72 – she shoos me on

My reverie is cut short, my shoulder being shaken, I raise an eyelid and take a look, annoyed, as it was just getting interesting. Now there is an officer of some kind, decked out in black, all Velcro, gadgets and reflective trimmings. She has a ponytail drawn back in the regulation way. Park bench warden, evidently come to rouse idle dreamers like moi. I am simply catching my breath, officer, was feeling momentarily world-weary. You must know what it is like, you know, when the otherness gets the better of you. She prods me upright with her baton and takes out her notebook. Obviously jotting down my enlightened words for future enjoyment. I do that too, I enthuse. I mean I carry a notebook and record snippets and scraps in it. Perfectly healthy thing to do. No need to be ashamed of it. She puts the notebook away and shoos me on with her black whacking stick. 

71 – build our own thing

Whatever it is, they get on with it. There are no songs as such, just “pieces”. They start off slow and get fast. They start up quiet and get loud, start from nothing and become something. It’s a formula of sorts. It seems natural, why fight it? Lyrics are attempted and systematically destroyed. Why complicate the thing? Use big brushes and broad strokes. If you get up close to the amp the guitar starts to sing for itself, has its own voice. Well, so be it. We’re like explorers, says one, De Koonings of sound. No, it’s demolition, says another, tearing down the tired and tested. We’ll build our own thing, they all say in unison, and then we’ll tear that right back down. Nothing is sacred. They shift on the spot uneasily, wondering what form this new thing will take. Its presence is already felt, humming in a patch of light, vibrating like a throng of tiny moths. Against the window pane, shards of city silhouette against mercury vapour light.

70 – limp-wristed jazz drumming

It’s a peculiar sound they make, unruly, unkempt and inept, irregular, above all, elusive. Much has been said, some things even written about this so-called Brisbane sound. Scholars in tertiary institutions have compromised their posture, peering through magnifying glasses at blurred black and white photos, curled now and nibbled by silverfish and spiders. Others have patched cassette recordings through oscillators and refractors, pawing over longitudinal transverse waves, weighing up energy flux and density, messing with the very DNA of music, praying to come up with something, anything, in a futile attempt to identify what it was, or confirm that it even existed. The sceptics believe this to be smoke and delusion. Who knows who was right and who was wrong? You will just have to imagine this music now as very little of it to this day exists. Mostly it was mistreated and squandered, forgotten, used as bookmarks, left under beds, in glove boxes and outhouses, thrown out with the scraps, left on corners to fend for itself, limp-wristed jazz drumming and all, impertinent strumming, and stories of everyday things. No rock posturing to be found there. Who knows exactly what it meant or what came of it, and who really cares?

69 – audaciousness, ambition and immense indifference

So what is the band called now? The Twats? The Watts? The Whats? The Wots? The Whatnots? Whatever. They're into the dark, into eye shadow, imposture and amphetamines, into feedback, interference and endorphins. For fuck's sake, you get just one or two goes with the bat, that is to say, a limited number of pitches of the ball, why hold back? The rehearsal space is divided and subdivided, preoccupied by various factions and formations. That is to say, a band here, a band there, hidden away in the building's innards, hanging out in shadows, draped over abandoned showroom chairs, all engaged, working their own particular seam. A dumb waiter, a cargo lift, rocket launcher, gantry and crane, you know the kind of thing I'm sure. And if you don’t, … well you’ve missed the boat. They go in there and the city folds away behind them, fades, is lost. I mean, they forget it, forget the slow, ever-flowing river, traffic on highways, interstate semis, international plights, political ineptitude, infernal part-time jobs, heart pangs, acne, sleights of hand, overdue rent, unpaid bills, blocked sinuses and premature salivation, ingrown toenails and tinea. They artfully leave it all behind in the quest for new terrain. They claim the space with acoustic fill, audaciousness and ambition, hitting things with sticks, winding the amps up to overdrive, thrashing strings, breaking nails. Anything goes. That’s the beauty of it all. During the breaks they take polaroid pot shots of each other, first wrapping themselves in cling-film, trying to turn themselves into dolls, then rifling through discarded garments, coming upon those brown paper clothing patterns. Let's staple them together and wear them like clothes, says one. We'll look like we’re carved out of wood, says another. We could shoot a movie in here, could pretend we are stars in the Factory. Outside the window the moon drifts by with immense indifference.  

68 - wide-eyed affirmative wink

Here they are, Mellow Dee and Tripod the dog, balancing on the Vespa -rattling and whirring like a chaffcutter –if you could imagine such a thing- roaring down the road like there’s no such thing as restraint or caution or tomorrow. M is in mechanic’s overalls and laceless work boots, charred full-face helmet, knees apart to keep Tripod on board. Looks like this is going to be a lasting union, one that could very easily stretch as far as the eye can see and even beyond. The dog is sitting on hind legs -turned sideways to fit between Melody and the handlebars- his one front leg placed decorously on M’s knee to keep himself upright and steady, head pointing up out of politeness and to avoid indiscreet intrusion. All in all, it is not a particularly doglike thing to do but there it is. This is what Tripod is doing. As they lean into curves and dodge past buses the dog snaps at the air, earning his keep in a resigned kind of way, doing the dog things that we all recognise and expect. They pull up at a red light, the dog's snout level with the gaping mouth of M's helmet. Melody is thinking about the band and all that, reflecting. There is no logic to it, no obvious need or reason. Is this the attraction? It’s not viable or strategic, has taken on a life of its own. What could be better than that? The dog licks chops and bunches brow. Traffic lights go from red to green, giving a kind of subliminal go-ahead, nod of approval, a wide-eyed affirmative wink. It’s all so knowing and unknowable. Melody opens throttle.

67 – wrong end, right time

So, anyway, as I was saying. The rehearsal space is an abandoned undergarment factory at the wrong end of town. In the same block there's a cracked mirror-ball strip-joint -managed by local constables- a popular and poorly-lit Italian restaurant boasting a staggering contingent of corpulent roaches -indigenous and immigrant species alike- making a hell of a racket in the kitchen and frequently spilling, brawling into the street. Nearby, swaying drinkers emerge from ex-colonial corner pubs, trimmed with filigree ironwork and rank with melancholic former glory. Some of these watered wanderers drop to the gutter, others are escorted to waiting lockup vans and carted away. This is 1978 remember. I’m sure you remember it, if you reach back that far; the night wearing on, the traffic wearing thin, a late night flight coming in, insects beating themselves to death against the streetlights, and all the while traffic lights changing from green to amber to red to amber to green. I'm sure you've been there. I'm sure you know what I mean. Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, the undergarment factory. There's room down there for everybody. I mean, everyone can rehearse down there, can run their band through its paces. The cutting room floors are the size of basketball courts, strewn with brown paper patterns fallen from grace. The place is a hive of activity with youthful adventure; up and down the stairs they go with drum kits and keyboards, and sticks and straps, with instrument cases, bottleshop boxes and bags, flagons and casks, romance and revelry, and a certainly infectious happy-go-lucky, devil-may-care, ipsofacto, what-the-hell, how-should-I-know, there's-no-tomorrow-and-if-there-is-I'll-deal-with-that-later-ness flair to the whole affair.

66 - reader writes

This is all very well to hear about Melody in the bathroom with the dog. The fact that it has three legs instead of four, being neither here nor there. You started off telling us about Melody Dee, about that mandolin, broken necks and untethered strings. I mean, is she going to a rehearsal later tonight, or what? Are you going to tell us something about that? What is the nature of this latest band of hers? Are they inspired by the Pop Group or the Slits, or are they looking more towards Devo or X-ray Spex? And while we are on the subject, what of this enigmatic demented H minor 13^th chord I’ve heard about? Personally speaking, my life has been going round and round the block of late, and the idea of such a thing -this chord- is encouraging, if not, substantially tantalising. That is to say, can you tell us where such a thing can be obtained? Can we buy one online, download it onto our hard-drive? Is it safe? Will it make our system crash? Can we hear it and still survive? Is it the answer to all our prayers? Does it solve financial problems, hair loss, or impotency? Or, if it is not commercially available, can you please explain how a normal person like me can concoct such a thing, in the safety and comfort of my own home? Is specialist knowledge required? Can the ingredients be found in any kitchen? Should protective clothing be worn? This is what we really want to know. We don't give a flying fuck if the dog wheezes or barks, or simply burps up junkyard gas. Tell us about the chord! For your reference, I quote its first mention here, (chapter 195: the Old Version): … "a demented H minor 13^th or some such thing, like the strings springing up from the frets to meet your fingers to produce a solo of astounding pretensions, one that pops your eyes, sets cogs in motion, your hair adrift and your very bones a ringing. Cosmic, narcotic, meteorologically chaotic, astrologically idiosyncratic, wholly orgasmic, an authentic button-pusher, an unreal buzz." - P.S. I have included my credit card details in case they should be needed. Feel free to fill in the required amount. I’m sure that it's worth it. I mean, I am convinced that this is what I need, that this is the answer to all my problems, that this is what I have been waiting for all this time, day in, day out, upstream and down, from here to the other side of town, inside out and upside down. The sky's the limit! - Eternally yours, - a reader