But my Polish wasn’t that good so I could’ve been wrong. We played and got paid our very small fee and left thinking we were the best band ever.
It was great to get out of the rehearsal hall and into a place where people were watching us. Mind you, I think the only people who watched us were just so drunk they couldn’t move.
I don’t know if it was because of the Polish gig. I doubt it. But pretty soon we were offered another show, this time at Gawler Trotting Track just north of Elizabeth. We knew we would need a better name than Orange, so we went through our song list to see if anything stood out. By this time, we had two original songs. One was called ‘Sorbonne Fender Chrome’. That was too long to be a name and even we didn’t know what it meant. The other was a song called ‘Cold Chisel’. This song had nothing to do with cold chisels and I didn’t know what it was about either, but it was shorter than the last, and sounded remotely like a rock band’s name. All the bands we liked were called Led Zeppelin or Deep Purple or something like that so Cold Chisel had a rock ring to it.
Anyway we would change it later when we thought of something better. That never happened. By the time we thought about it again the name had stuck and we couldn’t change it. We were Cold Chisel for better or for worse.
The gig in Gawler was forgettable too. The Super Rock Open Air Festival went off with a whimper. It would have been busier if they let the horses come to the show. The stage was on the back of a truck and we would have been more successful if we drove it around until we found an audience. Not many people turned up and at a guess I’d say that the promoter did his dough. Not that we were being paid very much. Bullett were the headliners and no one really cared that much about them. Well, not enough to come to Gawler anyway. So we were hardly noticed. I’ve heard people say since that they saw potential in us back then but I think they were making it up. We were the only ones who saw any potential in us for many years after that. There are photos floating around from that gig; we look like kids, probably because we were.
The best thing that came from the show was that one of the members of Bullett decided we were gullible enough to buy a PA he had piled up in his garage collecting dust. He was right. We dived at the chance to own our own sound system. It sounded like a steal to us. We quickly paid him and left before he could change his mind. It wasn’t great but it gave us the freedom to play shows all over the country. Not big shows but our own shows. We later found out that half of the speaker boxes didn’t have speakers in them, but by then the guy who sold it to us had left town. He had ripped us off but we didn’t care, it was ours and we could take it anywhere we wanted. Once we owned our own speakers we were ready to hit the road.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
I was never coming back
I was still hanging around the Elizabeth shops with the gang. Drinking way too much and taking drugs four or five nights a week, while working days at the railways. When I say working days, I was sleeping at least half of the morning and recovering the other half. I was pouring molten metal during the day and tearing Adelaide apart by night. And singing in the band whenever we could get together.
Life at the railways was going downhill. Not the work really. I could cope with that once I’d straightened up. But actually wanting to be there was getting more difficult. I had known from the start that moulding wasn’t my calling, but by this point it was starting to become an anchor around my neck.
If I wanted to stay out all night watching bands, I couldn’t turn up for work. If I didn’t turn up for work, I was in trouble and I had no money. Sooner or later I would have to make a choice between work and music.
There were more girls than I can remember. And more nights I couldn’t remember. The band was getting better with every rehearsal and I was getting more and more out of control with every day that passed. I was living the rock-and-roll lifestyle and we had only done two gigs. I wanted to live fast and die young and leave a good-looking corpse, but surely I needed to make a record before that. Besides, dying seemed to be a much harder thing to do than I thought. It was going to take a long time and I would probably leave a trail of destruction in my wake. Even back then I would sit and look at myself in the mirror some nights and wonder what it would take to kill me. How much could I take before I reached breaking point? Maybe I had already passed that point years before.
I was finding it harder and harder to get up for work every day and it was getting more and more dangerous while I was there. It was an accident waiting to happen. Something had to give.
One day Don said to us all, ‘I need to tell you blokes something important.’
We all sat around listening.
‘I’m taking a year off to finish my master’s degree at Armidale University.’
‘What the fuck are we going to do?’ I thought to myself.
Then one of the band had a brainwave. ‘Why don’t we go to Armidale and while Don’s at university we can still get together and write some songs.’
‘I’m going to be working a hell of a lot, but yeah, we could get together I guess,’ Don said hesitantly.
But we had already decided. We were going to Armidale.
‘We’re coming with you, Don.’ The rest of us by this time saw Don as the leader. He must have thought we were like puppies, following him around.
‘Are you sure, guys? I’ll be back in a year. You guys could just keep –’
‘No, we’re coming with you.’ I cut him off mid-sentence. It was a done deal. The idea of leaving Adelaide appealed to me. In fact, I would have left right that moment if I could have. ‘I’m ready. When do we leave?’
Don was the first to leave. He flew to Armidale to get ready for university. We were going to follow in the truck a little later.
But first I had to quit my job at the railways. I went in and talked to old Tony. ‘Tony, I’m not good at this. I can’t do it anymore. Music is what I want to do.’
‘Don’t be a bloody larrikin all your life, Jim. You’ve got a bloody good job here. If you just knuckle down a bit and do some bloody work, you could end up as the boss of the floor like me.’
I looked at Tony. He was a broken, tired, old man. Every day I worked with him I heard him complain about how bad his back was and how damaged his lungs were from smoke and gas. He had a coughing fit every time he laughed but he’d just light up another fag and keep working. This was not what I wanted.
‘I’d love to do that, Tony, but I’m not as good as you,’ I lied.
‘Don’t be a bloody idiot. You’re potentially as good as I am or even better.’ He was lying too. ‘All you’ve got to do is keep your bloody head down and don’t cause so much trouble. Your problem is that bloody boogie-woogie music you listen to. It’s all just a load of rubbish, lad. This here is a real bloody job. Not prancing around the bloody stage in your bloody tight jeans. That’s not a job for a man.’
‘I’ve got to quit, Tony. We’re moving interstate. You wait and see. We’re going to be a big band.’
‘Yeah, yeah, and I’m the fucking Prime Minister. You’re a bloody idiot.’ Tony’s eyes were watering as he walked away. He hardly talked to me again. I hadn’t lived up to his expectations.
Next I had to tell Reg. He wouldn’t be happy either. I went to Mum and Reg’s house in Smithfield, just on the outskirts of Elizabeth, to let him know.
‘Dad, I’m quitting the railways and moving to Armidale with the band.’
‘Oh Jim, son, have you thought about this at all? You can’t run away from everything in life, mate. You have to settle down and finish your apprenticeship. Then you can do whatever you want. And you’ll still have something to fall back on if it doesn’t work out.’
But if I was going to fall, I didn’t want a safety net. It was do or die for me.
‘You’re an eejit, Jim. You had a chance tae dae somethin’ with yer life but no, you just want tae run away like yer dad. Off ye go then.’ Mum never approved of anything.
Now I could drink and party all
night and get paid for it. Or that was the theory. In fact, it appeared to me that the more I partied the more people liked me. And the harder rock-androll bands went, the bigger they would get. I’d read about them. That’s what I was going to do. Go hard.
This was what I had dreamed about when I sat on the pier at Semaphore as a child, looking out to sea. This was what I had dreamed about listening to the rhythm of the train as I escaped my home to the sea. This was what I had dreamed about when I was hiding in the paddock across from our house. This was what I had wanted when we hid in the cupboards crying, trying to drown out the sounds of people fighting in our home. This was everything I had wanted for as long as I could remember. I was leaving and I was never coming back. I would miss my brothers and sisters but they had to save themselves, I couldn’t help them. I’d made it this far and I’d be fucked if I was going to die in Elizabeth. If Cold Chisel hadn’t come along I would have hitched a ride in a truck or jumped on a freight train or walked if I had to, but I would have left somehow.
I’m going to take this denim jacket with me. I reckon it’ll be cold up there. I know it’s not mine but I like it. Anyway, fuck it. John won’t miss it. He left. If it’s still here he obviously doesn’t want it. I doubt he even knows he had one. He left it with the rest of the rubbish. The shit he didn’t want to see anymore. I was part of that rubbish, now that I think of it. So were the rest of the family. I don’t blame him. I don’t want to see him or any of this again either.
Even if I didn’t listen I could hear Mum shouting at Reg while I packed. That voice that sounded like an open razor, slashing everything it came close to.
Mum’s house held a lot of secrets. It always looked so clean. Everything she didn’t want to see she swept under the carpet and pretended it didn’t exist. Or she burned it. Everything that ever caused her pain. The past, our childhoods, Dad, the mistakes we all made. Pushed into a pile somewhere and burned. If she didn’t see it, it never happened.
I sang to myself to block out the sounds of the house. I couldn’t sing loud enough. This time I was leaving before I got thrown away again. The truck would be here soon. I was just about packed. I didn’t have much. Fuck it, I didn’t need much. I would go out to the front of the house and wait for the band to arrive. The sooner I was out of here the better.
Yeah. I’m taking this denim jacket with me.
I climbed into the back of the band’s truck. It was an old Tip Top baker’s truck that had done way too many miles delivering bread to be carrying a band’s equipment all over the country. It didn’t look very flash but I had a feeling it would get us to where we were going. There were no lights in the back. I could see the outline of the guys sitting around in the dark. I threw my bag on top of the gear and sat down on the floor.
Steve was as happy to get out of there as me. He was singing at the top of his voice in his broad Liverpudlian accent, prodding Ian, trying to get him to join in. Ian sat quietly, looking down. He was always quiet. I knew this wasn’t the first place he’d left behind and I got the feeling he felt all right anywhere. Les, on the other hand, looked worried. Like he really wasn’t ready to leave the safety of his mum and dad’s home.
A strange sense of freedom came over me. It was just the band and Michael the roadie and me. No family, no friends. A new start. Michael shut the door; suddenly it was pitch black. I felt around for the bottle of cheap whisky I had in my bag and pulled it out. Opened it up and closed my eyes and breathed in. Tilted my head back and swallowed down as much as I could without throwing up. It tasted like fire. As we left Elizabeth I wanted to feel sad but I didn’t. I wasn’t scared anymore. In fact, I felt nothing at all.
EPILOGUE
Another thing just before I go.
Mum left Reg for Ray, who she has lived with ever since. Reg moved back into his mum and dad’s house, alone, except for the ghosts of his childhood and memories of the Port in its heyday, when life was good and people didn’t hurt one another.
Even though Mum left Reg, us kids couldn’t leave him. He was our dad. But as we grew older Mum and he grew further apart until I don’t think she could stand the sight of him. I know that they only got together to save us but we had prayed that they would be happy too. I guess that was too much to hope for.
Although we stayed in touch, we didn’t see him enough. We lived in another state, so he was essentially alone and I think he might have been happier that way. I know he missed us but I don’t think he missed that pterodactyl voice telling him what to do.
Many years later, about forty or so, as he got older he became sicker and sicker until he could no longer live alone and we had to move him out of his home and into a nursing home. He didn’t want to go, but the house was falling down around him. He was a hoarder and had kept every scrap of paper and piece of junk that reminded him of the old days. He even kept scrapbooks about my career. I know he was proud of me and happy for me.
So the day came when we had to move him out of the home he was born in, the home he grew up in. As he drove to the nursing home I hope he got a final glimpse of the river where he had spent his childhood, the river he shared with me. He died peacefully in hospital, talking to ghosts he saw in his room. He told us they were all with him, waiting to take him over to the other side. Grandpa and Grandma and his Aunty Dorrie and probably that Red Indian that watched over him too. And I believe him. If anyone was going to be helped into the afterworld, it was Reg.
About six months after his death we got a notice from a lawyer in Adelaide. Reg had organised to sell his house and anything else he owned and had left his insurance money to us kids. Even in death he was there to save us. It wasn’t a lot of money but this was treasure to me. Pure unadulterated love. What a guy. What a fine example he was to me in life and in death.
I didn’t know what had happened to the piano. I thought after they split up maybe Mum had got rid of it, or burned it to spite him. But not long ago, I was visiting my youngest sister, Lisa, and there in the corner of her dining room was an old-looking piano. It was beaten up and looked the worse for wear but I recognised it immediately. It was Reg’s old piano, the one he played at home. I felt a warmth come over me. It was like seeing an old, old friend.
I asked Lisa, ‘Where did you find it?’
‘It was in a corner of Grandma’s house. I found it there after Dad died.’
I had a lump in my throat as soon as I saw it again. Lisa’s dining room looked a little crowded. She’d had to squeeze it in.
‘I couldn’t leave it there alone. The house was falling down on top of it.’
‘Do any of you play it?’ I asked and opened up the lid and played a chord. It sounded completely out of tune, just like when Dad played it. I just stood for a second, unable to talk.
Lisa must have sensed that I was nearly in tears. Out of the blue she said to me, ‘Would you like to have it, Jim? I’m sure Dad would be happy if it was getting played a bit.’
‘I would love it,’ I said quietly.
I’m having it moved to my house and then I’m going to finally take the piano lessons that he offered to give me so many years ago. And whenever I play it he will be there with me.
Mum and Ray live on the Central Coast of New South Wales. They are as happy as my mum can be. Ray’s a good man. The life Mum was dealt is not what she wanted but at least after meeting Ray she has had less heartache. Mum still moved around a lot for a while there. She has a bit of a restless spirit, we all have. She has moved in to her own house now, with Ray. Lisa and her family live upstairs and try to keep an eye out to make sure she’s okay. I haven’t heard her talk about prowlers for a long time so I hope the bastards have left her alone so she can get some peace.
She doesn’t talk about my dad at all and she doesn’t talk about Reg either. If we accidentally mention either of them in front of her the conversation abruptly stops. ‘Sorry, were you talking to me?’
It’s like that life never happened.
Like I said at the beginning
of this book, I don’t blame her or Dad for anything. Life is what it is, and we all do the best with what we have. I have great memories of my dad and I try not to dwell on the bad stuff. I have fantastic memories of Mum too. I still remember that for the first years of my life, the only time I felt safe was in Mum’s arms. I try to just think about that. The rest doesn’t matter.
My mum was tough and survived a life that would have made most people throw in the towel. I like to think I got my ability to stick it through really tough times from her. She is soft and gentle too. She used to cry very easily and was always the first person who opened her door to help people, even when it meant she suffered for it. She would give away half of all she had to help anyone. I like to think that I got my generosity of spirit from her.
I look at pictures of Mum now. Everyone says I look like her. As a child I always thought she was the most beautiful person in the world. Children see people the way they really are, I think. So I was right, she is beautiful.
Dad died of emphysema in hospital in Geelong. After running all his life he had fear in his eyes as he gasped for his last breath. Life isn’t fair. He came back to see us years earlier, a long time after he left us, and we had a chance to sort through some of what happened in our lives. Not all of it, but I hope enough for him to rest in peace. He was a good man. He taught me to make the best of what you have. He didn’t want too much, just peace and quiet and to be able to sit and watch television with his dog. Dad also taught me not to brag about anything. He was a quiet assassin, the quiet one in a room who should not be taken lightly. He could fight and he had stamina. I got my stamina from him. I’ll tell you more about my dad in the next book.
I got a lot of bad traits from both of them too, but hey, you have to take the bad with the good.
I learned about love from my family, especially my siblings. That’s all we had, and it helped us through some horrible times. These days we don’t talk enough and we don’t see the love as much as we used to when it was the only thing there. But I know it is still there and I want to thank them all for helping me survive the life we shared.
Working Class Boy Page 31
