WELCOME TO ROCK AND ROLL

Welcome to Rock and Roll

Life at the centre had become such a drag that one sunny spring day Joy and I just walked out with little regard for any consequences that might occur.  A short time later each of us was summoned to the Department of Social Security for interviews at which they heard our combined tales of patient abuse.  Our fortnightly welfare benefits were only continued on the understanding we would register for full time employment with the CES and it was preferable to living under the dark cloud of institutionalised authority.  Joy’s sister Ruth and her boyfriend were renting a place at Belair in the Adelaide hills and they said we could use their spare room for a while.  It was a fantastic timber bungalow with a pool and an exquisite view of the surrounding countryside.  A most romantic setting for the first leg of our affair, away from the restrictions of the centre.  Both Ruth and John held straight jobs but when the weekends came around they transformed into veracious, thrill seeking, party animals.  The couple shared the house with a most likeable fellow called Big Dave who was a fun loving prankster and a gentle giant if ever there was one.  Dave worked for the local shire council as an exterminator of noxious weeds and if by chance he ever stumbled upon the variety you can smoke they were plucked from the ground and gleefully put to the torch by the crew.  Big Dave was a no frills, average Aussie bloke and I liked him a lot.  The first time I ever smoked Mullumbimby madness I was stretched out on the front veranda of the house as mostly straight looking party guests were walking through.  I was delivering a narrative about how the molecules in my skull were merging with those in the concrete of the porch and I was turning into an alien  pot plant.  I felt a finger in my chest that was hard as a rock and I opened my eyes to see Big Dave’s smiling face.  There were four of his council workmates standing beside him and with the caring authority of an older brother he said, “Steve, We think that you are a really top bloke, but if we ever find out that you are into smack, we‘re gonna kick the shit out of you”. Dave and the boys helped me up so I was no longer blocking the entrance and Joy stood  in the doorway making a noise with her mouth like ‘Skippy the bush Kangaroo.  Once back inside at the party we were pulled aside by Ruth’s boyfriend and offered some purple micro-dots of LSD.  Joy was being her normal, hesitant self until her sister came bursting into the room raving about how clean the trips were.  We dropped a whole tab each and off we went to ‘La La Land’.  Within the hour Joy started showing signs that all was not well.   She distanced herself from the mostly extrovert goings on around the place and deteriorated into a withdrawn and weeping wreck.  It was here that I discovered she had given up a child for adoption in her early teens and had never really recovered from the experience.  This was the main reason she was attending the rehabilitation centre and it helped to explain her ability to turn on the waterworks at the drop of a hat.  The trip bought all of her maternal regrets flooding to the surface and no amount of comforting helped to stem the tears.  One of Ruth’s friends was a psyche nurse and when she found out what was happening she came to the rescue.  A whole bunch of celery and a bag of carrots were churned up in the blender to give joy a healthy blast of nutrition and fibre.  She was then kept occupied by nonsensical but consoling girls club chatter until the effects of the acid subsided.  She actually managed to raise a smile when we strolled into the kitchen arm in arm at daybreak.  Big Dave was laying on the chequer board linoleum, blowing coloured party streamers up towards the fan on the ceiling.   Joy cried and laughed at the same time as she observed, “He looks like a big kid”. 

'Emotions, ....  Fucking Hell.'

After we did the bolt from Saint Margaret’s Joy continued her studies through some local night classes.  I sensed that my presence was a distraction from her daily learning schedule and I was finding the hills just too bloody tranquil to endure. I started venturing a little further afield to Adelaides southern coast where I moved into a cliff top shack at Maslins Beach. Joy stayed in Belair with her sister.  The shack was the home and rehearsal space of a young Adelaide band known as ‘Station’ and they were the star attraction at most of the surf crew parties.  The lead singer in the band was a long haired, platinum blond maniac by the name of Peter Wibrow and he was the most outrageous extrovert I have ever had the good fortune to meet.  He was fearless in public and would perform his comical antics for whole groups of passing strangers.  In shopping malls and the like he would jump on any available plant holder, telephone booth or soft drink machine and command an instant audience.  Those who had stopped to observe the stunt would be treated to a high energy song and dance spectacular with a ditty that he was composing as he went along.  Most of the spontaneous lyrics he came out with would be mocking the people in the crowd but he did it in such an entertaining way they never really caught on.  The moment Peter spotted a mall manager or security guard coming to break up the fun he would be off like a laughing, bouncing jack rabbit.  Most of the time the crowds cheered him on as he made his escape and those of us who were with him just had to hang around until he resurfaced.  His specialty in pubs and other more adult locations was to pull his cock out for startled but amused patrons.  By pinching his foreskin between the thumb and forefinger he would stretch it out as far as it could go and strum it like a guitar.  This would always be accompanied by one of his bawdy ballads and it never failed to win an applause.

                                                                         

'Only  in Adelaide, ... Eh!, ...folks?'

The shack crew were a raggle taggle gathering of surfers, musicians, artists and emerging intellectuals.  We used to travel in a convoy of broken down old bombs whenever Station played a gig and we would never make it on time due to some kind of car trouble.  The offending vehicle would be promptly abandoned and pushed off the road after the guitars, drums and amplifiers were squeezed into another car.  Once at the venue everybody would become an instant roadie to avoid the door charge.  Often we made up the entire audience and if the band earned enough to pay for the fuel to get there it was considered a good night.  Our weekend rock and roll adventures were fueled by a cocktail of pot, acid, booze, and the most popular pills of the day which were Pondrax diet suppressants. Mandrax sleeping pills were also highly prized acquisitions and those who had not ended up a road statistic in their travels would be lined up the following morning at the dunny door.  The after effects of the diet pills was acute dihorrea which would have the whole afflicted clan pleading with whoever was on the toilet to, 'Get the fuck out of there'.  I was appointed as the house cook shortly after I moved in which came as the result of a big barbecue I prepared for the crew.  That much appreciated pig out earned me an elevated position within the tribe, as I was seen to be attending to the basics and helping to keep the show on the road.  I would know when each person had received their dole cheque and they’d be hit with a bill for their weekly rations before they blew it all on drugs.  I had them under strict instructions not to start popping pills until after they had eaten but my orders were always ignored.   If I had cooked a big meal before one of the weekend shows I would make them all sit down to eat in the front room.   Side by side on the upper and lower levels of smelly bunk beds they had to force feed each other with spoonfuls of steaming soup.  The theatrical little ritual that was performed with each mouthful was a teen tribe chorus of,“Aeroplane  time”.  I stayed in the shack with the Station crew for about two months then the place fell apart due to a backlog of unpaid rent.  I won’t even name the thieving bastard who was supposed to be attending to it because he doesn’t deserve the notoriety.  The scheming rat told the crew that we were all paid up as he assured the real estate agent the money was on it’s way.  The whole time he was partying our cash away in the nightclubs of Adelaide and I imagine this is where he first acquired a taste for smack.  We should have seen it coming a mile away but the physical symptoms of heroin were much the same as those produced by the pills. 

Joy eventually completed her studies and received a long awaited higher school certificate.  This made the regular stress attacks less frequent and it freed her up to do other things.  She too had started craving a change from the slow pace of the hills and I was without a home so we decided to rent a flat together.  The place we ended up getting was a one bedroom kitchenette, in a charming old bluestone building in North Adelaide.  It was located right next door to the British Hotel in Finniss street.  On any given Friday night this is where businessmen and other straight world representatives would rub shoulders with university students and hippies.  They in turn were mixing it with an assortment of aboriginals, artists, muso’s and writers.  The whole business and culture driven melting pot getting loose and intoxicated together, as the beer garden bopped to a host of fantastic bands. At every available opportunity we dined on big juicy steaks, hot off the barbie and we saw the creme of the local talent absolutely free of charge.  To celebrate the end of Joy’s studies and our wonderful new home we went to an AC/DC concert in Memorial Drive.  We gave the dancing thing a bit of a go right in front of the stage as the Ted Mulry Gang were playing but I almost got bowled over by the mass of screaming kids.  We made it back to our seats in the stand just as AC/DC hit the stage. 

 I managed to rest my leg on the seat in front but the punters were dancing in the aisles and the thought of getting hit by some falling lout meant I couldn’t really enjoy the show.  That familiar feeling of uselessness and frustration set in and I found myself getting angrier than I had been in some time.  It was compounded by the intensity of the moment as the crowd frenzied and Bon Scott bellowed out raw and provocative words of rebellion.  As I watched that mad Scotsman strutting his stuff I was hit by the sudden revelation that he wasn’t singing any notes I couldn’t reach myself.  Then like a shift in the cold breeze of hopelessness my anger started to subside and I was touched by a new sense of self worth.  Some smoldering ember of positivity had reignited and it told me that I could still achieve my dream.  I turned to Joy and said, “I’m gonna do that myself one day”.  A tear escaped from under my sunglasses and the next thing I knew we were hugging each other and crying like babies among the sweat, the beer cans and the noise.  My moment of artistic revelation was followed by actual physical and psychological changes which were akin to the imaginary healing gun experience I had in hospital.  I was being driven by a greater positivity than I had ever known and the leg started improving by the day. I found that I could push the pain barrier a little further with everything I did and each new physical challenge just made me stronger.   Mind over matter was my inner chant like a long distance runner on the point of collapse. The struggle to overcome my disability was fueled by the knowledge that I had been to the doorway of death and returned to claim victory over my handicap.

There was a guy living across the hall from our flat called Steve White and in time we became good mates.  At every chance Steve and I used to go snorkel diving along the southern coast in his beat up Holden station wagon.  The spear fishing thing was great therapy to strengthen my leg and after just a few months the limp almost disappeared.  I had devised a clever new way of moving my body around and before long I found that I no longer needed to use a walking stick.  My lower leg had been reattached just below the knee in the same area they place an artificial limb so I used it like a plastic leg.  By taking most of my body weight with the right leg and then throwing my left foot forward I was able to establish a less painful and more even rhythm.  After the first month of relearning how to walk I could keep up with Joy in a cautious but mostly unbroken stride.  Steve worked at the Coke-Cola factory in Thebarton.  He was a qualified class six public servant but he said that his job at the Coke depot was a more sane option than the pretentious bullshit of a government bureaucracy.  Steve left university in the early seventy’s with an impressive list of credits and dived headlong into the workings of the conservative world.  He soon found himself tagged as a rebel within the system and he was met with conflict at every turn.  Eventually he dropped out of public service life and became an inner city intellectual, come hedonistic funster.  Many a hot, North Adelaide summers evening was spent getting out of it on the elegantly latticed veranda at the front of Steve’s flat.  With candles burning and wild music filtering through his open window we would raise our glasses to freedom and scoff at the more conformist patrons of the British.  Beside his easy chair Steve always kept a high powered floodlight which was reserved for those who got too rowdy after closing time.  He would switch the light on and point it right in their faces as they staggered past our fence.  This glaring affront to their pedestrianism would be accompanied by his favorite little chant, ...

“DENY  YOUR  EXISTENCE  , ... “DENY  YOUR  EXISTENCE”

Steve was an obsessive sci-fi freak and he found a budding new recruit to the genre in me.  When he was all choofed up on buds or hash he would deliver all encapsulating summaries of the many books he had read.  His story outlines were so precise that I felt like I didn't need to bother reading the books to know what they were all about.  His favorite type of sci-fi tales were ones that involved any kind of futuristic projections for humanity.  Anything about space travel or computer technology advancements always got his psychic juices flowing and he firmly maintained that homo sapiens were evolved into being to fertilize the cosmos with consciousness.   One night without telling Joy or I where we were going Steve bundled us into his old EH station wagon and drove out to the southern beaches.  We arrived at a drive in movie and as he hooked up the speaker to the car he informed us that we were there to behold the majesty of Stanley Kubrick's masterpeice 2001 A Space Oddessy.  Steve had spoken about the film on a number of occasions but I had no idea it would be such a mind blower.  By the time the cavemans bone become a wide angle shot of the space station the acid we had dropped kicked in.

We were hurtled down that long, psychedelic tunnel into the core of the black monolith well in advance of Dave the astronaut. At one of our high flying front balcony raves Steve handed me a copy of ‘The Magus’ by John Fowles and he insisted that I take my time to read it.   He said it would help me to see through the game of life and the bullshit masks that people wear.  Much like Graham at Saint Margaret’s my newly befriended neighbor had focused on my reserves of self confidence as something worthy of scorn.  He said, “Ego” was limiting my access to the subtleties of life and he declared that it was his cosmic function to put me on the right track.   With little escape from his influence my view of the world like fine cheese began to mature.  The cold war was at it’s peak and Steve had me convinced the Russians were going to nuke us in our sleep.  At one of our balcony parties as we sat around listening to records he played the American Prayer Album by ‘The Doors’.  That night Jim Morrison walked straight into my bourbon soaked brain and he was greeted like an old friend.

“I don’t  know  what’s  gonna  happen  man , ...  but  I’m  gonna  get  my  kicks, ...

 before  the  whole  shithouse  goes  up  in  flames , ... Alright!”.

Before I met Steve my appreciation of music didn’t go much further than the commercial hits coming out of the radio.  Among a host of other musical gems he introduced me to the operatic brilliance of Jeannie Lewis and when he said that she was an Aussie I wouldn’t believe it was true.  He went on to tell me how she used to perform on the university campus circuit and that’s where he first became aware of her.  I felt like getting up out of my chair right there and then so I could track her down and witness that superb voice.  I never imagined that music could be so theatrically powerful and the songs of our fantastic ‘Queen Diva’ showed me where poetry best fits in the unfolding tapestry of music.  I was already into Pink Floyd but Steve further broadened my horizons with the albums of Tangerine Dream, Hawkwind and others of that ilk.  The Court of The Crimson King saturated my sponge like consciousness and as Jimbo would say,“It hit my head with the cold sudden fury of a divine messenger”.   In hindsight I have concluded that the album was my call the revolution.  In my view nothing that came before or after it's creation has the saying been more applicable.

‘The poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world’.

‘Knowledge is a deadly friend, ... if no-one sets the rules

the fate of all mankind I fear is in, ... the hands of fools’

                                                                              King Crimson.

In keeping with my pledge to become to be a professional singer I scanned the daily papers and checked the notice boards in all of Adelaide's music shops.  I hoped to find a group who were looking for a frontman but the ads were mostly for commercial cover bands and cabaret acts.  I was looking for something with a bit more balls so I could really extend my voice.  Eventually I came upon a 'Singer Wanted' notice for a newly formed Metal Rock band.  They were called ‘FUSION’ and they were into some pretty solid material like Deep Purple, Led Zeppelin and Uriha Heep.  I attended one of the bands rehearsals which was held in a below ground storage bunker at the East end fruit markets.  The song list the guys were working with contained some familiar numbers that were not too hard to pull off, so I settled on the most demanding piece in their repertoire.  It was the early metal classic, ‘Where is your Star?’ by Richie Blackmores Rainbow.  They seemed impressed by what I came out with and asked me to stick around so we could go through some more songs.  I read most of the lyrics from their stack of sheet music and they got a fairly good idea of what I could do.   I attempted to help them with the pack up after the rehearsal and we spoke about how it had gone.  They said I had a powerful enough voice to compliment the material they were doing and they asked if I wanted to sit in on another session. 

'Bingo  deluxe!  and, ... Yee  fucking  haaa!, ... Yes!'

I clicked with Dave, Jeff, Stewart and Reese like a long lost kindred soul and it wasn’t long before we were regular features in each others lives.  Saturday afternoons were set aside for our main rehearsals but the lads would often get together during the week as well.  None of us had ever performed before a live audience and we were keen to hit the circuit for our very first gig.  Overnight my singing went from odd occasions where I broke into song, to a regular routine of long and exhausting vocal sessions.  For the first couple of weeks I could hardly talk without coughing and I was sucking on butter menthols the whole time. The constant singing was fantastic because I was learning so much about my voice, but I dreaded the times when the music stopped and we had to pack up the gear.  After bellowing at the mike for six hours or more my knee generally started to swell and I’d have to sit down to ease the pain.  It was ok for about the first two and a half hours which I figured would be long enough to get me through the average length of a gig.  The guys must have thought I was a valuable addition to the band because I was exempted from loading the heavy equipment after about the third rehearsal. With this much needed concession I was able to use my energy to invent the right stage posture and the early evolution's of a dance.  Each song would see me poised in a mike hugging pose with most of the weight on my right leg.  From this position of relative comfort I could venture into little head shaking and bum wiggling routines.  That was fine because it was about as much as any of those late seventy’s hard rock singers used to do.  With a bit of luck and some good acting I might even convince myself that I was an able bodied man.  Joy had shared in the special moment where I embraced my calling to be an entertainer.  With each new step forward she delighted in my progress and she was a constant source of encouragement.  Steve on the other hand scoffed at my newly acquired position in the band.  He said that my,“All consuming ego” had taken the reigns and steered me into a shallow and indulgent maze.  I just yawned and chuckled at his observations and got a distinctive buzz of anticipation as he described the hedonistic and self absorbed world to which I would be enslaved.   Having never sampled the delights that wealth can bring I was ready to sell my soul to the first buyer for a song.  The character played by Kris Kristofferson in ‘A Star is Born’ was well entrenched in my psyche as the ideal role model and that persona was to become the main disguise by which I related to the world. 

Peter Wibrow in all of his outlandish exuberance was a hopeless and insecure manic depressive.  After each high energy performance with his band he would come crashing back to the real world with a miserable thud.  He used to stagger into our flat at all hours of the night trying to sort out the demons in his head.  Joy and Steve were better at dealing with his emotional complexities than I was and all I could do was try to cheer him up.  I had recently acquired a HD Holden automatic which instantly became Peter’s free taxi service.  He had a tattered list of shrinks and psychic healers, naturopaths, councilors and social workers from which he hoped to gain salvation and I drove him from one therapist to another all over the metropolitan area.  He was searching for something that he couldn’t name and each unsatisfactory healer was crossed off the list until eventually it fell to pieces in his whimpering, world battered hands.  The last time I got railroaded into Peter’s mad plans it was to take him to a government social worker on Glen Osmond Road.  In his mania and self defeated lows he had let things deteriorate so far that he forgot to lodge his dole form.  I was just waiting around as usual flicking through magazines when an ad on the community notice board caught my eye.  It was promoting a forth coming Youth Festival and putting out a call for volunteer help.  On the list of planned events it included music, so with time to spare I gave the number a call.  I was greeted on the phone by the slow rolling voice of a guy who said he was in charge.  It sounded like there was a party going on in the background and every now and again he would stop mid conversation for a choof.  His name was ‘Adrian Haan’ and he said that he was organizing a two week Youth festival on the banks of the River Torrens.  It was happening in association with the Adelaide Festival Theater, in conjunction with the normal Festival of the Arts.  We could hardly hear each other speaking for the din in the background so he invited me to pop over and, “Check out the scene man”.  The newly constructed theater had only just opened and the Youth Festival volunteers had the use of the entire lower ground carpark and office area.  As I walked down the ramp into the carpark I spied a fully made up and costumed dance ensemble who were rehearsing a planned performance.  A tall and very sexy young blonde in a black and golden bumble bee outfit came skating over to where I was standing.  She pulled up to a stop after a skillfully executed backwood spin and said,”Are you here to help?”   

I informed her what I was there for to which she escorted me through the office area to meet Adrian.   We came upon a very groovy looking individual who was a bit like Lee Turner my hippy mate from Elizabeth. He was sitting back in a brand new office chair like the proverbial king of the merry pranksters.  Adrians long pointed cowboy boots were plonked up high on a brand new office desk and I knew I was in the company of a fellow ratbag.  He was trying to put a dab of spit on the end of a badly lit joint as he chatted away intently into the phone.  The mouth piece was pinned between his shoulder and his chin and billowing smoke was starting to burn his eyes.  A chunk of glowing, smoky ash fell from the joint and it landed between his legs on the plastic cover of the chair.  Screaming and laughing at the same time Adrian said, “See ya!” and hung up the phone.  Frantically he jumped around the office and patted out the offending embers.  He said it was a, “Bloody good job the place had not been burned to the ground” or we would all be out of a job.  Adrian was speaking in a familiar tone as if he had known me for years and he only zoomed in on my eyes when I said,”I’m here about the music”.  He replied, “Hey!, yea!, hey!, I thought I’d already seen your head, man”.  Hey!, ... you wanna help out with the music thing man, ... yea!, ... Right, ... My fun loving companions and I have decided that it would be kinda cool to have a couple of bands in among the other acts”.  I told him that I knew at least six local bands who would love to be part of the show to which he replied, “Hey! man, Don’t get me wrong, You can make it bigger than fucking Woodstock if you want”. 

 'What. a Groove'

We formalized the proceedings with a newly rolled joint and as we were lighting it up the dancers came tumbling into the office.  That energetic and theatrical setting ranks among the highest in which I have ever shared a joint and it hinted at a mode of being that would later become the norm.  Adrian escorted me out of the administration area and along the way he stopped at an empty office up the hall.  Reaching inside of the doorway he switched on the light and said, “This is your office man”.  Two sweet young nymphs came walking down the ramp of the carpark as we were emerging into the blazing sun.  Adrian summoned them over with a cheeky, “Hey Ladies” and asked them if they were looking for something to do.  They said they wanted to be volunteer workers for the festival to which they were promptly assigned as my helpers.  When Joy saw the host of sexy young females that would be around me each day she too was quick to come on board.  Besides she had far better organisational skills than I did which made her a valuable addition to the job I had taken on.  In the weeks that followed we scheduled all of the acts so precisely that every available second was catered for.  There were bands begging us for a spot so even if there was a cancellation another act could quickly take it’s place.  I found I had more muso friends than I could count and my list of bands swelled from six to almost sixty as word of the event passed around.  With only days left until the festival opened it became a full time, all hours gig.  My office was a buzzing hub of activity as we canvassed  local council and business for support. Traditionally Adelaide people are community project inspired and our every request was granted by those who thought a kids festival was a great idea.  The Adelaide City Council donated the use of the Carols By Candlelight stage which we fully decked out with a PA and lights.  As well as the PA systems the local music shops provided a virtual army of roadies. By time of the opening concert it was a proper full scale festival that ran like a well oiled machine.  Our concerts were originally intended to take place between other cultural events at the festival, but it was soon the case that it happened the other way around.  The band thing became so big it started detracting from attendance figures at the main Arts Festival which landed Adrian and I in the shit.  We were summoned to the office of the Director to explain our actions and offer a solution to the crisis.  The word on the theater grapevine suggested he was a full on stress case and the mind snapping heads we smoked prior to the meeting left little escape from our collective predatory wit.  The way Adrian and I saw things it was absolutely no fault of ours if the administrators were losing money on the more droll aspects of the festival.  This information was conveyed in stereo to the poor flustered Director as we negotiated a compromise to benefit all concerned.  Through some fast talking phone conversations with the station manager of 5KA I had secured nightly live to air radio broadcasts which put me in direct contact with the kids we were trying to attract.  In the spirit of professional co-operation I agreed to donate a portion of my radio time to the theater to promote their poorly attended events.  As well as the radio spots I also got to promote the gigs on the telly.  I did a couple of afternoon kids shows and I also appeared on the weekly, Adelaide segment of Countdown. 

 The last of our problems was attendance figures so after a brief run down of the bands I would go into an animated, mock hoity toity voice as I promoted ballet, violin concerto’s and a puppet production of The Magic Pudding. As word of the outdoor concerts spread the crowds became more diverse.  From where it had been mainly schoolkids and families at the start, the street people began to enter our midst to add their own brand of color.  At most of the shows there were large groups of Aboriginals drinking in circles by the stage and there were bikers leaning on their rigs smoking joints right under the noses of the cops.  This was the hay day of Don Dustan’s vision for a ‘Festival State’ and in anything connected to the cultural agenda the police were advised to lay low.  I guess the idea behind his thinking was a Festival State would mean increased revenue dollars and it might even get him re-elected at the polls.  In any case it was a bold and grandiose vision which set the tempo for the most culture driven state in the land.  On each warm, starlit school holiday evening as the concerts commenced in the park a highly suspect little ritual would take place.  There was a guy among the volunteer helpers called ‘Doctor Spooky Tooth’ who‘s normal attire was a glitter speckled top hat and long suit tails.  As the roadies were setting the stage for the opening act Mr. Spooky Tooth would hit the microphone and address the crowd in a comical pot head manner.  He informed the audience that he was going down to the,“Cigarette Shop” to get some, “Top Shelf Smoking Gear!  and his top hat was thereafter passed around among the circles of partying people.  Within the hour enormous five paper joints would be circulating freely and the cops just whistled to the heavens, as they scuttled away past our illegally parked cars. 

Joy took charge of my stage wardrobe with the main costume being tailored black satin flairs and waistcoat with no shirt.  These were accompanied by very high white platform boots, eye liner and exotic trinkets from her jewelry box.  I think our little dress up sessions really helped me to get in touch with the feminine aspects of my personality and that can be of great value when you are trying to compete with the likes of Bowie or Jagger.  I knew I was a long way from this kind of notoriety but it was still early days in my imagined rise to glory.  Anyway as far as I was concerned I was already the ultimate winner in life challenges and everything else was just an added bonus.  I had metamorphosed from a crumpled, bed ridden wreck into a ‘Rock and Roll Shaman’ and all I wanted to do was reclaim the youth that time had attempted to steal. Towards the end of the festival a young volunteer made allegations that she had been raped by some bikers under the main performance stage.  It was said to have happened during the second to last concert and it took some fierce negotiations to prevent the cops from closing us down for the final show.  An increased police presence was felt and the final gig saw the bikers defiantly ride their rigs onto the lawn.  The gathering audience had to scramble to safety as about thirty bikes were assembled in formation right at the front of the main stage.  Not a single cop made a move because the young girl had confessed earlier in the day that she made the whole thing up. With the tensions now safely below the red line the gig went ahead and my band was billed as the headline act.  The most popular groups who had appeared throughout the festival were listed as our support acts which made the boys feel like superstars. Our final performance was like the cherry on the pie in a successful two week event and our final spot was as polished as any of Adelaide’s best. The lads were in better form than they had displayed at any of our other gigs and it’s like we had been saving it up for the big crescendo.  The bikers departed Elder park just prior to my band hitting the stage and a full blown, peace festival vibe blessed the inner city Adelaide night.  The hippies were the first to start dancing when we hit them with, ‘Sweet Child in Time’.  This was followed by ‘Rainbow Demon’ ... ‘Smoke on the Water’ and ‘Where is your Star?’  Everyone was up dancing and red faced rookie police got kisses from all the girls.  Much to our surprise Steve White turned up and he was in party mode too.  He was tugging on a half empty bottle of Cinzano and puffing some Lebanese hash he scored from Mr. Spooky Tooth.  Among the back stage revelry he actually took time out to praise Joy and I for what we had achieved.  When Steve discovered that Adrian was my associate organizer it was on for young and old till daylight.  Apparently the pair of them had gone to uni together and after their chance re-connection it turned into a barn storming party as they danced like head banging madmen down memory lane.  Joy was more relieved than anyone at the conclusion of the Elder Park shows. The unending stream of sexy young females had certainly taken their toll on my fiery red haired girlfriend.  In the days following the last concert I had to work bloody hard to cajole her into a more secure state of being.  I heaped praise on her contribution to the festival and it worked like a dream to cheer her up.  If the truth were known Joy had a lot more to do with the nuts and bolts side of the gigs but hey!, ‘Love should be functional’.  We went into a new mode of smoochy, coochyness as my one true love declared that Mr. rock and roll singer was not allowed to get too chummy with the groupies. A week to the day after the festival ended I received a letter from my compensation lawyer.  A meeting was arranged shortly after and I signed a waiting release form in his plush, leather and teak trimmed office.  An out of court settlement was formalized and I received an exquisitely uplifting cheque.  My account balance had been $23.40 the previous day and it suddenly skyrocketed to more than thirty thousand dollars. For days after the cheque cleared our flat became an all expenses paid, party zone for everyone we knew.  Peter Wibrow and the shack crew were quick to jump on board and the guys in my band became a permanent fixture.  Bottles of Jack Daniels and bowls of free pot were there for the taking as daylong jam sessions rolled into decadent and uncaring nights. 

'Wow!, ...  If  this  is  what  it  feels  like  to  be a wealthy  son  of  a  bitch … then  count  me in.'

Steve was always there at our daily splurges and he kept zooming in on me at my most vulnerable moments with things like,“See how quickly you can get sucked into the astral filth belt?” and,“How are you going to cope when all of the wealth and self glorifying bullshit is gone?”.  Then he would pour himself another slug of free liquor, roll another big fat, complimentary joint and laugh his head off.  Joy was not in any mood to complain about the ongoing racket because her every wish had become my instant command.  We hit the malls and bought a shitload of new clothes, whereafter we showed them off in the swankiest joints in town.  At every opportunity I would get her up on the dancefloor to experiment with daring new moves I was perfecting for when next I hit the stage.  My knee seemed less prone to swelling the more I used it and I got to the point of quick strutting confidence that I could perform a dazzling tripple spin on a revolving cuban heel.

I was only twenty one when I received my compo settlement and I had never been outside of the South Australian border.  I guess for any kid growing up in Australia there is little escape from the call to the USA and those 'Yankee Doodle' movies we grew up with were just cleverly contrived tourist promotions. Whatever the case Joy and I decided that it was a place we wanted to explore.  We handed in the keys to our cosy love nest and the days leading up to our scheduled departure were spent in an upstairs room at the British.  It was just two more nights before we would be jetting off to adventure and the pre-travel anticipation was delightfully excruciating.   In the beer garden of the hotel I got speaking to a guy who sounded like a Yank but it turned out that he was actually Canadian.   His name was Phil Winston and he was quick to mention that the Canadians are a more civilized breed than those north of the border.  I told him that we were leaving for the States in a couple of days to which he raised his eyebrows and whistled. “Man,that’s some bad real estate to travel in if you don’t keep your wits about you”.  On further inquiry he started to rubbish our holiday destination in great detail so I invited him to join us at our table.  Phil had hitchhiked across the states a couple of times and the backpacking horror stories he shared had an instant and profound effect.  That night over much agonizing and debate Joy and I decided we didn’t want to be looking over our shoulders at every turn for the next predator, so the following morning we re-booked the tickets for Europe. 

 ‘Hasta, ... la, ... Vista, ... Baby!’