THE BUSKING YEARS

THE BUSKING YEARS.

As far back as I can remember I have been an audience craving exhibitionist.  I learned how to attract the limelight from any situation very early in life and my newly emerging performance skills exploded into being at every available opportunity.  As a child I was branded an incurable showoff by all who crossed my path which confirmed an inner belief that I was born to entertain.  I picked up my first clues on how to work an audience at my Mothers frequent and always outrageous Tupperware parties.  When her fat and happy assembly of girlfriends were playing silly games to win Tupperware prizes I used to act even sillier to win their approval.  I can't imagine there’s anything more hideous when you are a kid than being witness to a room full of obese women who are rendered immobile by fits uncontrollable laughter. Especially when it’s because of something that you have done.  My busking antics were contrived of much the same sort of stuff that I came out with as a kid and in many ways it was just like being at a big Tupperware party.  The more I did it the better I became and I was struck by the realisation that street performance was my true calling in life. 

My job at the pussycat was no longer a critical factor to my survival because I met all of the pot customers I needed in the normal course of my day around the cross.  And besides Frankie had started complaining that the attendance figures were at an all time low in the club.  Apparently the street crowds preferred to watch me go through my nightly song and dance, comedy routines than walk up the sexual staircase and have a perv at the strippers.  Frankie got me roaring drunk on my last night at the club and as things turned out I ended up in the cot with one of the better looking strippers.  Her name was Felice and she was a very sexy dancer but the most disappointing dud fuck I have ever shared a bed with.  The loss of my spruiking position was a blessing in disguise because less than a week later I was back out on Darlinghurst road singing my heart out with the buskers from the squat.  As our limited repertoire of songs grew in size and quality I found that I started pulling as much money in one night as I could in three days at the club and I was earning my daily bread by doing the thing I loved most.  We did foot stomping old favourites like ‘Bad to the Bone’ and ‘When the Levee Breaks’ which turned our busking circles into full blown street parties, as rage hungry pedestrians emptied their wallets into the guitar case.  The street performance thing was far less restrictive than life during the Neon Farmboy era and at the end of the day I think I was actually making more cash in hand.  Working musicians that I knew used to make a point of checking the earnings in our guitar case on their way to the clubs and they would walk off shaking their heads in disbelief at seeing an abundant pile of coins and notes with the odd alcoholic beverage or joint thrown in.  The logical spot from which to serenade the passing multitudes was as close as possible to the Pussycat so that BJ and his mates could assure us a trouble free night.  If ever some punter was giving me the shits he would receive the traditional ham sized hand on the shoulder and be escorted out of the busking circle.  My musical companions always egged me on which got me doing more outrageous things than I ever did spruiking on the door.  My favourite trick to assemble an instant audience was to lay stretched out on the pavement like a drunk with a twenty dollar note protruding from the pocket of my shirt.  When some lowlife, gutter rat bent down to pilfer the money I grabbed them by the scruff of the neck and scared them into a startled and hasty retreat.  When the crowd saw the bikers going into hysterics at my stunts they became relaxed enough to hang around and I would usually pick myself up to a healthy applause and the sound of tinkling coins. More through good luck than planning I had suddenly graduated to a more respectable position within the hierarchy of the street and it made me reflect on the journey that had led me to busking.  Distant memories came to mind of my earliest encounters with the minstrals and how their influence had been a key factor in determining the direction my life would go.  Lee Turner and his friends were my first real contact with live music but there was another event in my life that has gained a greater meaning through the years.  Shortly after I got out of hospital in Adelaide I was sitting in Rundle mall watching a very talented Busker perform for the daytime shoppers.  Without warning I was thrown into a state of uncontrollable excitement and a kind of creative frenzy.  As I watched him sing his ditties and solicit coins from the crowd I found that I was just as excited by the power of his performance as I was by the knowledge that I might be able to do it myself.  The Buskers name was ‘Abe Bazzan’ and he was a truly gifted, singing clown. As part of his act he pushed a busking trolley around which supported a big golden horn from an old gramophone. There were ‘Anti-uranium’ and other environmentally related stickers plastered all over his trolley and banjo case and they appeared quite surreal among the otherwise theatrical setting.  At every available opportunity among his repetior of happy go lucky songs Abe used to drop environmental home truths on the audience and they were graciously accepted as part of the show.  His performance and boldly symbolic brand of magic had a profound effect on my creativity and the way I viewed the world.  There’s no doubt he triggered my natural sense of theatre and melody, but in more subtle ways he heightened my sense of environmental responsibility.  Not long after we met and became friends I started writing chirpy little songs and poems for children.  From there as the years moved on I progressed to foot tapping protest songs about the environment and other important issues.  Abe if you are reading this you are a true friend and I value your influence dearly.  You helped me to evolve into an ‘Environmental Artist’.  

                                                                                                                                                                                           'Thanks  for  the  input  mate’

Dennis Aubrey is another busking legend around Australia and in the late seventy’s he too used to perform around Rundle Mall.  I made a special point of making his acquaintance and before long he started letting me do guest spots as part of his show.  This is where I had my first hands on experience as a street performer.  My sense of self confidence went through the roof and the response of the audience confirmed that I had what it takes to be a Busker.   My first busking partner in Sydney was a guy by the name of ‘Phil Laws’.  Phil was a compulsive record collector who had a whole wall shelved and filled with albums from the 60’s and 70’s.  We used to play along to his ‘Leonard Cohen’ records mostly and these formed the basis of our act when first we hit the street.  Our repetoir included such Cohen classics as, ... ‘So long Marianne’,... ‘Bird on a wire’ and, ... ‘Please don’t pass me by’.  The first time Phil and I ever tried our hands at busking was the night that Bob Hawk was elected as the Prime Minister of Australia.   We made over $200 that night from an army of partying punters.  The crowd was overflowing from the pavement onto the streets and in their exuberance they were playing soccer with the round plastic covers from the street lamps.  A hard nosed police sergeant actually addressed me as ‘Sir’ as he requested assistance to disperse the crowd. What  a  blast!, ... 

                                                                                                                'Now  this  is  what  I  call  living, ...‘I  was  hooked  on  busking’ 

My most frequent busking partner in the time I have been a street singer was an almost likeable character who I generally refer to as, ...‘Lord Muck Almighty’.  His real name is Ian Mortimer or 'Morty' as most people know him and he also goes by the nickname of Spinner.  Mort and I share the Leo star sign and at times in his company I have felt like he is the brother I never had.  I call him Lord Muck Almighty because I recognize that slumbering, king lion brand of arrogance that pervades my own persona.  Our particular brand of vocal interplay and sexual innuendo in the busking circle always got us adequately laid and no attractive female was exempt from our predatory advances.  In the hay day of our busking adventures we were a couple of good looking bastards who exuded a certain movie star appeal.  Mort could be compared to George Clooney in one of those rugged, unshaven war flicks and more than once I have been told that I resemble Mickey Rourke by fantasy struck females.  The sex thing is best way to inspire a strong reaction from the drunk and marauding street crowds and we exploited the moment for all it was worth, as lusty hoards of punters brought the red light district to life.  Street performance came to dominate my life and on most days and nights I could be found entertaining the passers by on street corners, in railway tunnels, on beach promenades and out the front of entertainment complexes.  I was always in the company of the best musicians from within the busking community and it seemed like the songs we played were exactly the ones that the audience wanted to hear.  We used to hook them in with get down and dirty favorites like ‘Roadhouse Blues’, ‘Hoochy Coochy man’ and ‘Born to be Wild’.  Then once we had them eating out of our hands we would go into the more sensitive ballads like ‘Desperado’, ‘Fire and Rain’ and ‘Only women bleed’.  After the crowd had reached into their pockets to pay for the entertainment we would explode into a set of the most hard hitting and confronting protest songs we could muster.  Many of those tunes were penned by myself but others we did included ‘Big Yellow Taxi’ by Joni Mitchell and ‘Something in the Air’ by Thunderclap Newman.  Everything was moving so fast back then I don’t think I truly comprehended the significance of what I was doing.  I wasn't consciously moulding myself into the role of a spokesperson for the new age, it just happened that way because of the material we performed and the raves I used to lay on the audience between the songs.  I like to think that life has guided me to the role of a street level, singer of protest songs because it is necessary in the greater scheme of things. It was not unusual for me to drop tabs of very strong LSD prior to our busking shows to accentuate the intensity of the moment.  When I was at the peak of my trip among the lights and the sparkle of the street I felt more in my element than I have at any other stage in my life . 

My little patch on the corner of Darlinghurst road and Roslyn street was the favorite hangout for the hookers and other night owls who haunt that side of town. I was witness to a spectacular array of sexual liaisons, drug deals, fights, arrests and then of course there were the old winos who had to be part of the show.  I soon learned that our audiences enjoyed the drunken antics of the hobos so instead of trying to deter their interjections I welcomed them into the festivities.  After they had babbled their way though ‘In the Summertime’ or some other such popular classic I would call for a big applause for ‘Larry Loudmouth and 'The Amazing performing Dero’s’.  The wino’s would take the accolades as a cue to return to their park bench and suck on some more plonk, so I could resume the show free of any interruptions.  I had those out of control pissheads reasonably well trained and if my instructions were ever ignored BJ was always there smiling on the sidelines.  When the excitement of our nightly shows in the cross had expired all I would want to do was sit down at ‘Alice’s’ outdoor cafe and count the money we had made.  The money counting ritual served as a great way of coming down after hours of belting out old favorites and sucking in the toxic plumes that billow off the street.  There were always moments between the money counting thing and our departure into the clubs where the fruits of my experience took form in the first evolutions of lyric and verse.  I started scribbling down my thoughts on drink coasters, table napkins and menus until I had a shoulder bag bulging full of notes with which to begin documenting my life on the street.  Catchy vocal melodies started popping into my head to support the verses and choruses I had come up with and it wasn’t long before I could belt out newly completed songs free of any musical accompaniment.  Often it was the case if I had arrived early to secure a good busking spot for the evening, I would have a full audience assembled and throwing money before any musicians had even arrived on the scene.  The crowd were already listening intently to my poetry and bopping along to my a Capella vocals, but when the guitarists and other players suddenly joined in, it was like the sound check was over and the show had truly commenced.  As well as being something of a 'Star Busker' I was also a wise cracking motormouth who was renowned for being the life of any party I chose to attend.  Most of the nightclubs where the music industry held their functions were owned by my coke snorting mates and they used to employ me to MC everything from record launches to X rated girlie nights.  A couple of the better live venues in the cross catered for the needs of the local muso’s when they had finished gigging and on most evenings after our busking shows the lads and I could be found in those blissfully decadent night spots.  As I drank myself to oblivion and grooved the night away to the beat of early house music, I still had my wits about me enough to pursue musical contacts .  The quickest way to meet off work muso’s is to be the guy who’s got the best grass in the house.  This commodity was easily acquired through my North coast connections and it wasn’t long before I had a reputation in the clubs as the man with the goods.  To get the party started I used to situate myself in a dimly lit corner at the back of the club.  The first thing I would do on entering the dealers corner was roll up some one paper joints and pass them out to the resident bimbo’s and groupies.  Shielded from the prying eyes of any undercover cops by a wall of sexy females I could conduct my drug merchandising in relative safety.  Off duty Roadies used to come over for a free smoke with the girls and this would always set the scene for the muso’s to join the fun.

Ah!, ...  the  tribal  joys  of, ... ‘Late  Night, ... ‘Rock and Roll’

My combined evenings profit from busking and selling grass was generally enough to keep myself and any ladies that were around in drinks all night long. And that was after I had scored the mandatory gram of coke.  When I was all stocked up with party aids and throwing away handfuls of cash the challenge was suddenly removed from the all consuming task of getting laid.  Centerfold quality females would literally throw themselves at me for a snort of the demons dust in the wee small hours of the morning, when most righteous folk are at home sleeping.  I didn’t realize that women could be such blatantly shameless sluts until I became a dealer.  One particular steamy, December night I was doing a roaring trade selling hash in the Kardomha Cafe and my drug peddling frenzy was interrupted in the most pleasantly imaginable way.   On my return from the toilets to the bar a fellow dealer slipped me a couple of sample ecstasy tablets from a batch of ninety thousand that had just landed on our fair shores.  He said if I liked them we could do some serious business in the clubs at which I graciously accepted the pills and popped one right there on the spot.  As was often the case I became bored with hustling for the next sale and I gave in completely to the party atmosphere that prevailed.  Blue Ruin were going off on the stage and I was right in among the front of house action, sucking on a Corona and dancing to their grungy, street level sound. 

The meat market vibe was building in intensity as each bass heavy number superseded the last in raw, unrestrained power.  The crowd shook the wooden floorboards so ferociously in their frenzy that a badly placed speaker box came crashing off the stage.  The band continued on regardless as the female lead singer from the support act jumped up on a table and displayed her black suspenders to the sex charged crowd in a mock masturbation, dance routine.  The band were belting out their current radio hit of Shocking Blue’s ‘Venus’ when a tall, buxom blonde suddenly appeared on the dance floor.  She was so spectacularly beautiful that every headbanging male on the floor gave her the twice over and puffed out his chest as if he had a chance.  The fact that she was dancing with another female was all I needed to see to make a move.  I swooped in on the dance happy and very drunk blonde just as a pack of howling sexual predators were about to do the same thing.   My quick movements left them all gawking as I took the girl in a tango’esque embrace and swung her clear of the love hungry sharks.  It was soon established over the din of the band that the girls name was Anne Charline and she came from Belgium.  This fact was not conveyed by her as she spoke the bare minimum of English and her girlfriend was not much better at speaking the lingo.  The girls were more intoxicated than dancing would actually allow and the blonde was swaying like a partied out love goddess who was just about to fall into my bed.  From the moment our eyes met we were transfixed in a steamy, mutual attraction and a timeless, instinctive communion seemed to link our souls.  Her tall, voluptuous form complimented my lean, muscular cowboy posture and it seemed the most natural thing I could be doing was biting her on the neck as she leaned on the vibrating PA stack.   The girlfriend was quickly scooped up by one of the dance floor predators which left us to ourselves in the stage lit, flashing magic of a perfect moment.  Before Blue Ruin had finished their last set I had the girls out of the club and in a cab to Paddington where they were sharing a house with some Australian people.  The girlfriend who's name was Joel sat in the front seat exchanging small talk with the driver and Anne Charline snuggled up with me in the back seat. 
         

                                                                        Anne Charline 

When we got to their house the jug was put on the stove, but late night cups of coffee just didn’t eventuate once our heads hit the pillow.  After the briefest of explorative, sexual fingerings and caresses my busty blonde from Belgium fell sound asleep until ten o’clock the next morning.  I think I conked out before my hard on had even gone down but that didn’t matter because I was going to be waking up with a real life angel, who liked me for what I am and not the cocaine I had stashed inside my boot.Over the weeks that followed Anne Charline and I were inseparable and her girlfriend went everywhere with us except for the bedroom.  Shucks!  The girls were only in Australia on three month working visas so we made the most of every moment in the time  we could be together.  They escorted me on all of my nightly rounds from our street performance escapades, to the clubs and everywhere in between.  One night after we had just cleaned up from busking I treated my musical entourage to drinks at the Sebel Town House in Potts Point.  The Sebel is an exclusive and very selective superstar hangout that is normally frequented by touring international celebrities.  Among our group there were two very Bohemian looking guitarists with instruments hanging off of their shoulders and a flute player who was tripping off his brain on mescalin.  The lads had enticed three excitable young girls to join them from out of the busking circle and there was also an American speed dealer called ‘Bob’.

 ‘Free  speed, ... Ouch!’

In music industry circles they say, “You are only as good as your last gig”.  I had just completed my latest musical sermon on the miracle mile and there was not a shimmer of doubt that the world was my big fat juicy oyster.  Back in those ego driven and indulgent times musical success was my main obsession and it seemed quite logical that rubbing shoulders with famous people was a step in the right direction.  I was out on the town charged up on speed and natural adrenaline and I was hunting for ‘Popstars’.  Even if no usable contacts or information were forthcoming as I introduced myself to the music industry elite it was a great scam for acquiring free tickets to the shows.  As we entered the celebrity strewn front bar of the Sebel I noticed that the legendary performer ‘Sting’ was supping refreshments on a relatively exposed couch.  There were bodyguards either side of him sitting in dainty little chairs and eager conversationalists were sprung to pounce at the bar.  It just so happened that this particular night I was wearing my black leather pants and silver tipped snakeskin boots.  As I recall my chest had been sprinkled with glitter under an open cascade ruffle shirt and my eyes were lined with mascara by a drag queen earlier in the evening.  I ordered drinks for my companions from the top shelf and savored the moment as we claimed a dominant focus in the room.  Once this had been established I turned from the bar to find Sting’s eyes fixed intently upon my own.  With a healthy dose of gusto I inquired for all to hear in my finest comical English accent, “Hey Sting”,“Would you care to come out and join us for a spot of busking, old son?”  He smiled and I smiled and all of my friends smiled, along with the barman and the security guards as well.  In his  authentic indigenous tongue he replied,“Not tonight my old mate,... “I’ve just done a big show, ... the throat you know, ... Perhaps another time”.  As this happy little exchange of pleasantries was taking place the eager conversationalists started rallying for positions.  Sting’s bodyguards got up from their undersized chairs and found themselves having to deter a number of journalists, muso’s and cause promoting individuals.  Sting appeared to find the whole thing quite amusing as he sipped on his drink and took in the scene.  At the most opportune moment I made a move and occupied one of the seats that had been vacated by a guard.  The security guy spotted my lightening quick gymnastics and began to apologize for Stings inability to converse.  Sting politely announced to his minders, “It’s alright let him go, ... He’s a Busker”.

Busking with Morty and Craig at Paddington markets.

Anne Charline returned to Belgium at the end of her three month visa amid airport tears and promises to visit her homeland that I knew would never come true.  Our whirlwind romantic connection was ordained by the laws of pure lust, but she was tied to her snowy homeland and I was deeply committed to life in the southern sun.  Besides that my alarm bells started going off when her mother inquired in a letter about the lovers snapshot we had sent her. “Who is this funny looking, man old man with a big nose?” As it turned out my busty Belgium bed partner had some Lebanese character tucked away in her little village who was expecting her to come back home and be his bride.   I was adequately resolved in the knowledge that it was just another holiday fling so there was no room left for heartache or regret to sneak in and screw up my emotions.  Within two weeks of Anne Charline’s departure I had hooked up with one of the chicks from the club and my blonde goddess was assigned to the photograph collection beside my bed.

Springfield’s nightclub evolved out of the old ‘Manzil Room’ which in my opinion was the most authentic, inner city rock venue that Sydney has ever seen.  This exclusive little drinking hole was hosting a welcome party for U2 when they rolled into town and the place was crawling with industry reps and celebrities.  All of the party goers thought themselves much too cool to go over and meet the guys and the room was filled with an air of nervous apprehension.  The band was crammed into a semi-circular, padded booth  directly behind the mixing desk.  Each of the compartments that lined the wall were enclosed by a laminated drink stand that followed an unbroken line from the entrance of the club to the front of house mixing area. The drink stand was only about a foot wide and on busy nights the sound roadies used to use it as a walkway to get in behind the mixer.  It had just recently been cleared of empty glasses so I made my move.  I walked in a low crouch along the drink stand to the table of honor and with complete confidence I sat down between Bono and the Edge. My silver tipped boots were plonked up on the table in a relaxed fashion and I made quite certain not to knock over any of their drinks.  Bono gave a smile of instant approval that said“I can see what you are up to and I’m going to let you get away with it”.  I said a friendly,’How ya goin?’ I’m Steve Tripp  to the guys in the band and they seemed relaxed enough with my presence.  Responding to my abrupt arrival Bono bounced to his feet and with his hand on my outstretched boot and he peered into the huddle of bodies that lined the dimly lit bar. 

Once he had spotted whoever it was he was looking for he used a beckoning hand gesture to call him over.  When the guy arrived at the table Bono instructed him to order drinks for myself and the babe who had commenced to swing off my arm.  Beth E. was a very sexy blend of Spanish and English decent mixed with Black Irish Gypsy.  She used to get around in skin tight black leather pants, boots and skimpy tops which always had the root rats sniffing around her tail.  When we were out on the town heads used to turn and it was a constant job to deter the next sex crazed male.  Many of the touring stars that I met in the clubs just wanted to get into Beth’s leather pants, but I knew this wasn’t the case with Bono.  He was a true gentleman and he was only theaterizing his appreciation of the fact I had broken the stuffy and detached vibe of the room.  Bono stood up after the drinks were acquired and went to mingle with the crowd.  Before he did we had a short chat about music and stuff in a freshly cleared space at the bar.  Apparently he and the band like to meet the locals whenever they arrive in a new place but he said that most music industry gigs were “too reserved” for his liking.  Bono introduced me to the bands public relations man then he wandered off into the smoky Kings cross night.  VIP concert tickets were offered to myself and Beth E. by his assistant and we didn’t pay for another drink all night.

                                                                                                                                                                             ‘See  what  I mean?, ... Great  scam’

After the sensory overload of the evening Beth and I left the club to see what was happening on the street.  It just so happened that Lord Muck was revving up a crowd in our regular busking spot, so I forgot about how tired I was and joined in the revelry.  We dived into our standard repertoire of foot stomping tunes and soul stirring ballads and the audience proved more boisterous than the normal Saturday night crowd.  They got into it from the word go and as we were filling the night with song and good cheer one of the local drunks came staggering through the audience right into the middle of the circle.  He was breathing VO Invalid port into my face and taking swigs from the bottle as he tried to sing along.  I was in the middle of ‘The year 25 25’ and he was seriously detracting from the majesty of the song.  Trying to make it look like part of the act I pushed his face away ever so gently in what I thought would be seen as a comical gesture.  At this slight interruption to his paralytic momentum the old drunk lost his balance, span in a circle and hit the pavement.  I stopped singing mid chorus and bent down to help the old guy up.  Suddenly a voice came thundering out from behind those at the front of the circle, “If you want to pick on someone bro, ... why don’t you pick on me?”  The voice belonged to a big, ugly and very pissed Samoan and he was moving through the crowd to get me.  Shit!  The one night of the week that BJ and the boys are off partying in the club room and I get landed with an eight foot gorilla who wants to kill me.  We used to busk in front of a circular concrete structure that stood about waist high and held a small tree.  I started back peddling around the plant holder as the hulk of a man came towards me.  He soon found it was not going to be so easy to keep up with my evasive movements and can you believe it.  The same audience who had been cheering me on just moments before tried to trip me over as I passed. 

                                                                                                                                                                              You’re  a  fickle  lot  ... aren’t  you?

Seeing what was going on the staff at ‘Alice’s’ outdoors cafe created a clever diversion by pretending to start a fight.  The moment King Kongs attention was diverted away from me I made a mad dash for the restaurant kitchen.  I was being escorted to safety by a young guy called Lance who used to work at the old ‘Manzil’.  On my way through the cooking area I grabbed the biggest carving knife I could find and followed Lance up some stairs.  A door was locked behind me and I got to watch ‘Godzilla’ hunt for me in vain out of an upstairs window.  For about two hours I could see him hanging around our street corner.  Every now and again he would get up off the concrete structure and go for a wander.  Eventually he just gave up and grunted his way home.  It’s a bloody good job I had a hip flask of Johnny Walkers and some nice weed to keep me company.  I would have gone completely nuts sitting at the top of those stairs clutching the knife and imagining a violent, pre-mature death.  In time I was greeted by the friendly faces of the staff.  They were all laughing their heads off and saying things like, ...“What have you been up to now Stevie?”

Some of the drunks we encountered on the street used to fight in the travelling boxing tents that were a common part of pre-sixty’s Australian culture.  After the fights closed down they lost their income and celebrity status, so I guess the bottle became their only friend. Those bare knuckle boxing heroes made the sidewalk’s and alleys of the cross their home and they lived the kind of true life, down and out stories that are often heard on country and western albums.  One of the main trouble makers among our group of resident winos was called ‘Rusty’ and this street hardened old urchin once told me a story about why he had spent much of his life in jail.  It was quite a heart wrenching tale and it was the main inspiration for my song ‘The Bloods of Jesus’.  Sometime back in the sixty's Rusty and one of his drinking buddy’s were getting pissed in a local rooming house and they ran out of booze.  Rusty got up and went down to the bottl’o to get some more grog, leaving his girlfriend asleep on the lounge room floor.  When he returned his drinking partner was interfering with the woman, which earned him a crack on the head with a full bottle.  The angry blow killed him instantly and our mate Rusty was sentenced to an extended stay in Her Majesties prison.  The most intriguing aspect of the story was the fact they buried his girlfriend in a paupers grave right in view of his cell block window.  Rusty wept as he shared his story and we swigged on a bottle of green ginger plonk as the sun came up over the cross.

In the late eighties during the bicentennial celebrations the visiting navies of the world were docked in Woolamaloo harbor.  For a brief time at least the cross returned to it’s former glory as a multi-cultural flotilla hit the streets in search of some rest and recreation fun.  Large groups of sailor hunting females came into the city from the western suburbs and it turned into a street party grand in scale.  The police were out in unusually big numbers to match the influx of reveling crowds and the mood of the place changed from one of relative tolerance to over zealous enforcement.  There were cops on horses, cops with dogs and they were even perched on the rooftops armed and scrutinizing the passing parade.  Getting a busking spot was almost impossible as every square inch of the street was filled by the throbbing masses who were out and about on the town.  It’s times like this amid the sweaty, burlesque sideshow that an aura of raw sexuality seems to descend upon the street crowds and the busking circle is just the place to get down and dirty with guitar strumming poor boys.  We’ve had whole groups of young women flashing their tits in the audience as we played ‘Get on Top’ by the late and great Tim Buckley and more than once we’ve had a stripper do her show right there on the pavement.   Sexual inhibitions are cast to the four winds as the bravest of the night stalkers step into the circle and strut their stuff for the crowd. 

                                                                                                                                                                        ‘I see you Baby!” … “Shakin that ass'

As a rule street performers normally stick to their own patch of turf, but it was so packed this particular night that a group of us decided to time share on a newly laid red brick piazza a little way off the main drag.  Our three band co-operative consisted of Morty and myself, a clowning performance troupe called ‘Folk You Mate’ and a pre-teen busking ensemble known as ‘The Wallies’ from Nimbin.  The pint sized performing foursome were always a big drawcard because of their age and before they had even laid out the case there was a wall of people around us.  With a mowhawked and glitter sprayed Nine year old named ‘Emu’ as their frontman the Wallies played a selection of hard hitting issue related songs that were composed by myself and elders of the Nimbin tribe.  There were about fifty people in the circle when the kids started playing, but the audience instantly swelled to about two hundred when the cops moved in to break up the fun.  A baton swinging parol officer and his partner wanted to know who the parents of the kids were and they were promptly set upon by Emu’s mother, the ever outrageous ‘Francesca’.  You might remember her as the woman who flashed her tits at the Queen on one of the royal visits.  Or perhaps you can recall the nude female bather at Bondi Beach who was arrested for wearing a painted on bikini.  Francesca informed the coppers that the kids were in her care to which they turned on their heels and proceeded to leave the circle.  As they departed from our midst they were pelted by scraps of takeaway food and the spray of vigorously shaken cans.   Folk You Mate were doing their thing when the second wave of uniformed party poopers descended upon the crowd.  Six officers pushed their way into the circle and declared that our music was too loud. The crowd just laughed in their faces and we were quick to inform them that we were not using any kind of amplification.  Full cans of beer and whole hamburgers rained down from the neon lit sky and the cops retreated to hearty shouts of abuse.  The numbers had swelled dramatically by the time Morty and I commenced to play.  After the sweet and innocent displays of the children and the clowns the crowd were ready for some foot stomping adult entertainment.  We hit them with a ball tearing rendition of ‘Roadhouse Blues’ which was followed by ‘Brave Captain’ and a version that would have made Tom Waits proud. 

'So won’t you tell me ... brave captain ... why are the wicked ... so strong?

and how do the angels get to sleep ... when the devil leaves his ...

         

porch light on?'

We were belting out the chorus in full gusto when the foot coppers invaded our party again.  A mean looking, old police sergeant led the charge and screamed through a megaphone that the crowd had to quietly disperse.  If not he said that we would, “All Be Arrested”.  As he bellowed out commands our kerbside setting was flooded by light from an approaching police helicopter. The crowd had grown to become a five hundred strong mob of punters who were not in the mood for another interruption. Scuffles began to break out.  Mort and I took the initiative in the very same moment and used the newly arrived overhead lighting to our advantage.  We circled the Police sergeant in a Marks Brothers kind of way and repeated his words for the punch happy crowd,  “You’re going to arrest all of these people”. That was all it took for a peaceful Friday night busking show to turn into a full blown riot.  Mort and I were led off to the Kings cross lockup along with nine other people from the crowd.  We spent the night playing two up in the in the cells and in the morning they let us go after bullshit charges were laid.  One of the audience members was a pregnant woman and apparently she had slugged an attending officer right in his stupid looking moosh.

As well as being a free roaming minstrel and party animal Morty was also a part time Actor.  He has appeared in numerous Australian television productions and more recently he worked alongside Nick Cave in an arthouse flick called ‘The Ghosts of The Civil Dead’.  Being a subscribing member of the Actors guild Mort was provided with an Equity lawyer who took up his case with a passion.  He based Morty’s defense on oppression of artistic rights and turned a seemingly minor event into a complex four day hearing.  The cops couldn’t have imagined it was going to escalate to the point it did and the Actors equity lawyer had them running scared.  None of the attending officers were allowed to consult with each other about the case and the only cop who could remain in the courtroom was the old Serge.  He moved uncomfortably in his chair as every minute detail of our busking debacle was examined.  The presiding Magistrate was a lovely old Gal by the name of Helen Larkin.  She conveyed an air of stern, yet amused authority as the unfolding events were described.  It became apparent on the first day that she was dealing with accusations of police misconduct and as each damning fact was revealed the mug coppers were subject to her scorn.   Most of the other defendants were assigned law society barristers but I decided it might be fun to conduct my own defense.  This was living theatre that had crossed over from the street to the courtroom and I embraced the part I had to play with relish.  By the time it was my turn to speak the Equity lawyer had already wiped the floor with the cops.  It was found that they copied each others reports when they realized we were building a defense and long hours were spent sorting out which officer actually copied who.  Each of them was put through the grinder by our team of lawyers then the nice old Judge gave them police conduct lectures before they left the stand.  The costume that I wore for our days in court consisted of the sharpest threads I could put together.  My black leather pants were buckled at the waist by a miniature silver handgun that gave a hint of possible danger as it embellished the overall look of a saloon hall gambler.  Studs and other shiny decorations adorned my swaggering butt and there were sparkling dollar sign spurs around my snakeskin boots.   I wore a yellow and black pinstriped jacket with rounded lapels and a red scarf hanging out of the pocket.  Whenever I was consulting with an officer in the stand I made a point of placing my hands on my studded hips and revealing the handgun buckle.  From time to time as I acted out my Perry Mason fantasy I would pull the red scarf from my pocket and delicately wipe my brow. 

Mort’s lawyer kept slipping me little notes across the table about the questions I should ask and I was like his learned partner throughout the four day trial.  I think the Judge was quietly impressed by my untrained legal skills.  Our supporters in the stalls were kept well entertained as the shame of the coppers brought screams of delight and merriment.  Rowdy laughter coming from the courtroom was a regular feature of the proceedings as nervous rookie coppers shuffled their feet and bit their nails in the hall.  I spent the days leading up to our case wordsmithing a three page statement which I was permitted to read to the court.  It attacked the very system that allowed for such blatant artistic oppression and singled out the premier of the day as a fascist in the first degree.  The New South Wales premier at the time was the 'not so honorable' Nick Greiner, who had recently overhauled the Summery Offences Act giving the police a host of sweeping new powers.  Out on the streets people were being arrested for silly infringements like sitting on milk crates to watch the buskers play. The Summery offences act was seen by many as the first step towards a police state in New South Wales and our case was at the cutting edge of emerging public resistance.  In my address to the court I pointed out that I was the son of a Hungarian Theater Director who had sought asylum in Australia after escaping similar oppression in the homeland.  I condemned the Summery Offences Act as a tool of public censorship and likened it to the suppression of free speech by the Nazis during Hitler’s reign of terror.  In a final crescendo of passion I informed the court that the premier himself was a post revolution Hungarian.  I strongly urged that all charges should be dropped regarding the case and our elected leader should weep in shame for his power hungry ways.  The first thing the lovely old Judge said in her summery was,”I Don’t care what anyone thinks I like the Buskers, ... so there!”.  The courtroom exploded with loud cheering and laughter as the hearing came to a close.   Buskers and audience alike were acquitted and the cops were given yet another scornful lecture on wrongful arrests and false reports.  To the best of my knowledge not one of the attending officers was punished for the part they played in the incident.  Our combined court hearings ended up costing the tax payer more than fifteen thousand dollars and we heard along the grapevine that the Judge retired in disgust at the whole corrupt affair.  As it turned out the busking riot hearings proved to be best publicity that Mort and I ever received.  We were invited to perform on Clive Robertson’s late night news program along with Emu and the kids and a double page article appeared in the ‘On the Street’ magazine.   Among the other buskers we were greeted as heroes when next we went out to play and much to our relief the coppers started turning a blind eye to any petty street level infringements.  Freedom of speech it seemed had resumed it’s place in the realms of the public domain and that gave me an added incentive to get more provocative in the things I wanted to say.  The busking riot was the climax of our illustrious street performance careers and it signaled the end of a wonderful era for all of us.  In time the humble, guitar strumming bards were replaced by chainsaw juggling gymnasts and fire throwing bikini girls on stilts, which was just too hard an act to follow.  With the passing of the years the old busking crew went off to explore new horizons and had families along the way.  We still see each other from time to time but alas, I can only cope with so many drunken raves about how things used to be.  My busking years were the glory days of this amazing journey through existence and they have provided enough artistic satisfaction to keep me going for a thousand lifetimes.

I'm ... off the street and ... on the road ...

but where I'm heading I ... just don't know

I'm here today ... and gone tomorrow ...

 I'm on the move so don't you ...

try to follow me.