MEMOIR STORY REPUBLISHED

Bad Moon Rising

How songs can shape your life, and possibly get you killed!

Getting the Band Together

One morning, many years ago, I woke up determined to change my life. I had recently immigrated to Australia, a big change in itself, but my next bucket list item was begging to be ticked off; I wanted to join a band!

My vocal training and stage experience were reasonably extensive, but my big dream was to frontline a small band and sing in pubs, clubs, and like venues.

At that time, there was no internet (horrors!), no mobile phones, and no digital anything! (Further horrors! Where was I, the Dark Ages?)! Pretty much — but there was electricity, and there were electric guitars, amplifiers (the valve kind), and microphones. Yay!

I began my search by answering newspaper advertisements.

Demoralizing auditioning processes with several bands followed. All found “legitimate” reasons to shun me. Some cited my inability to get on board with their kind of music, (eg Heavy Metal), others shied away because, horrors, I was/am a female. Some didn’t want anybody who could actually sing, but the biggest objection I faced was — I couldn’t play an instrument!

At that time in Australia, live music was disappearing rapidly from pubs, clubs and other venues. The Government had come up with some weird taxation laws that penalized businessmen who wined and dined clients and subsequently claimed meals as business expenses. The on-flowing effect was fewer jobs for musicians, and because of the downturn in the hospitality trade, a lot less money was being offered for gigs. Bands, as a result, were culling members to make the payment dollar go further and were also demanding skills in more than one area — no room for a dead-weight vocalist with no other musical abilities.

Disappointed, I had to revisit my ambition and take stock of the situation. With further research, I discovered that bass players were the most difficult to find, especially bass players who could sing and provide backup vocals.

So, I set about learning to play basic rhythm guitar before moving on to the more daunting task of trying to master the electric bass. My dreams had to be shelved for a while, but I figured the time spent would be worth it.

As it turned out, by the time I felt confident enough to play bass and sing, I had met enough musicians to know that most bands seemed to suffer from internal struggles, mostly due to over-inflated egos. As a consequence, I decided that I would handpick my own group of players.

I advertised for a rhythm guitarist/vocalist who could provide some harmony, and become a solo stand-in when big nights meant I needed front line relief. I also required a drummer. I already knew a saxophonist who was anxious to be part of the gang, so I had one member more than I had planned on. What the hell, at this stage I wasn’t in it for the money, just for the experience. A four-way split wasn’t all that problematic.

As I began to sort through possible players, I decided on a band name. I won’t mention it here for obvious reasons, but suffice to say, I had chosen a name that had personal meaning to me; something memorable but unusual.

The first guy to approach me was a guitarist/vocalist who had the same surname as myself, (not a relative), and whose wife had the same (unusual) Christian name as the name I had chosen for my band. I listened to one of Brad’s songs, decided the whole thing was synchronistic and hired the fellow on the spot. I mean, what were the odds?

Brad told me he knew a drummer. He had worked with the drummer in pubs for years, and highly recommended him. All I knew about drummers was that they needed to work well with the bass guitarist. I thought, “How hard can that be?” And told Brad to get in touch with his friend, Gabe.

Before long, band practice was being held twice a week, with the four of us struggling to sound like a unit of musicians, as opposed to a caterwauling of instruments all trying to do their own thing, in their own time.

During all this practice, two band wives sat on the sidelines, grimacing, and knitting, with lit fags hanging from their lips, and long ashes dropping carelessly into their work, and onto my garage floor. Eventually, the grimaces turned to smiles and foot-tapping — I knew progress was being made!

The weakest member of the group at that stage was the saxophonist who played riffs reasonably well, interspersed with horrible squawks when reeds split, and even worse, foul language, fully microphoned, when something displeased him.

Brad was doing well except he could not seem to remember any new material by rote. He insisted on a music stand with “cheat sheets”; all the words and chords written out, guiding him when and where to play, vocal guides, and the like. I thought it was okay to have a music stand on stage if it meant accuracy, and peace of mind on the day.

Finally, we were ready! We had a decent repertoire, tee shirts printed with our band name, (also Brad’s wife’s name, which was handy because we never forgot who she was), and a bunch of hand-printed business cards.

Bravely, we set out to canvas for work. We visited small country pubs in small country towns — it took a few hours to obtain some decent contacts, and one firm appointment to play a gig in a fortnight’s time.

The country publican, who owned a hotel right in the middle of a tiny but popular town, firmly told us his terms. No fee. If we wanted payment on the night, we would have to arrange for someone to be seated at the door to collect a cover charge, which would be the band’s remuneration.

We volunteered the two wives for the job, confident their serious countenances, and filter-less, lip-dangling darts, would scare the money out of anyone who might appear reluctant to pay. We were booked for four hours, eight to midnight, to play in a small bar, with an even smaller dancefloor.

What could go wrong? Well for starters, the publican regretfully did not mention that Saturday night was when workers from the outlying mines, (mainly bikers), rode into town for some fun. He also failed to point out that our ladies did not have a shit-show in collecting any cover charge from massive, ham-fisted mountain men, dressed in full leathers, wearing an unpleasant attitude. I think we managed to gross about $2.50 for the night, from someone who felt sorry for our wilting door defenders. The proceeds were hardly enough to provide Warren with a bunch of new reeds!

But that was the least of my worries.

Late in the afternoon of the night, I succumbed to a serious attack of nerves. What had I been thinking? I had no bass experience, and I was about to lead a band of misfits who probably knew a lot more about gigging than me.

During the hour and a half ride out to the pub, I plummeted. My hands shook and I felt ill. I had never experienced an onset of such severe nervous symptoms in all my life! But, I was determined to push through.

The band members met outside the pub, and we unloaded our gear onto the little stage beside the little dance floor. Fortuitously, as it turned out, the stage had a small door at the back. We discovered, when we opened the door, that it provided direct access to the street, making it an easy job to unload the gear — we could set up without moving through the pub, which was already beginning to get busy.

The activity did absolutely nothing to settle my nerves. When the gear was good to go, Brad and I began tuning our instruments, and that’s when I suspected I was in trouble on two fronts, at least!

I was so nervous, I couldn’t remember any of my bass fretboard notes — I had no clue how to play the instrument, let alone how to tune it. To add to my disconcertion, there was something about Brad that seemed wrong. After some thought, I realised, he wasn’t wearing his glasses! When I asked about it, he admitted that he never wore them on stage out of vanity!

“So,” I asked, gazing around for the familiar music stand, “how will you read your charts?”

“I can’t,” he replied, shamelessly. “Didn’t bring them coz I can’t read them without my glasses.”

“What the hell …?” I spluttered, sure that I was about to hurl on his out-of-date, scuffed winkle-picker shoes.

“Don’t bloody worry about it! You better get a hold of yourself, I’d say,” he snarled, continuing to tune to Concert E.

Oblivious, Gabe, seated behind his kit, did a little drum roll and finished with a smash to his cymbals. I cringed. The roll had been performed without skill or correct timing. A few of the gathered crowd looked up and sneered. Shit!

Warren, not wanting to be outdone, placed the saxophone to his mouth and split a reed with a resounding screech. This he followed by spouting a mouthful of filth over his already set-up and turned on microphone.

If I had been of any lesser moral fiber, I would have dumped and run. As it was, the tune-up was the highlight of our performance, but I stayed to the bitter end because good captains always go down with their ships! Right?

A Bungle and a Rumble

It was time to begin the first set. The ladies had collected their $2.50 and retreated away from the burgeoning biker crowd to enjoy a fag in the balmy Queensland evening. I fancied they were trying to decide how to split the spoils.

My nerves did not improve as we launched into our first number. Don’t ask me what it was — I could not have told you my name at that stage!

I contented myself with aiming for one or two correct notes, choosing to concentrate on giving a good vocal performance. I figured that if I sang loud enough, and well enough, no one would notice when Brad started in on a middle eight instead of playing a verse — I hoped the audience would be oblivious to the guitarist waxing lyrically on a chorus when he shouldn’t have been singing at all!

I plonked and sang, Brad wailed and played bits of songs in all the wrong places, and Gabe pottered along in the background sticking in unrehearsed drum rolls and smashes on the high-hat. It was an absolute nightmare, but nobody seemed to notice!

People got up and danced, whooping, and yelling in what I took to be biker fun. It all began to go swimmingly, except for the one guy in the place who seemed to know something about music. He was propped up, head in hands at the bar, occasionally treating me to a head-raise, accompanied by a nasty corner-of-the-mouth smirk, and an aggressive eyebrow quirk. I prayed he was too drunk to complain to management!

And then Warren came into his own!

Up until that moment, the saxophonist, and I use the term loosely, had been trying to fit his rehearsed riffs into the mess that was being provided by the myopic Brad. In between splitting reeds and swearing, I saw him finally throw in the towel, and consciously decide to rectify matters.

Have you ever heard the saxophone being used as a rhythm instrument? It’s not pretty!

For the next set, I had to endure a constant, Blart, Blart, Blart, behind my singing as Warren tooted absolutely every note that I sang. I felt like crying and murdering the whole bloody crew!

Clomp, clomp, clomp, banged multiple black jackboots on the tiny floor.

“Yeah, fuck the band. Fuck the pub!” yelled a bearded goliath in the corner.

“Play Bad Moon Rising!” screamed a banshee from mid-centre of the sweaty bodies.

Thanking the lord that a request had been made, one that we actually knew, I ended the ‘song’ we were playing and rounded on Warren.

“Just what we rehearsed! Got it!” He looked injured but sort of nodded.

I glared daggers at my band of wankers, and Gabe counted us in.

It was easily the best attempt at music we had played that night! We were on fire; the lyrics came out powerfully, the rhythm was good and the dancers began to pound more heavily on the floor — beards waving, bums swaying, feet annihilating the dancing area, and then — a heavy chair sailed through the air and crashed down onto the dancers! That action was accompanied by a screeching female voice, “Fuck this crap! I’m gonna kill that bitch dancing with my Frank!”

In less than a second, more chairs sailed through the air, and several hairy women launched themselves into a full-mode attack on each other. Gang members stood back to watch, grinning from ear to ear. One of the giants indicated we should play harder and faster. We did!

Then it really went pear-shaped! One of the bikers punched another leather-clad monolith. Women screamed, glasses broke, and more furniture was hurled into the fray. It was a battle scene of fearful proportions, and we were the soundtrack fueling the violence.

Suddenly, Gabe stopped drumming and began to quickly dismantle his kit. Brad jumped up and flung open the little door at the back of the stage, subsequently moving as much of the band gear as he could out of harm’s way. Warren picked up a heavy mike stand, defending the edge of the stage by wildly swinging at anyone, or anything, that approached. I had a stint at perimeter defence by swinging my bass without actually coming into contact with a body. Then I quickly made my exit through the escape hatch.

As I left, I took a hasty look at the melee which was beginning to lose steam. The dance area and the main bar was destroyed — broken glass, smashed furniture, and bloodied bodies littered the joint.

I wanted out before the manager decided the mess was somehow our fault; I bailed and went to help the gang load the rest of the gear into our respective vehicles, afraid we wouldn’t get away before the pub emptied its misfits and trouble-makers onto the street.

We didn’t quite make it! Terrified, I watched as my boys, and their wives, manhandled amps and cases into the van, not quite completing the task before the first of the bikers made their way from the pub. More injured, dishevelled gangbangers, followed; some making their way in our direction.

Two battered bikers, leaning heavily on the shoulders of two unkempt women halted next to us.

“Evenin,’ youse lot,” greeted one.

“Howdy,” I replied nervously.

“Bloody great night!” said the other.

“Best bar fight in a while,” crooned one of the women.

I must have appeared perplexed.

“We come in from the mines lookin’ for a rumble. “Bad Moon Rising” does it every time. Thanks, a lot.” They staggered slowly away; voices raised in praise for a “Great, fuckin’ night!”

“Glad we could help!” I muttered from the shadows.

Epilogue:

If you haven’t already guessed, names have been changed to protect the incompetent.

Brad, the vain guitarist, didn’t get another chance to stuff things up.

Warren had played the saxophone with a boyband in a different country ten years previously. That band went on to become a household name after they ditched Warren. I should have made the connection. Warren didn’t stay a household name at my place.

Gabe hung around as a drummer for some time and was instrumental, (haha, pun), in introducing me to a great guitarist who, incidentally, later became my life partner.

With several different line-ups, we gained confidence and ability, playing pubs, clubs, and restaurants, scoring some very good residencies over several decades.

This memoir story was previously published in a publication that ceased operating until recently. I withdrew “Bad Moon Rising” but a casual comment, a while ago, by Robert Gowty inspired me to give it another airing.

Thanks, Robert, for showing interest in my stories.

Robert Gowty has an interesting discussion about social media

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