Review of Australian Fiction, Volume 4, Issue 5 Read online

  ‘You have to stop. There’s been a complaint,’ said the short policeman, after he’d said his name—which I instantly forgot. I mentally re-christened him Shorty.

  ‘But you can play till ten on a weeknight—it says in the council guidelines,’ I said.

  ‘Not if it’s disturbing the quiet.’

  ‘But—we’ve got to be able to practice!’

  ‘We could hear it from the street. It’s too loud.’

  ‘Who complained?’

  ‘We don’t know who the complaint came from.’

  ‘I know who,’ I said, bitterly. ‘It’s that guy two doors up, bloody Bill Dudley. You know tried to kick our door in, once? Never even introduced himself. Never said, hey guys, we’ve got a bit of a problem.’

  ‘What’s your name?’ said Shorty, flipping open a notepad.

  ‘Suzanne. Suzanne Fitts.’

  ‘Do you get called Suzy? You know, like Suzy Quatro?’ asked the red-haired cop. Shorty’s pen paused over his notepad. He shot his colleague a droll, sideways glance.

  ‘Well,’ he said, defensively, realising he’d made a blunder. ‘She’s got the pants for it…’

  * * *

  Predictably, I never heard the end of that one.

  ‘Ewww, she’s got the pants!’ yelled Doll, after the police retreated down the driveway, escorted courteously by Dad. I looked down at the black leather pants, bought two weeks earlier on eBay and stretched over my sturdy legs like the hide on Benjy’s drum.

  ‘Suzy,’ said Benjy, with his slow grin. ‘Never saw it before.’

  ‘I’m not Suzy, I’m Suzanne, and could we just drop it?’

  ‘More like he wants to get into your pants,’ said Selima.

  ‘Yes,’ said Doll, slapping her thigh. ‘She’s got the pants! And he wants to rip them off you, honey. The drought is over.’

  ‘This is serious,’ I said, angrily.

  ‘It could get serious. He’s a cop,’ agreed Selima, setting Doll off again.

  ‘No, dickhead, I mean here. We’ve got nowhere to practice if that prick keeps making complaints.’

  ‘We have to play quietly,’ said Benjy.

  ‘Well, it’s mostly your fault,’ I snapped. ‘You play so loudly the rest of us have to turn ourselves up to hear ourselves.’

  ‘I can play with the brushes,’ he offered. He never took offence at anything, Benjy. He was a sweetie, actually.

  ‘But we need to really open up sometimes,’ said Selima. Doll was still laughing.

  I scowled.

  ‘We have to do something. Dad forked out a fortune to convert this place so we could practice.’

  ‘Well, maybe we just play softly, then open up at the end, really let it rip,’ said Benjy.

  ‘Yeah, get the cops back,’ said Doll, ostentatiously wiping tears from her eyes. ‘Then, we’ll clear out and leave the two of you alone to enjoy some copper love. He’s probably got a copper crotch as well! Suzy Quatro and Copper Crotch!’

  The whole session was wasted. Doll wouldn’t stop with her lame joke and I lost it with her and stormed out. Eventually all the gear was packed up and I was rid of them. I sulked in my bedroom, listening to The Dead Weather on my iPod and plotting revenge on Bill Dudley. I’d really tried hard with him. I’d rung the local city council and gotten a copy of the Environment Protection Authority’s sound guidelines; I photocopied them and put them with a conciliatory letter in his letterbox.

  The next day I found them by our front fence. For a weird moment I thought I’d forgotten to give them to him—but the letter was torn open. I realised this was his response. He was returning my letter without a word. The bastard hadn’t even bothered to put them in the letterbox.

  I was so full of rage I couldn’t sleep. I found some relief in dancing furiously to “60 Feet Tall”, and reflecting that Benjy drums like Jack White, stopping and making grand entries with intuitive genius. I didn’t have the voice of that girl though, what’s her name, Alison Mosshart, husky and stylised and whooping unexpectedly, vibrating like a bell and scraping like sandpaper.

  At two, a roaring sound broke through the music. I pulled out the earbuds. Someone was hooning up and down the street in a hotted-up car. It wasn’t the first time I’d heard it.

  ‘Why doesn’t Bill Dudley pick on him?’ I thought.

  I walked out of the house and waved my hands as the car went by on its fourth lap.

  ‘Shut UP!’ I screamed. ‘Shut UP!’

  I couldn’t make out the driver beyond seeing it was a bloke. He tooted. He had one of those stupid car horns that beeps out a tune.

  * * *

  IV.

  * * *

  Quite a few of our friends were at Milk two nights later. Selima was working, wearing her checked uniform and apron. She still had her rock chick wisp hanging down, defying Jackie. Doll was slipping vodka into her lemonade, busy pretending she didn’t care that Richard was there with a crowd we didn’t know.

  ‘We’ve been thinking,’ Selima.

  ‘Yeah? I’ll have the burger and fries,’ I said.

  She took her pencil stub from behind her ear and wrote on her notepad.

  ‘What about a Suzy Quatro cover band?’

  ‘What? Don’t start this Suzy stuff again.’

  Doll stifled a laugh. Selima shook her head.

  ‘No, we’re quite serious. We reckon if you got that haircut, that kind of shag mullet, you could look quite like her. We could call ourselves The Roxy Rollers, after one of her songs.’

  I screwed up my face.

  ‘You’ve got her kind of mousy hair,’ said Doll. Selima glared.

  ‘Don’t, Doll. It’s not cool. I’m trying to sell this, right?’ she said. ‘So what we were thinking was, we could cover a few of hers and sneak some of our own stuff in too. The rock tracks, that we could make sound like her.’

  ‘You’d be the lead singer then. You could wear the pants,’ smirked Doll.

  ‘And Jackie said she’d let us have a gig. Suzy Quatro’s a bit late but she’s still retro.’

  ‘Well, I’ve got to think it over. I want to make a real band, like The Dead Weather.’

  ‘Our skills just aren’t up there yet,’ said Selima, blowing at her black wisp. Her eyeliner was smudged. ‘The thing about doing covers is that we learn, not just to do the music but we get live experience, all that.’

  ‘Here’s an idea. Why don’t you dress up as Joan Jett? You look like her more than I look like Suzy Quatro.’

  ‘Well, I for one refuse to cover “I Love Rock'n'Roll”,’ said Doll, and began humming it, glancing over her shoulder at Richard again.

  ‘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 goo
d 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 ex
isted 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.