HANGIN ON THE CROSS
HANGIN ON THE CROSS.
Who's a lucky boy?
Having been lost for so long in the easygoing backwaters of the tropics the high speed contrast of Sydney was exhilarating. To feel a little more like I belonged in the world I had re-entered I discarded my threadbare, beach bum attire and started building a wardrobe more in tune with the local scene. My head was completely shaved to celebrate the new, big city look and it complimented the over all effect which displayed a 'don’t fuck with me' kind of streetwise appearance. Winter was just around the corner and it seemed like a good time to put my motorized nomad routine on hold for a while. I sold the van to a mate for a thousand bucks and took a horrible little room in the Annandale hotel out on Parramatta Road. It was the second most depressing address I have inhabited beside that horrible little single mans quarters back in Adelaide. The reason I took the room at the pub was because my mate the ever enterprising Quick Bucks had established a fully equipped rehearsal studio just up the street. The place throbbed twenty four hours a day as bands came and went and it became the central hub of my world as I reconnected with the Sydney scene. The Futura came out of storage at the rear of the Black Wattle and I was relieved to find that none of my belongings had been pilfered by thieves. My vintage saloon was left sitting there for ages taking up much needed space, but all my friends would take for their troubles was a bottle of champagne and a fifty dollar bag of pot. I shared tales of my adventures with the artists at a lavish dinner party which was held in one of the larger studio spaces. There was music and poetry by firelight in an outside courtyard and I sang to sweet folk music as good as any I had enjoyed with the Dropout Lodge crew. The talent I was being exposed to at the Black Wattle gathering told me that I was in the right place to start recruiting musicians.The years that I had been away from the entertainment racket had made me more realistic in my outlook and I had little interest in pursuing success as a stage performer. I was however keen to get started on a recording project so as to capture the songs I had written while I was on the road. Quick Bucks allowed me to use a little back room which was the storage area for mike stands, cables and a whole bunch of other stuff. It was only really big enough for the fourtrack and myself but within days I had a system worked out where I could recruit players from the multitude of traversing musicians. Between practice sessions I used to get them to stand in the hallway and play guitar or keyboard tracks over the drum machine while I rolled joints and topped them up with beer.
After long hours at the fourtrack recording music beds my favorite way of relaxing was to drive into the cross and see what was happening in the clubs. One night in the penthouse disco at the Rex hotel I met a Hungarian strip club owner called Frankie Alistair and we got tanked up on vodka with a group of strippers who were chilling between shows. It was a real test of my masculine perceptions to work out which ones were the actual females and I’m sure I had a bloke sitting on my lap at one stage in the game. Frankie loved me to pieces when he found out that my old man had escaped from Hungary during the uprising. He told me a story about how he had narrowly missed death in a firing squad by playing dead. Apparently there’s a bullet hole in each of his ears but you couldn’t see them for a thick mass of slicked back hair. Frankie wasn’t the sort of guy that you would ask to pull back his hair so you could see if he was telling the truth or not. Frankie and I became regular drinking mates and after a while he offered me a job as a spruiker at the Pink Pussycat. I jumped at the offer so I could check out the rest of the girls and perhaps improve on my limited street cred. The cash that I received for my long hours on the door was hardly worth the effort but I had landed in one of the best pot dealing locations the cross has to offer. The front entrance to the Pussycat was the spot where the original Kings Cross bikers used to park their rigs. BJ, Frank and the rest of the boys were on Frankie’s payroll if ever there was trouble and I used to give lip to whole football teams knowing that I was protected. As long as I sang whisky drinking, blues favorites for those guys I got away with murder. I came to know the strippers and the club staff quite well and in time the burlesque crowd became my greatest source of fun. There’s nothing better when you are off your trolley and raging than to be surrounded by a room full of red light district ambassadors who are letting off steam. The stern and unapproachable masks that are worn to keep the public at bay are cast aside in a firestorm of hardcore behind the scenes theatrics. It was at one of these exclusive little gatherings that I witnessed the most Fellini’esque apparition of my life. A chubby little foot cop walked in at closing time and plonked himself down on a Drag Queens lap in the change room. They gave each other a long and truly passionate tongue kiss, then he continued to slurp on a Fosters beer that came out of Frankie’s well stocked bar fridge. After the merriment of the evening I would normally drive back to Annandale half pissed as the sun was rising and I knew that it wouldn’t take long before I got pulled over. To avoid getting busted for drink driving I moved out of the pub and took a room in the Plaza hotel overlooking the main drag in the cross. My days were mostly spent hanging out at the rehearsal studios and my night shift went from the Pussycat, to the clubs and then to a comfortable woman’s bed if my night hawking charms were true to form. After less than a month I found that the Plaza had became unbearable to live in due to the noise of the hookers and their endless stream of rowdy men. One of my pot customers told me about a big mansion that had recently been vacated in Potts Point so after our transaction was complete I strolled over to check it out. The building was known as Tuscilum House and it was a grand old colonial structure with high pillared verandas both upstairs and down. The place got it’s name from the large marble tiles on the verandas which were mined and transported from a town of the same name in Italy. I was later to find out that it was the home of the first bishop of Sydney a certain Monseigneur Fulton. Jamie Mac and I walked into the abandoned building through tall cedar front doors which were left swinging in the breeze. The place had been occupied only days before by some Catholic nuns who provided meals for the drunks and the streetkids. It seemed strange that printed religious literature had been left piled and scattered all over the estate and even the plaster statues of Mary and Jesus were left standing in the chapel downstairs. Jamie and I moved into the empty church building that very afternoon and started to clean the place up. A virtual army of streetkids, buskers and assorted Kings Cross locals were persuaded to help us to get the job done with the promise of a room as their reward. The mansion had about thirty spacious teak trimmed compartments with a large central ballroom on both the upstairs and downstairs levels. Within two days all of the rooms were taken except for two that were set up as kitchens.
Even though our new squat was filled to capacity the street people just kept drifting in. Before long there were teenage runaways and single mothers, drunks, junkies and jive talking jesters in every nook and cranny of the house. We expected the cops to arrive any day after we got the place established, but instead more than two weeks after moving in we were visited by a couple of fast talking Lebanese businessmen. They were escorted to the front gate by our squad of resident martial arts enthusiasts and threats of further action were heard as they drove off in imported luxury cars. Bottom of the Harbor scandals were making news in all of the papers and I found out along the street telegraph that our palatial new home was somehow involved. The cops eventually turned up looking for some streetkid or other, but no mention was made of the fact we were squatting. They just left us to ourselves and went on their merry way with the usual kind of parting advice, “Don’t you fuckheads wreck the place it’s not yours.” As best I could imagine our Lebanese gangster friends were in the lockup and the cops probably liked the idea of having all of the street people assembled in one place. They popped in from time to time looking for runaways and other escapees, so we were forced to adopt a strict house policy to show all known fugitives the door. The kitchens and bathrooms operated pretty smoothly most of the time, but there were the inevitable clashes which saw our martial arts peacekeepers stepping in to settle disputes. Our raggle taggle gang of street people attracted some exceptionally wild spirits who had lost the plot and were lashing out at the world. One such case was Kit Kat a young street kid from the northern suburbs who was the daughter of a devout Christian preacher. On the first day after her arrival Kit Kat flipped out in the downstairs chapel and smashed up all of the statues. Praise Satan was scribbled on the sky blue walls in menstrual blood and she was splashing the room with methylated spirits when one of the older squatters stepped in. Before she could burn our new home to the ground the poor girl was carted off to a lunatic asylum and pumped so full of drugs that she couldn’t even remember her name.
STREETWISE
As time went by most of the ‘Fuck the world’ devotees were replaced by a more creative breed of inhabitants. Eventually every second room was occupied by an artist or musician and petty domestic conflicts no longer filled our graffiti decorated halls. I was living among a virtual treasure chest of musical talent and just a short walk up the street we could all draw a substantial income from busking. I set up my recording gear in the chapel after the shattered fragments of Jesus and his cohorts were swept away. I found the resident buskers were easy to enlist in my music project with a smoke and a couple of beers. Most of them were new to any kind of recording, but in spite of that they gave my four track demos the folky, earth bound flavor that was needed to best convey the issue related songs. One of the main players I worked with was an Aboriginal fellow by the name of Cubby. He used to get a big kick out of the recording thing and our late night jam sessions were enhanced by the sound of banging sticks and didgeridoos. Cubby’s mates from Redfern were regular visitors to the squat and through them I was given a rare glimpse into the ghetto life of inner city, indigenous people. One night at the peak of the Redfern riots I was invited by Cubby and his friends to check out the Coorie radio station which was right in the midst of violent police clashes. I was the only white man among the group and as we walked towards the Radio Redfern building my trusty guides had to negotiate my safe passage past a number of disgruntled black activists. When finally we arrived at the station I was introduced to the DJ who had been told in advance that I was coming. Laughing and maintaining his on air hype he physically hauled me into the broadcasting booth and introduced me to his listeners as, “Comrade Steve”, ... The Busker with a social conscience from Kings Cross. The radio announcer praised the fact I had welcomed blackfellas and whites alike into our newly established squats and he played a track in my honor that went by the name of, ... ‘Comrade Jesus’. I was completely blown away and humbled by the compliment, but what happened next was a tribal initiation of the highest order. As the Comrade Jesus song was blasting out into the Sydney night Cubby and his mates invited me to be part of a ritual they only bestowed upon a select few. My hand was painted in a splash of earth toned paint and then placed on the large studio door alongside the likes of Gary Foley, Guboo Ted Thomas, Burnham Burnham, Charlie Perkins and others. That event marked a significant turning point in my perceptions of justice and it caused me to take a much greater interest in the freedom struggles of our downtrodden black brothers and sisters. Life in the cross can be a true test of compassion and often I found that I had to shed the street hardened, tough guy exterior to lend a hand to someone in need. There was a short lane that led from the backyard of the squats into the cross and it served as the main walking route for the comings and goings at the house. It became a full time job to keep the rampant smack heads at bay and the sight of an unmoving human form was not unusual as I walked towards the main street. Every second day we’d have to call in the paramedics because someone had overdosed in the ally and you can believe me when I say that the image of a desperate, narceine awakened junkie is a more accurate portrayal of the walking dead than any Hollywood thriller could ever produce. The Wayside chapel was just across the road at the end of the lane and as well as providing help for the down and outers, they conducted a Sunday night open forum which attracted the creme of Sydney’s street level intelligentsia. The chat fest was hosted by the Director of the chapel the reverend Ted Noffs and many of the speakers who appeared were star attractions at the weekly gatherings in the Domain. My Sunday nights became devoted to mind expanding pursuits among the milk crate speakers and I got to swap ideas with a potent assembly of open minded souls. Two of the most engaging characters among them were Gary Courtney a self proclaimed, ... ‘No wing radical’ and an old English bloke called Webster who knew everything from the laws of thermo-dynamics to the color of mathoosla’s boots. After the raves were concluded at the chapel each Sunday a group of us would gather in the downstairs ballroom of the mansion. There was one among our group called Ian who was a self proclaimed Pagan wizard. He used to get dressed up in a long black, KKK type of gown with a pointed hat and he would often convene candle light rituals in our midst.
Things like the seasonal equinox and other naturally occurring events were given over to such festivities and it was not unusual for our bean bag reclining gang of serious thinkers to be treated to a spectacle involving naked young ladies and blood red body paint. Flagons of red wine and exotic herbal delights were consumed as the night was given over to a friendly clash of the motormouths. Passion filled conversations about the burning issues of our time continued till dawn and we hardly ever slept . The common war cry of our inner city, brain storming elite was , ‘Sate the Sacred cow’ which meant that no topic was exempt from the collective satire. Quick wittedness was the prime objective of all who participated and I soon learned the art of holding my own amid a gaggle of predatory hecklers. I sponged up a wealth of information about what was really going on in the world from inner city wisdom seekers and pot head dropouts with impressive university degrees. In my opinion the best one liner that ever came out of our idea smithing workshops was , ‘The human species was created by water to carry it’s liquid mass from one place to another.’ The second most significant little truism to emerge was , 'Creation is an infinite sphere who's center is everywhere and who's outermost perimeter is nowhere'. In the after glow of a red light district night ... stale ciggie smoke and no more wine voices ragged from the passions of debate ... soggy peanuts and a broken blind Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young ... sing Teach your children and the Woodstock theme too much thinking and my head sill hurts like an outstretched propolactic that has burst at the seams pray to the Moon God dead in the night and unleash your precious slander on our paralytic host of the things I have lost in this absurd little life ... I think my mind I miss the most. North coast travelers often stayed in the house and it served as the big city base camp for many of my activist friends. Whenever there was a rally or some other kind of protest going on in Sydney our art studios and workshop spaces were opened up to welcome the migrating clan. During one such visit I found out about the forthcoming Tanalorn Folk Festival which was soon to commence in the Hunter valley. It was being promoted as ‘The Festival of Transition’ and most of my Sydney based hippy friends were raving about it. The event was just about to kick off so a group of us jumped in the XP and motored off to the show. The festival as it turned out wasn’t so much a new age gathering as it was an almighty rock and roll piss up for beer swilling punters and hippies alike. Mud splattered mosh pit gymnasts could be seen reveling in front of the main stage as tranquil mystics and masseurs observed from their stalls high on the crowd trampled slopes. The smell of grilled tofu and other simmering, holistic delights were mixed with the aroma of snags on the barby, hamburgers and freshly projectiled puke. The two distinct sides of our cultural spectrum were situated at close quarters but the whole thing remained peaceful and free of brawls. At one stage I was dancing arm in arm with a couple of mud brown, shirtless westies when a group of hippy chicks suddenly ripped off their upper garments and joined in the fun. I found out that a meeting of the more alternative minded festival goers was being conducted away from the main stage and it was here that I bumped into an old mate from the Nightcap forest campaign. His name was Captain Casual and he was one of the key organizers who had helped to save the trees. The captain told me that a special ten minute spot had been designated on the main stage to open the show for the Nimbin Follies and it would be a perfect platform for one of my songs. The Nimbin Follies were the most popular hippy cabaret act of the day and all I had to do was convince our scampering love tribe that I was the best man for the job. When it came time for the cast of crusading hopefuls to put forward their case it resembled a comedy performance where self proclaimed everything’s became unhinged before the expectant crowd. The irate contender who made his address prior to mine was gently hushed away declaring, “But I am The Anointed Starlord from the Sirius Nebula and I bring goodwill to all mankind”.
I walked into the tribal circle and presented the crowd with a newly penned song which I had barely completed the melody for. A swinging Negro rhythm seemed to fall into place around the easy to remember lyrics and the overall effect soon had people singing along. My slightly more advanced vocal and theatrical skills seemed to provide a welcomed relief from the embarrassment of the last act, so the flower children danced and swayed in a circle and the chorus grew as others joined in. A wall of human beings began to rotate around me in great numbers then they opened up into a revolving spiral about two hundred people strong. I ended the piece with a vocal crescendo that I was later told could be heard at the outer perimeter of the spiraling, euphoric dance. The tribal vote was registered by expressions of approval from the crowd and before it even began Captain Casual was running around urging people to, “Vote for Steve Tripp, the Singer”.
I was invited back into the circle for the judging and when my name was called out the response was overwhelming. I stood back politely and concealed a hidden smile as the other contenders were met with half hearted applause. When it was announced that I would be representing our tribe on the big stage the accolades started again and the song was resumed amid deafening cheers. I already knew the band reasonably well from the harvest balls in Nimbin so no formal introductions were necessary. I was bundled into a coaster bus and we drove through some security gates to a village of tents and caravans at the rear of the stage. The previous stage setup was being replaced after the Dyvynals had concluded their gig and I was hanging around in a nervous sweat just waiting to hear my name. It was soon to ring in my ear but it wasn’t coming from anywhere near the stage. A head was poking out of a caravan nearby and it belonged to my old mate Swannie. For those who don’t know John Swan he is the brother of the legendary Scottish/Australian singer Jimmy Barnes and an exponent of world class vocals in his own right.
A van full of eager, young holiday makers helping to cover the on road expenses was a big plus as it allowed me to get to Far North Queensland with cash to spare on my arrival. There were a few minor mechanical difficulties along the way but nothing I couldn’t handle. After a new oil filter here and a radiator plug there it was back to the open road and whatever lay ahead. We all agreed early in the game that there was no rush to get to Cairns, so it was like I was a tour coach driver on a free and easy tropical escapade. On our arrival at the Cairns backpacker hostel I bid my passengers farewell and headed for the nearest bar to wet my whistle. The Oceanic hotel down by the waterfront was where I eventually settled and it was to become my regular haunt for the time I was in the area. The quaint little mountainside township of Kuranda was to become my preferred home base as I explored the region and became immersed in the wonders of the tropics. My first campsite was situated at the end of a hillside track beside a deep, freshwater swimming hole. The large, rocky pool sat at the base of a high, cascading waterfall and it was the perfect setting to contemplate the path my journey had taken. I sketched the surrounding terrain and breathed in the fresh mountain air grateful to be alive and far from the madding crowd. I was content just hanging around at my campsite for days on end and it didn't really bother me if I never saw another living soul. From time to time the odd four wheel drive could be heard off in the distance, grinding it's way through the overgrown, hairpin bends that led down to my camp. The sounds of straining engines always gave me plenty of time to throw on a sarong just in case the vehicle located my dead end, bush track campsite and needed to do a u-turn. It was often the case that I would not have seen or spoken to anyone for more than a week and then I would be suddenly confronted by a carload of 'big city off roaders' who had strayed too far off the markings on their maps and ended up in my beautiful back yard.
Whenever I was in Cairns to pick up supplies and the like the Oceanic hotel was always my first port of call. It was here at one of the lunchtime lingerie spectaculars they used to have that I first met up with Leo Scudds. He was a big city party animal in exile much the same as myself and he shared the dream of pulling off a million dollar crop somewhere out in the jungle. I found that I was journeying into Cairns more often than usual just so I could hang out with Leo and it got to the point where I was camping in the back lane behind his low rental rooming house, just off the main street. Every day without fail Leo and I would sit around in the beer garden blowing our welfare payments on Four X beer and Frigate rum and when we ran out of cash we just sold some more pot to the tourists. Leo had been on the lookout for potential crop locations long before I arrived in town but he was restricted from getting a patch started because he didn’t own a car. When I came along he was quick to propose a partnership which he claimed would land us both on easy street and get us all the high class chicks we wanted. Leo started yapping in my ear about a sheltered clearing he had found in the rainforest near Mount Douglas, that was so remote and inaccessible the police choppers would never be able to see it from the air. He said if I wanted to share in the profits from the crop then all I had to do was transport him and his newly sprouted seedlings to the site and check in from time to time with supplies until the plants were mature. We shook hands on the deal and the next morning I loaded the van from the floor to the roof with seedling pots, camping gear and provisions. After only five days in the jungle Leo found that he couldn’t handle the isolation and the silence of paradise. He hiked out of the scrub and made his way back to Cairns, but he left his camp set up where it stood in clear view of the newly established plots. I was eventually persuaded to drive him back into the forest to retrieve his belongings and that was my big mistake. As we made our way along the thin dirt track to his camp a police Landrover came speeding up from behind and signaled for us to stop. My partner in crime had left some personal papers in his tent and the first thing the copper said was, “Which one of you is Leonardo Peter Scudds? Apparently some tin miners in the area had noticed that Leo’s camp was abandoned and informed the local police that they thought he might have got lost. What an absolute dumbfuck. I got off with a three hundred dollar fine and it made me seriously reconsider devoting all of my time to being a primary producer of pot.
One day in the beer garden of the Oceanic I met a couple of cute and well to do Sydney girls called Sally and Jean who were holidaying in the tropical sun. Leo and I became their official tour guides and they spoiled us rotten for about six weeks. The girls insisted on doing all of the normal touristy things like scuba diving and the like but all we wanted to do was get into their flimsy little sarongs. My old Maori buddies the Color Machine flew into Cairns to play the local disco’s and we raged just like in the old days at their gigs and around the motel pool. Our fun loving foursome went to most of the bands shows and I got to do a couple of impromptu guest spots which really impressed Sally and Jean. As their northern holiday drew to a close the girls decided that they would hire a car and stretch out their tropical adventure. Sally and I had become smoochy and explorative to the point of spoof stained shorts so I offered to drive them down South if they helped me out with the fuel. I tried to persuade Leo to come down to Sydney with us but he had to make a court appearance in a couple of weeks time and failure to do so would end him up in the clink. We hugged and said goodbye to each other grateful for our time together. His parting statement was 'You lucky bastard' as I drove off towards the motel to pick up the girls. It was fantastic to be on the road again especially since I was in the company of two gorgeous babes, who were helping to foot the bills.
After numerous touristy stopovers at places like Townsville and Bundaberg our free wheeling trio stopped in the northern rivers and we stayed in Nimbin for a couple of days. It was a real blast to catch up with the old Dreaming camp crew and get into some grass roots culture and tribal music. In the time since I had been there last Mr. Metaphysicus had further extended conversions of the property into a world class backpackers resort. A newer and much larger tipi circle had been established high on the flood free slopes, complete with a shower block and a fully equipped community kitchen. Our guru turned resort proprietor said we could use one of his forty five dollar a night tipis for as long as we wanted to stay and he wouldn't hear of taking any money from the girls. I told him that we didn't mind paying the fee like everyone else, because we were “Not Attached” to the cost of our accommodation. At this my once in a blue moon spiritual adviser made a gesture reminiscent of a small boy squirming with absolute delight. For the duration of our stay the girls were treated to tribal displays of all descriptions as we partied by firelight and danced underneath the stars. They joined in the conga line and grooved to the pulsing primal beat while naked and brightly painted fire throwers lit up the tipi dotted hills. It was a long way from anything my companions were familiar with and they drank in the wild atmosphere like all other big city escapees who have been welcomed into tribal life. Sally got all ochred up with the resident females and did a provocative fireside dance dressed in nothing but a gum leaf skirt. Her dark hair was crowned in a ring of native flowers and she threw tiny petals at me from behind the flickering flames. This ritual is a contemporary woman’s dance and it’s main purpose is to single out the menfolk who are seated on the ground. As the romantic mood of the evening unfolded both Jean and Sally threw petals in my direction which got the old 'Ju Ju' juices flowing and triggered sexual imaginings far too rude to even divulge. After the party in Nimbin everyone crashed out dead tired as the first blue, tinged hint of dawn began to illuminate the ridges around the valley. Sally fell asleep in my arms by the fire with Jean resting her head on my leg. 'Mr. Happy' rose to the occasion by trying to muscle his way out of my tight fitting shorts but I eventually nodded off as the kookaburras were starting to announce the new day. At about midday we were woken by the smell of boiling, spicy chai tea. The girls decided that they didn't want to go to Sydney just yet, so we drove over to Surfers Paradise to check out the action at Jupiters Casino. At no expense to myself I was suddenly an overnight resident at the Ramada Hotel and my companions giggled like naughty geisha girls as they informed me it was time to spoil ourselves after our time in the great outdoors. By the time we had finished unpacking our bags there were gum leaves all over the luxury apartment from the skirts the girls had been wearing at the moon ance. I made note that the apartment would make an ideal romantic setting where Sally and I might further explore our inner, carnal desires. Our summer holiday fling had not as yet been consummated because the poor girl was trying to work out if she was 'bi' or 'hetro' and I was just her latest little 'hands on' experimentation.
After the girls had lost a heap of cash at the Jupiter’s Casino they just laughed it off and we went on a bar hopping pub crawl through a multitude of disco's and other smoky haunts. Our mission to get as many kicks as the night would allow was punctuated by lemon soaked slugs of tequila and expensive cuban cigars. Dressed in evening garments that more closely resembled frilly underwear my disco dancing companions were acting very sexy for any male eyes that happened to be looking in. Sally and I were pretty well booked in as a sure thing but Jean appeared to sending the 'come and get it' vibe my way as well. It didn’t seem to bother Sal at all when her girlfriend sidled up to me and every time she did it reignited thoughts of a three way romp in the hay. They were like those highly charged floosies you see on late night dancefloors who try to out sex each other for the boys. A couple of punters tried to move in on Jean but she just brushed them away like bothersome flakes of lint. I scored some hash from a guy at the bar which intensified the festivities and really got the girls bopping. When we found out there was also some ecstasy available three of the little pink pills were included in our stash of party aids. None of the girls had tried the drug before so we decided to wait until we got back to the Ramada to drop them. When we got back to the hotel late in the night and as drunk as marauding pirates, the girls danced on the outside balcony to the most romantic of my cassettes. They swooned and swayed like palms in a tropical storm as the mood was set to the tone of Silk Degrees by Boz Scaggs. Within half an hour we were falling all over each other laughing and dancing as the ecstasy did it’s job and the layed back, chummy music was replaced by some solid driving Rock and Roll. The affections of Sally and I spilled into the dancing circle and before I knew it I was stretched out on a big leather couch with an irresistible go go girl on either side. 'Oh! heavens preserve us! ... Could it be that I am the lucky representative of my gender who these delectable pussycats have schemed and conspired to seduce. Yes! , ... Ouch! , ... Oh!, ... boy! Unwanted clothes were hastily discarded as a stereophonic flood of sensations caressed my sweetly surrendered form. In the candlelit haze of a Gold Coast dawn I was initiated into a Bacchanalian ritual which rendered every other sexual encounter obsolete. You know it’s true what they say about men who scoff at the idea of two women in bed at the same time. They’re all just dirty lying bastards. Our drunken threebee was just a one off event which was laughed away over breakfast by all of us. When we arrived in Sydney the girls resumed their normal lives and we hardly saw each other again. As I reminisce on our naughty little holiday orgy I like to think of it as the pinnacle of my sexual growth and achievement. My standards were raised so high by the event, that these days only the very best of thoroughbreds are allowed to reside in my stable of erotic dreams.
Whenever I was in Cairns to pick up supplies and the like the Oceanic hotel was always my first port of call. It was here at one of the lunchtime lingerie spectaculars they used to have that I first met up with Leo Scudds. He was a big city party animal in exile much the same as myself and he shared the dream of pulling off a million dollar crop somewhere out in the jungle. I found that I was journeying into Cairns more often than usual just so I could hang out with Leo and it got to the point where I was camping in the back lane behind his low rental rooming house, just off the main street. Every day without fail Leo and I would sit around in the beer garden blowing our welfare payments on Four X beer and Frigate rum and when we ran out of cash we just sold some more pot to the tourists. Leo had been on the lookout for potential crop locations long before I arrived in town but he was restricted from getting a patch started because he didn’t own a car. When I came along he was quick to propose a partnership which he claimed would land us both on easy street and get us all the high class chicks we wanted. Leo started yapping in my ear about a sheltered clearing he had found in the rainforest near Mount Douglas, that was so remote and inaccessible the police choppers would never be able to see it from the air. He said if I wanted to share in the profits from the crop then all I had to do was transport him and his newly sprouted seedlings to the site and check in from time to time with supplies until the plants were mature. We shook hands on the deal and the next morning I loaded the van from the floor to the roof with seedling pots, camping gear and provisions. After only five days in the jungle Leo found that he couldn’t handle the isolation and the silence of paradise. He hiked out of the scrub and made his way back to Cairns, but he left his camp set up where it stood in clear view of the newly established plots. I was eventually persuaded to drive him back into the forest to retrieve his belongings and that was my big mistake. As we made our way along the thin dirt track to his camp a police Landrover came speeding up from behind and signaled for us to stop. My partner in crime had left some personal papers in his tent and the first thing the copper said was, “Which one of you is Leonardo Peter Scudds? Apparently some tin miners in the area had noticed that Leo’s camp was abandoned and informed the local police that they thought he might have got lost. What an absolute dumbfuck. I got off with a three hundred dollar fine and it made me seriously reconsider devoting all of my time to being a primary producer of pot.
One day in the beer garden of the Oceanic I met a couple of cute and well to do Sydney girls called Sally and Jean who were holidaying in the tropical sun. Leo and I became their official tour guides and they spoiled us rotten for about six weeks. The girls insisted on doing all of the normal touristy things like scuba diving and the like but all we wanted to do was get into their flimsy little sarongs. My old Maori buddies the Color Machine flew into Cairns to play the local disco’s and we raged just like in the old days at their gigs and around the motel pool. Our fun loving foursome went to most of the bands shows and I got to do a couple of impromptu guest spots which really impressed Sally and Jean. As their northern holiday drew to a close the girls decided that they would hire a car and stretch out their tropical adventure. Sally and I had become smoochy and explorative to the point of spoof stained shorts so I offered to drive them down South if they helped me out with the fuel. I tried to persuade Leo to come down to Sydney with us but he had to make a court appearance in a couple of weeks time and failure to do so would end him up in the clink. We hugged and said goodbye to each other grateful for our time together. His parting statement was 'You lucky bastard' as I drove off towards the motel to pick up the girls. It was fantastic to be on the road again especially since I was in the company of two gorgeous babes, who were helping to foot the bills.
After numerous touristy stopovers at places like Townsville and Bundaberg our free wheeling trio stopped in the northern rivers and we stayed in Nimbin for a couple of days. It was a real blast to catch up with the old Dreaming camp crew and get into some grass roots culture and tribal music. In the time since I had been there last Mr. Metaphysicus had further extended conversions of the property into a world class backpackers resort. A newer and much larger tipi circle had been established high on the flood free slopes, complete with a shower block and a fully equipped community kitchen. Our guru turned resort proprietor said we could use one of his forty five dollar a night tipis for as long as we wanted to stay and he wouldn't hear of taking any money from the girls. I told him that we didn't mind paying the fee like everyone else, because we were “Not Attached” to the cost of our accommodation. At this my once in a blue moon spiritual adviser made a gesture reminiscent of a small boy squirming with absolute delight. For the duration of our stay the girls were treated to tribal displays of all descriptions as we partied by firelight and danced underneath the stars. They joined in the conga line and grooved to the pulsing primal beat while naked and brightly painted fire throwers lit up the tipi dotted hills. It was a long way from anything my companions were familiar with and they drank in the wild atmosphere like all other big city escapees who have been welcomed into tribal life. Sally got all ochred up with the resident females and did a provocative fireside dance dressed in nothing but a gum leaf skirt. Her dark hair was crowned in a ring of native flowers and she threw tiny petals at me from behind the flickering flames. This ritual is a contemporary woman’s dance and it’s main purpose is to single out the menfolk who are seated on the ground. As the romantic mood of the evening unfolded both Jean and Sally threw petals in my direction which got the old 'Ju Ju' juices flowing and triggered sexual imaginings far too rude to even divulge. After the party in Nimbin everyone crashed out dead tired as the first blue, tinged hint of dawn began to illuminate the ridges around the valley. Sally fell asleep in my arms by the fire with Jean resting her head on my leg. 'Mr. Happy' rose to the occasion by trying to muscle his way out of my tight fitting shorts but I eventually nodded off as the kookaburras were starting to announce the new day. At about midday we were woken by the smell of boiling, spicy chai tea. The girls decided that they didn't want to go to Sydney just yet, so we drove over to Surfers Paradise to check out the action at Jupiters Casino. At no expense to myself I was suddenly an overnight resident at the Ramada Hotel and my companions giggled like naughty geisha girls as they informed me it was time to spoil ourselves after our time in the great outdoors. By the time we had finished unpacking our bags there were gum leaves all over the luxury apartment from the skirts the girls had been wearing at the moon ance. I made note that the apartment would make an ideal romantic setting where Sally and I might further explore our inner, carnal desires. Our summer holiday fling had not as yet been consummated because the poor girl was trying to work out if she was 'bi' or 'hetro' and I was just her latest little 'hands on' experimentation.
After the girls had lost a heap of cash at the Jupiter’s Casino they just laughed it off and we went on a bar hopping pub crawl through a multitude of disco's and other smoky haunts. Our mission to get as many kicks as the night would allow was punctuated by lemon soaked slugs of tequila and expensive cuban cigars. Dressed in evening garments that more closely resembled frilly underwear my disco dancing companions were acting very sexy for any male eyes that happened to be looking in. Sally and I were pretty well booked in as a sure thing but Jean appeared to sending the 'come and get it' vibe my way as well. It didn’t seem to bother Sal at all when her girlfriend sidled up to me and every time she did it reignited thoughts of a three way romp in the hay. They were like those highly charged floosies you see on late night dancefloors who try to out sex each other for the boys. A couple of punters tried to move in on Jean but she just brushed them away like bothersome flakes of lint. I scored some hash from a guy at the bar which intensified the festivities and really got the girls bopping. When we found out there was also some ecstasy available three of the little pink pills were included in our stash of party aids. None of the girls had tried the drug before so we decided to wait until we got back to the Ramada to drop them. When we got back to the hotel late in the night and as drunk as marauding pirates, the girls danced on the outside balcony to the most romantic of my cassettes. They swooned and swayed like palms in a tropical storm as the mood was set to the tone of Silk Degrees by Boz Scaggs. Within half an hour we were falling all over each other laughing and dancing as the ecstasy did it’s job and the layed back, chummy music was replaced by some solid driving Rock and Roll. The affections of Sally and I spilled into the dancing circle and before I knew it I was stretched out on a big leather couch with an irresistible go go girl on either side. 'Oh! heavens preserve us! ... Could it be that I am the lucky representative of my gender who these delectable pussycats have schemed and conspired to seduce. Yes! , ... Ouch! , ... Oh!, ... boy! Unwanted clothes were hastily discarded as a stereophonic flood of sensations caressed my sweetly surrendered form. In the candlelit haze of a Gold Coast dawn I was initiated into a Bacchanalian ritual which rendered every other sexual encounter obsolete. You know it’s true what they say about men who scoff at the idea of two women in bed at the same time. They’re all just dirty lying bastards. Our drunken threebee was just a one off event which was laughed away over breakfast by all of us. When we arrived in Sydney the girls resumed their normal lives and we hardly saw each other again. As I reminisce on our naughty little holiday orgy I like to think of it as the pinnacle of my sexual growth and achievement. My standards were raised so high by the event, that these days only the very best of thoroughbreds are allowed to reside in my stable of erotic dreams.
Having been lost for so long in the easygoing backwaters of the tropics the high speed contrast of Sydney was exhilarating. To feel a little more like I belonged in the world I had re-entered I discarded my threadbare, beach bum attire and started building a wardrobe more in tune with the local scene. My head was completely shaved to celebrate the new, big city look and it complimented the over all effect which displayed a 'don’t fuck with me' kind of streetwise appearance. Winter was just around the corner and it seemed like a good time to put my motorized nomad routine on hold for a while. I sold the van to a mate for a thousand bucks and took a horrible little room in the Annandale hotel out on Parramatta Road. It was the second most depressing address I have inhabited beside that horrible little single mans quarters back in Adelaide. The reason I took the room at the pub was because my mate the ever enterprising Quick Bucks had established a fully equipped rehearsal studio just up the street. The place throbbed twenty four hours a day as bands came and went and it became the central hub of my world as I reconnected with the Sydney scene. The Futura came out of storage at the rear of the Black Wattle and I was relieved to find that none of my belongings had been pilfered by thieves. My vintage saloon was left sitting there for ages taking up much needed space, but all my friends would take for their troubles was a bottle of champagne and a fifty dollar bag of pot. I shared tales of my adventures with the artists at a lavish dinner party which was held in one of the larger studio spaces. There was music and poetry by firelight in an outside courtyard and I sang to sweet folk music as good as any I had enjoyed with the Dropout Lodge crew. The talent I was being exposed to at the Black Wattle gathering told me that I was in the right place to start recruiting musicians.The years that I had been away from the entertainment racket had made me more realistic in my outlook and I had little interest in pursuing success as a stage performer. I was however keen to get started on a recording project so as to capture the songs I had written while I was on the road. Quick Bucks allowed me to use a little back room which was the storage area for mike stands, cables and a whole bunch of other stuff. It was only really big enough for the fourtrack and myself but within days I had a system worked out where I could recruit players from the multitude of traversing musicians. Between practice sessions I used to get them to stand in the hallway and play guitar or keyboard tracks over the drum machine while I rolled joints and topped them up with beer.
After long hours at the fourtrack recording music beds my favorite way of relaxing was to drive into the cross and see what was happening in the clubs. One night in the penthouse disco at the Rex hotel I met a Hungarian strip club owner called Frankie Alistair and we got tanked up on vodka with a group of strippers who were chilling between shows. It was a real test of my masculine perceptions to work out which ones were the actual females and I’m sure I had a bloke sitting on my lap at one stage in the game. Frankie loved me to pieces when he found out that my old man had escaped from Hungary during the uprising. He told me a story about how he had narrowly missed death in a firing squad by playing dead. Apparently there’s a bullet hole in each of his ears but you couldn’t see them for a thick mass of slicked back hair. Frankie wasn’t the sort of guy that you would ask to pull back his hair so you could see if he was telling the truth or not. Frankie and I became regular drinking mates and after a while he offered me a job as a spruiker at the Pink Pussycat. I jumped at the offer so I could check out the rest of the girls and perhaps improve on my limited street cred. The cash that I received for my long hours on the door was hardly worth the effort but I had landed in one of the best pot dealing locations the cross has to offer. The front entrance to the Pussycat was the spot where the original Kings Cross bikers used to park their rigs. BJ, Frank and the rest of the boys were on Frankie’s payroll if ever there was trouble and I used to give lip to whole football teams knowing that I was protected. As long as I sang whisky drinking, blues favorites for those guys I got away with murder. I came to know the strippers and the club staff quite well and in time the burlesque crowd became my greatest source of fun. There’s nothing better when you are off your trolley and raging than to be surrounded by a room full of red light district ambassadors who are letting off steam. The stern and unapproachable masks that are worn to keep the public at bay are cast aside in a firestorm of hardcore behind the scenes theatrics. It was at one of these exclusive little gatherings that I witnessed the most Fellini’esque apparition of my life. A chubby little foot cop walked in at closing time and plonked himself down on a Drag Queens lap in the change room. They gave each other a long and truly passionate tongue kiss, then he continued to slurp on a Fosters beer that came out of Frankie’s well stocked bar fridge. After the merriment of the evening I would normally drive back to Annandale half pissed as the sun was rising and I knew that it wouldn’t take long before I got pulled over. To avoid getting busted for drink driving I moved out of the pub and took a room in the Plaza hotel overlooking the main drag in the cross. My days were mostly spent hanging out at the rehearsal studios and my night shift went from the Pussycat, to the clubs and then to a comfortable woman’s bed if my night hawking charms were true to form. After less than a month I found that the Plaza had became unbearable to live in due to the noise of the hookers and their endless stream of rowdy men. One of my pot customers told me about a big mansion that had recently been vacated in Potts Point so after our transaction was complete I strolled over to check it out. The building was known as Tuscilum House and it was a grand old colonial structure with high pillared verandas both upstairs and down. The place got it’s name from the large marble tiles on the verandas which were mined and transported from a town of the same name in Italy. I was later to find out that it was the home of the first bishop of Sydney a certain Monseigneur Fulton. Jamie Mac and I walked into the abandoned building through tall cedar front doors which were left swinging in the breeze. The place had been occupied only days before by some Catholic nuns who provided meals for the drunks and the streetkids. It seemed strange that printed religious literature had been left piled and scattered all over the estate and even the plaster statues of Mary and Jesus were left standing in the chapel downstairs. Jamie and I moved into the empty church building that very afternoon and started to clean the place up. A virtual army of streetkids, buskers and assorted Kings Cross locals were persuaded to help us to get the job done with the promise of a room as their reward. The mansion had about thirty spacious teak trimmed compartments with a large central ballroom on both the upstairs and downstairs levels. Within two days all of the rooms were taken except for two that were set up as kitchens.
Even though our new squat was filled to capacity the street people just kept drifting in. Before long there were teenage runaways and single mothers, drunks, junkies and jive talking jesters in every nook and cranny of the house. We expected the cops to arrive any day after we got the place established, but instead more than two weeks after moving in we were visited by a couple of fast talking Lebanese businessmen. They were escorted to the front gate by our squad of resident martial arts enthusiasts and threats of further action were heard as they drove off in imported luxury cars. Bottom of the Harbor scandals were making news in all of the papers and I found out along the street telegraph that our palatial new home was somehow involved. The cops eventually turned up looking for some streetkid or other, but no mention was made of the fact we were squatting. They just left us to ourselves and went on their merry way with the usual kind of parting advice, “Don’t you fuckheads wreck the place it’s not yours.” As best I could imagine our Lebanese gangster friends were in the lockup and the cops probably liked the idea of having all of the street people assembled in one place. They popped in from time to time looking for runaways and other escapees, so we were forced to adopt a strict house policy to show all known fugitives the door. The kitchens and bathrooms operated pretty smoothly most of the time, but there were the inevitable clashes which saw our martial arts peacekeepers stepping in to settle disputes. Our raggle taggle gang of street people attracted some exceptionally wild spirits who had lost the plot and were lashing out at the world. One such case was Kit Kat a young street kid from the northern suburbs who was the daughter of a devout Christian preacher. On the first day after her arrival Kit Kat flipped out in the downstairs chapel and smashed up all of the statues. Praise Satan was scribbled on the sky blue walls in menstrual blood and she was splashing the room with methylated spirits when one of the older squatters stepped in. Before she could burn our new home to the ground the poor girl was carted off to a lunatic asylum and pumped so full of drugs that she couldn’t even remember her name.
STREETWISE
Those who go below the surface do so at their peril
a rude awakening waits for those who choose to look behind the curtain
certain things are better off left a mystery
Ignorance is bliss if you don’t know what you’re missing
you can’t resist the kiss of death so your curiosity leads you
hangin around the cross, toffee apple and fairy floss
standing in the devils doorway looking through your pocket for the key
Psychotropic hallucinations in a neon lit grave yard
dead and half dead corpses raise their glasses to the sky
you can get anything you want from an underhanded skeleton claw
yours of course, a toothless apparition
it’s your guide, open wide, make the big transition
into the light, wake in fright , you thought that you were sleeping
then into your dreams, these words came creeping
saying , snap out of it, get it together , don’t blow your chance
it’s now or never baby!
You don’t look too streetwise to me, You don’t look too streetwise to me
You didn’t go to the school of hard knocks and that is plain as day to see so
You don’t look too streetwise to me, Ah! ha!
You don’t look too streetwise to me.
As time went by most of the ‘Fuck the world’ devotees were replaced by a more creative breed of inhabitants. Eventually every second room was occupied by an artist or musician and petty domestic conflicts no longer filled our graffiti decorated halls. I was living among a virtual treasure chest of musical talent and just a short walk up the street we could all draw a substantial income from busking. I set up my recording gear in the chapel after the shattered fragments of Jesus and his cohorts were swept away. I found the resident buskers were easy to enlist in my music project with a smoke and a couple of beers. Most of them were new to any kind of recording, but in spite of that they gave my four track demos the folky, earth bound flavor that was needed to best convey the issue related songs. One of the main players I worked with was an Aboriginal fellow by the name of Cubby. He used to get a big kick out of the recording thing and our late night jam sessions were enhanced by the sound of banging sticks and didgeridoos. Cubby’s mates from Redfern were regular visitors to the squat and through them I was given a rare glimpse into the ghetto life of inner city, indigenous people. One night at the peak of the Redfern riots I was invited by Cubby and his friends to check out the Coorie radio station which was right in the midst of violent police clashes. I was the only white man among the group and as we walked towards the Radio Redfern building my trusty guides had to negotiate my safe passage past a number of disgruntled black activists. When finally we arrived at the station I was introduced to the DJ who had been told in advance that I was coming. Laughing and maintaining his on air hype he physically hauled me into the broadcasting booth and introduced me to his listeners as, “Comrade Steve”, ... The Busker with a social conscience from Kings Cross. The radio announcer praised the fact I had welcomed blackfellas and whites alike into our newly established squats and he played a track in my honor that went by the name of, ... ‘Comrade Jesus’. I was completely blown away and humbled by the compliment, but what happened next was a tribal initiation of the highest order. As the Comrade Jesus song was blasting out into the Sydney night Cubby and his mates invited me to be part of a ritual they only bestowed upon a select few. My hand was painted in a splash of earth toned paint and then placed on the large studio door alongside the likes of Gary Foley, Guboo Ted Thomas, Burnham Burnham, Charlie Perkins and others. That event marked a significant turning point in my perceptions of justice and it caused me to take a much greater interest in the freedom struggles of our downtrodden black brothers and sisters. Life in the cross can be a true test of compassion and often I found that I had to shed the street hardened, tough guy exterior to lend a hand to someone in need. There was a short lane that led from the backyard of the squats into the cross and it served as the main walking route for the comings and goings at the house. It became a full time job to keep the rampant smack heads at bay and the sight of an unmoving human form was not unusual as I walked towards the main street. Every second day we’d have to call in the paramedics because someone had overdosed in the ally and you can believe me when I say that the image of a desperate, narceine awakened junkie is a more accurate portrayal of the walking dead than any Hollywood thriller could ever produce. The Wayside chapel was just across the road at the end of the lane and as well as providing help for the down and outers, they conducted a Sunday night open forum which attracted the creme of Sydney’s street level intelligentsia. The chat fest was hosted by the Director of the chapel the reverend Ted Noffs and many of the speakers who appeared were star attractions at the weekly gatherings in the Domain. My Sunday nights became devoted to mind expanding pursuits among the milk crate speakers and I got to swap ideas with a potent assembly of open minded souls. Two of the most engaging characters among them were Gary Courtney a self proclaimed, ... ‘No wing radical’ and an old English bloke called Webster who knew everything from the laws of thermo-dynamics to the color of mathoosla’s boots. After the raves were concluded at the chapel each Sunday a group of us would gather in the downstairs ballroom of the mansion. There was one among our group called Ian who was a self proclaimed Pagan wizard. He used to get dressed up in a long black, KKK type of gown with a pointed hat and he would often convene candle light rituals in our midst.
Things like the seasonal equinox and other naturally occurring events were given over to such festivities and it was not unusual for our bean bag reclining gang of serious thinkers to be treated to a spectacle involving naked young ladies and blood red body paint. Flagons of red wine and exotic herbal delights were consumed as the night was given over to a friendly clash of the motormouths. Passion filled conversations about the burning issues of our time continued till dawn and we hardly ever slept . The common war cry of our inner city, brain storming elite was , ‘Sate the Sacred cow’ which meant that no topic was exempt from the collective satire. Quick wittedness was the prime objective of all who participated and I soon learned the art of holding my own amid a gaggle of predatory hecklers. I sponged up a wealth of information about what was really going on in the world from inner city wisdom seekers and pot head dropouts with impressive university degrees. In my opinion the best one liner that ever came out of our idea smithing workshops was , ‘The human species was created by water to carry it’s liquid mass from one place to another.’ The second most significant little truism to emerge was , 'Creation is an infinite sphere who's center is everywhere and who's outermost perimeter is nowhere'. In the after glow of a red light district night ... stale ciggie smoke and no more wine voices ragged from the passions of debate ... soggy peanuts and a broken blind Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young ... sing Teach your children and the Woodstock theme too much thinking and my head sill hurts like an outstretched propolactic that has burst at the seams pray to the Moon God dead in the night and unleash your precious slander on our paralytic host of the things I have lost in this absurd little life ... I think my mind I miss the most. North coast travelers often stayed in the house and it served as the big city base camp for many of my activist friends. Whenever there was a rally or some other kind of protest going on in Sydney our art studios and workshop spaces were opened up to welcome the migrating clan. During one such visit I found out about the forthcoming Tanalorn Folk Festival which was soon to commence in the Hunter valley. It was being promoted as ‘The Festival of Transition’ and most of my Sydney based hippy friends were raving about it. The event was just about to kick off so a group of us jumped in the XP and motored off to the show. The festival as it turned out wasn’t so much a new age gathering as it was an almighty rock and roll piss up for beer swilling punters and hippies alike. Mud splattered mosh pit gymnasts could be seen reveling in front of the main stage as tranquil mystics and masseurs observed from their stalls high on the crowd trampled slopes. The smell of grilled tofu and other simmering, holistic delights were mixed with the aroma of snags on the barby, hamburgers and freshly projectiled puke. The two distinct sides of our cultural spectrum were situated at close quarters but the whole thing remained peaceful and free of brawls. At one stage I was dancing arm in arm with a couple of mud brown, shirtless westies when a group of hippy chicks suddenly ripped off their upper garments and joined in the fun. I found out that a meeting of the more alternative minded festival goers was being conducted away from the main stage and it was here that I bumped into an old mate from the Nightcap forest campaign. His name was Captain Casual and he was one of the key organizers who had helped to save the trees. The captain told me that a special ten minute spot had been designated on the main stage to open the show for the Nimbin Follies and it would be a perfect platform for one of my songs. The Nimbin Follies were the most popular hippy cabaret act of the day and all I had to do was convince our scampering love tribe that I was the best man for the job. When it came time for the cast of crusading hopefuls to put forward their case it resembled a comedy performance where self proclaimed everything’s became unhinged before the expectant crowd. The irate contender who made his address prior to mine was gently hushed away declaring, “But I am The Anointed Starlord from the Sirius Nebula and I bring goodwill to all mankind”.
I walked into the tribal circle and presented the crowd with a newly penned song which I had barely completed the melody for. A swinging Negro rhythm seemed to fall into place around the easy to remember lyrics and the overall effect soon had people singing along. My slightly more advanced vocal and theatrical skills seemed to provide a welcomed relief from the embarrassment of the last act, so the flower children danced and swayed in a circle and the chorus grew as others joined in. A wall of human beings began to rotate around me in great numbers then they opened up into a revolving spiral about two hundred people strong. I ended the piece with a vocal crescendo that I was later told could be heard at the outer perimeter of the spiraling, euphoric dance. The tribal vote was registered by expressions of approval from the crowd and before it even began Captain Casual was running around urging people to, “Vote for Steve Tripp, the Singer”.
That’s me in the red strides and the blissed out dancer is Benny Zabel
the world renowned Environmental Artist.
I was invited back into the circle for the judging and when my name was called out the response was overwhelming. I stood back politely and concealed a hidden smile as the other contenders were met with half hearted applause. When it was announced that I would be representing our tribe on the big stage the accolades started again and the song was resumed amid deafening cheers. I already knew the band reasonably well from the harvest balls in Nimbin so no formal introductions were necessary. I was bundled into a coaster bus and we drove through some security gates to a village of tents and caravans at the rear of the stage. The previous stage setup was being replaced after the Dyvynals had concluded their gig and I was hanging around in a nervous sweat just waiting to hear my name. It was soon to ring in my ear but it wasn’t coming from anywhere near the stage. A head was poking out of a caravan nearby and it belonged to my old mate Swannie. For those who don’t know John Swan he is the brother of the legendary Scottish/Australian singer Jimmy Barnes and an exponent of world class vocals in his own right.
Swannie and I shared a bottle of black label Johnny Walkers as the roadies cleared the stage and he agreed to accompany me when it was time to do my thing. There was a red naval ensign hanging up in the coaster so I borrowed it to use as a cape in my spot. The flag was complimented by a rainbow embroidered headband which was tied around my head in the revolutionary style. It was getting close to my stage call and I was walking back from the toilets when I heard the words, “Hey! fuckwit, ... Don’t you know it’s sacrilege to drag the Aussie flag on the ground?” The voice belonged to none other than Michael Chugg the concert promoter and he was bellowing in my face as if I was some kind of paid employee. I was just about to respond with a smartarse remark when the noise of an ascending chopper blocked us out and we were left standing there looking in each others eyes. Swannie was hanging out of the open sliding door pointing at his watch and screaming, “Sorry mate” as the chopper banked away and Chuggy scooted off up the stairs towards the stage shaking his head. I pulled the flag a little bit higher up my back and made a mental note about using the flag in the dust idea for a video clip. As Chuggy approached the microphone stand to make the next announcement the poor stressed out numbskull didn’t realise that I was the next act and he pleaded with the crowd to give me ‘A Big Tanalorn Welcome’. Most of the Dyvynals fans had drifted off and they were replaced by an army of hippies and assorted freaks. The Nimbin Follies jumped in to give me some much needed vocal backup and the tribe came to life as another large,spiraling circle was formed. I was just about to go into the third verse of the song when I spotted someone who looked very much like Joni Mitchell dancing underneath a big straw hat down in the crowd. Fuck me sideways “I did, I did see Joni Mitchell.” She was doing a highland jig with her security guard in the front of stage sludge and happily mouthing the words to my ditty.
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