By Peter Knight
It should have been an easy 200 bucks. A country wedding with Paul's rhythm-and-blues band. "No pressure mate, it'll be fun," he said. "Can you pick up Steve and a bit of gear on the way there?"
"Shit I think I left the mixing desk at home." We were about an hour out of town - a bit under halfway to the gig. Steve looked embarrassed. I pulled off to the side trying hard to contain my frustration, both at him for forgetting the desk and at myself for not checking. It was too late to turn back, "It'll be alright mate", he said, "Don't worry we'll just plug a mike into the bass amp or something."
Why couldn't things just be easy; somehow with Steve they never were, there was always a drama. I turned up Duke Ellington on the car stereo and accelerated back onto the highway. It'll be OK, I told myself.
We continued to drive North up the Hume then took a turn-off left and headed into the setting sun, I was chilling out again, it was good to feel the hum of the road and good to be in the country. We drove and drove not saying much, just listening to the music. Steve was navigating. I should have known better. We were about an hour off the highway when I realised we were lost. The road had turned into bumpy dirt road. I was ready to explode. We ended up knocking on a farmer's door for directions and somehow managed to follow his complicated route - up the back road and left at the watertank, keep going 'till you pass a red houseĀ
We pulled up outside the little hall in the little hamlet where we had been booked to play half-an- hour late; it'll be OK I kept telling myself as I parked the Kingswood and let the engine clunk to a halt.
It was one of those beautiful old country halls probably once used for amateur theatre; the outside was decorated with balloons. Steve and I nudged our way in through the front door; at the opposite end there was a dinky little curtained stage.
"That's where we'll be playing," said Steve.
"Could be fun," I said trying to lighten up a bit.
Most of the guests were already inside; a few were lingering with their cocktails out the front in the warm summer air, vibrating with excitement along with the cicadas. Inside, the thrum of conversation was punctuated by occasional squeals; some guy in a Groucho mask was crawling under the tables and popping up between girls' legs. It looked like some of the guests had found the backstage costume cupboard - one bloke had a long wig on and was playing air-guitar, another two were on a table having a sword-fight with huge plastic swords. They were getting pretty loose and it was only just dark.
Steve and I found the rest of the band milling around at the back of the hall. Andy and Brian were sitting on the bonnet of Paul's station-wagon. They'd finished setting up the gear and were waiting. Paul, the bandleader, was standing there in his ill-fitting black-tie suit tapping his watch looking pissed off.
"Got the desk?" He didn't even say hello. I waited for Steve to answer.
"Gidday guysh, wanna beer?" Brian chipped in as if completely unaware of the tension. At least he looked happy to see us - O shit no, not happy, he's pissed already. It usually took Brian at least half a gig to get pissed.
Paul repeated the question with exaggerated gaps between each word, "Have - you - got - the - desk?"
"Paul, we're going to have to use the bass amp or something for vocals, we forgot it," said Steve.
"You bloody morons," Paul exploded, "I'm going to have to sing through that, it'll sound like shit." Steve started to splutter some sort of excuse but Paul wasn't listening. "Can't you even get one simple thing together? I make the phone calls, do all the smooth talking, put up with the stupid questions. You guys are hopeless." His voice bellowed into the starry canopy of the night. "I get here on time, set up the rest of the stinking gear, and what do you do..."
"Is there a problem guys?" We turned around; it was the bride in full regalia - train, bouquet, disconcertingly-high-heeled shoes. We gaped like school kids caught frying tadpoles. "I heard yelling from around the front, thought there might be something wrong."
Paul's bow-tie was crooked, one of those cheap jobs held on with a bit of elastic, a fold of fat bulged slightly over his collar. "No, no just fooling around," he said.
"Can I get you some more drinks then?" The bride smiled; Paul relaxed visibly.
"Yeah I'd kill for a bourbon and coke," said Brian.
"No problem, and a few more beers for everyone?" she paused, "Guys, while I'm here I was wondering if you'd do me a special favour since it's my wedding night. Do you think my cousin could sing a few numbers with you later? She's an unreal singer she was in Guys 'n Dolls at school and everything." We all looked at Paul who looked as if he might choke or something. Instead he said, as sweet as pie,
"Sure that'd be great."
"Oh she'll be rapt, I'll see if my little brother's got his harmonica too then shall I?"
Inwardly I groaned, and tried to tell myself that it'd be OK.
Choo Choo Ch Boogie, Paul's favourite tune, he always started with it. He brought the opening riff in on the guitar. We were only half-an-hour late. A few people started to dance; the band was sounding quite nice. I had my eyes closed just trying to get into playing my trumpet. Relax. I was starting to warm up. It's not going to be that bad, I thought. At that moment I heard a loud voice from in front of the stage - raspy, bucolic - "Youse wankers know any Barnsey?"
