Frayed yellow Sloppy Joe
The sweatshirt I loved to death
It decayed from the collar and cuffs
Threads were vines and leaves baring my wrists and neck
Blue jeans faded nearly white
The bell bottoms matched the sweatshirt’s decay
The snobbery of punk.
The night started on a bus
Coogee to Darlinghurst
Beach to slum
The basement of French’s Tavern
The wine bar open ‘til midnight
The floor was a swamp of old beer, old soft drink and
Mandies (Mandrax, sleep pills for fun) gave it texture
The music screamed for a meaningful life
Through testosterone fantasies
Fighting parental hypocrisy
With three chords and
Speakers loud enough to vibrate your feet
Fists preyed of weakened targets
As the lead singer pounced on an audience member who threw a glass
Full bodied dancing
My feet follow the drums
My hips the bass and rhythm guitar
My hands the melody of the lead
My face tells the story of words
A drunk says “I love your dance, man, you tell stories.”
The character of my rage is safely expressed in the effort of pounding emptiness
Walking with ringing ears echoing from Silicon towers
Under the Hyde Park trees the crystals shrink to human size
Neon reflections hide the city’s shadow
Poverty, inflation, oil shocks and the stars
Dance sweat wicked away
Marrying the pollution we thought was normal
The smell of the rotting sea in the harbour signals jazz’s closeness
A narrow lane with cobblestones under the tar
Whispers of Galápagos Duck’s
Modern coolness bounced off glass and brick
Mixed with the gentle waves of ferry wakes
Smoky horns, a double bass, various pianos and a tune-able drum-kit
Smoothed the ruffles and rags with inspiration from Miles, Bird and Thelonious
Sometimes they left the space in the constellations, other times the notes were a waterfall of traffic
Here, it’s hand jive
Following the improv show-off displays of how many notes can fit in a bar
My head couldn’t be still
Nodding to the rhythm
Feet still stepping to the drums
But butt firmly seated on a chair
Adult music sophisticated means body held within my personal space
Comes midnight
Walk back through the offices scraping the skies
Built by belief in corporate demigods
To coffee shops with nostalgia for ancient pop music of the folk
Sometimes updated with newfangled electric instruments
Tommy Emmanual, Kanguru, Sirocco, Gondwanaland
Names worth remembering nearly fifty years later
3a.m. still sober
The combination of poverty and dad’s ghost keeps me clean
Old school mate says “He’s straight but cool” compliment?
The swamp of emptiness I’ve battled all night
Is my company for the walk home back to Coogee, the place of stinking seaweed,
Exhaustion provided a shield of satisfaction that gets me safely home.
