next incarnation as
The Lean Look’d Prophets
.

I wore a new leather jumpsuit, also bought on eBay, electric blue eyeliner and shiny lip gloss. The jumpsuit was red with a white stripe running down one side, and fitted like a glove. I’d pulled the zip down to show off loads of silver necklaces I’d sourced at the op shop.

‘Phwoar!’ said Benjy from the cab of his ute when he pulled up beside me.

I gave a terrified laugh that sounded more like a yelp. I was so nervous I thought I’d be sick. Doll was bent over in the front seat, her platinum hair falling forward, exposing her white neck. I guessed she was doing a line.

When she got out of the car, I stared in astonishment. She wasn’t in her usual costume. She was wearing a maxi skirt with a leather belt, a cropped vest and nothing else. Her waxed chest gleamed. She’d also waxed off her low, straight brows and pencilled in high arches, like Greta Garbo or Marlene Dietrich. She’d grown a small moustache, bleached to match her hair.

‘I can’t conform to your box,’ she said, with exaggerated petulance. Benjy lifted an eyebrow. I was shaking my head, outraged.

‘At least she looks kind of seventies,’ he said.

Things had changed at The Espy. The fug of beer and cigarettes used to greet us at the door like something solid. In the wake of the anti-smoking laws the place was softer, still beery, with just a hint of ancient vomit.

‘G’day,’ said a doorman, appraising Doll with a bored expression meant to convey
I’ve seen all sorts and you don’t impress me
. She made a moue at him with her mouth. His mate was checking someone for ID. It didn’t feel that long ago since the times we’d tried to get in with fake birth certificates.

Selima was already there, waiting. She did a double-take at Doll, who smiled, enjoying it.

‘This is who I am,’ she said.

‘The
moustache
!’

‘Good, isn’t it?’

‘It’s amazing, but
now
? Tonight? I mean, this is a big night for us.’

‘Why should
she
get all the attention?’

I ignored this. Staggering under the weight of our amps we went through to the revamped Gershwin Room. Doll marched ahead of us. Selima and I were white-knuckled and determined not to ask for help from various buff male bystanders whose biceps were apparently just for show. They stood around, watching, bulging arms crossed. Anyone would think they were enjoying our efforts.

The acoustics were better in the front bar and I wished we were playing there, but there’s something cool about the Gershwin Room, with its antler chandeliers and ornate ceilings. Orange streetlights gilded the dirt caked on the window panes. There were more people than I expected. A Cream cover band called
Tiny Purple Fishes
was playing. They were good. Really good.

I drank a beer and listened. I wondered if Phil Para ever played in the Gershwin Room, remembering the violence jerking through his skinny body as he played the explosive guitar riffs of Jimi Hendrix and Eric Clapton. Para could cover those guys like no-one else. He’d played Hendrix’s songs for over twenty years—more than Hendrix himself ever did. Para sparked fierce, creative yearning in both Benjy and I: we longed for that ability to fuse technique with some external force and become, for a few moments, godlike. Doll didn’t get that, not in the same way. Doll performed to prove she existed and wasn’t apologising for it.

The place filled up with friends and strangers. I saw Richard with his new girlfriend and hoped Doll wouldn’t see him. How selfish of him not to think of her feelings! Or maybe just obtuse. Or maybe deliberately cruel. I glanced over to where Doll was drinking a free cocktail at the bar, her bulbous Adam’s apple working as the drink went down. When the glass was empty she set it on the bench and swayed to the music.
Her name was Aphrodite, and she rides a crimson shell
… The bartender gave her another drink, a small transparent shot. Vodka, probably.

‘Hey,’ I said, coming up beside her and putting my arm around her waist. ‘Might want to slow down. We’re on next.’

‘Yeah,’ she said, slurrily. Just as well she wasn’t the lead singer. Her chin glinted and I wiped the drip with a serviette. She slammed the shot.

‘I don’t think Suzy Quatro ever wore a
red
jumpsuit,’ she said, pushing my hand away. ‘You dumb slut. You got it wrong.’

The room was full of musicians from other bands, waiting for their slot. They would be watching us. Judging. Those guys from
Tiny Purple Fishes
would stay and drink and pull our act to pieces. I would, in their place.
We shit all over those guys
… How many times had I heard that phrase in reference to another band? And now we were putting ourselves up for it. Their guitarists were superior, I could hear that, but not their drummer. Benjy was in his own league.

It was time for sound check. The guys from the previous cover band were basking in the afterglow of a great gig and took their time packing up their gear, while we could barely hide our nervous pushiness. My cheeks were burning as they looked at me, taking in the leather, the chains, the shag mullet. I felt panicky. What the hell was I doing, posing as Suzy Quatro at The Espy? If I didn’t pull it off, I would be worse than uncool. I would be ludicrous. I led Doll to the stage, her bare midriff as warm to the touch as an electric blanket.

‘Lemme go,’ she said, slinging her guitar over her neck. ‘Fuggin control freak.’

Filled with apprehension, I mounted the stage. By now the Gershwin Room was chock-a-block. I tapped the microphone and cleared my throat, my thumb strumming the bass strings like a baby with a comforter.

‘Okay?’ asked the sound check technician.

‘Yep.’

We waited anxiously during Benjy’s interminable testing of the snare. Selima rolled her eyes. Finally he was happy, and Doll played a few dodgy chords.

‘Is that how you
want
it?’ asked the sound check guy, with jaded contempt.

‘Sounds good from up here,’ Doll called back.

Gazing down at the light and dark faces I saw the familiar orange moustache glinting. He raised his beer to me. I’d practiced some patter but the words dried in my mouth. I bowed my legs slightly and sank my weight into my feet. I nodded to Selima and we started with “If You Can’t Give Me Love”.

Well I’ve seen you before on that discotheque floor,

You were driving me out of my mind…

Doll pointed at Richard and screamed the lyrics into her microphone. Wetness broke out at the nape of my neck and slid down my back. Of all the times to lose it! Please Doll, not now. She turned her back to the crowd, and pulled herself together enough to play; but she was chalk-faced and unsteady on her feet. She was sweating even more than I was, or so it seemed. Drops stood out like ball bearings on her skin.

We followed up with “I Bit Off More Than I Could Chew” and “Rock Hard” and worked our way up to our crescendo.

‘You wanna come down to Devil Gate Drive?’ I shouted into the microphone. I lifted the guitar above my head. The crowd roared. Benjy intoned in his deep bass voice:

‘
Welcome to the Dive!
’

We threw our left arms out, raised our right arms in the air and jumped sideways in a brief, synchronized dance like the original band. I worried that Doll would topple over, but she kept to her feet alright. Selima jumped on keys and I sang “Devil Gate Drive” gruffly into the microphone, sealed like a cutlet in my sweaty leather.

About halfway through the gig I sensed that magical coalescence of sound and bodies, performers and audience. The crowd danced and sang with us, their faces flashing like a bed of shining, flat rocks through fast-running water. Everything was flowing into a sparkling oneness. No wonder the Rolling Stones keep playing after decades. The feeling’s addictive.

Afterwards the lead singer from
Tiny Purple Fishes
, Jim, wanted to talk shop about the difficulties of being a cover band. I drank a whiskey and lime and felt hot with success.

‘That was a great gig. Covers are tricky—punters want you to capture how the original band sounded, not the music itself—’ he said, leaning forward so his words could be heard.