That's Why I Wrote This Song

by Susanne Gervay

  ‘Drum roll, Irina.’ Mum makes finger rolls in the air. ‘I’ve applied for leave from work. I’ve enrolled to finish my teaching degree.’ Mum’s eyes are smiling. ‘Your father,’ she looks at Eddie and me, ‘wants me to do it too.’

  Karen gives the thumbs up. Eddie’s optimistic, of course. I’m not so sure. When it happens I’ll believe it.

  Mum gets up to clear the table. There’s a bounce in her step. She whispers, ‘See? I keep my promises.’

  Forget carrots tonight. We carry our strawberry cream sponge splices into the lounge room. Eddie eats his on the way. He can’t even wait five seconds. ‘Pig.’ I dig my finger into his stomach and he rubs it, laughing.

  The background music is old rock songs. I give Angie a look. ‘It’s not me.’ She shakes her head. Mum admits to the crime.

  ‘I think your dark side is becoming outdated, Mum.’

  ‘Outdated? I’ll show you.’ She disappears into her bedroom. Out comes the shoebox. ‘Don’t you dare say anything, Eddie and Pip. The girls haven’t seen it. And you haven’t heard everything either.’ Out comes an old KISS cassette tape. ‘Insomniac Road has nothing on KISS.’ Mum flourishes postcards of the band in chains, black suits slashed to the crotch, space-age costumes. The others think it’s hysterical. The drummer looks like a terrifying cat. There’s fire-eating and blood spurting. ‘Irina, you have a long way to go yet.’ When Mum produces a poster of KISS in masks and towering platform shoes, we end up rolling on the floor. It’s too funny.

  ‘Mum.’ I’m spluttering. ‘You liked them?’

  ‘No, loved them.’ She sits in the middle of all the memorabilia and looks at us. ‘Parents called them devils, and their songs devil music. But if they’d listened, they’d have heard what KISS were singing about. It wasn’t devil music. I loved it because I was looking for answers. Dancing. Experimenting. Trying to find out about life.’

  Mum puts on the tape. ‘My compilation.’ She smiles at me. ‘You’re not the only one who can do that. I couldn’t live without my tapes.’

  ‘Rock and Roll All Nite’ screams through the lounge room. We jump up, tearing around the room. It’s fun dancing with no one judging. When ‘Beth’ comes on, we move more quietly as a lonely girl waits for love. ‘Machines of Loving Grace’ has us stomping and raging and rocking and rolling, and we don’t need to think or talk. It’s dancing and laughing with friends and Mum and her dark side.

  I take Karen’s hands and we swirl and twirl until we fall onto the carpet.

  We still can’t believe it. The Breakers Festival’s tomorrow.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  It’s still dark when my alarm screeches in my ear. It’s 3.45 a.m. I trudge down the stairs to the basement. ‘Get up.’ I shake Karen, who rolls away. ‘Hey, it’s time.’ Irina stretches. I pull the blanket off Angie. Everyone’s up. I don’t know how it happens so quickly, but we’re dressed and in the car and waving goodbye to Mum at 4 am. We’re squeezed into Eddie’s car and heading north. Not Perfect is on the road.

  I put on my CD compilation. We chatter for a while, then just listen to the music. By the time I turn around, the others are sleeping. It’s just Eddie and me in the front seat. ‘When’s the sun come up?’

  ‘A few hours yet.’

  ‘You’re a good driver, Eddie.’ Suddenly I have a flash of Oliver’s driving. When it comes to accelerators, some guys have testosterone in their feet. Eddie’s different. I wish Dad knew that. Maybe he’s starting to know.

  I curl up in my seat listening to the music and stare out of the window. It’s a release to get away from everything. Have time to think. The concert was amazing. Not Perfect was amazing. Fathers, mothers, friends, music, guys, Eddie, life blur inside my head. We cross bridges spanning valleys with rocky streams zigzagging towards the ocean. The freeway cuts through mountains and magnificent sandstone outcrops. I close my eyes, opening them again to see uninterrupted tracts of eucalyptus forest and virgin bushland. Dad’s postcard of Insomniac Road flickers into my thoughts. He must have gone especially to the indie music store in the city to get it. What’s the postcard mean? A shot of fear makes me shuffle in my seat. Dad wants to come home. If it’s like before…

  As the morning sun filters through the trees I look at my watch. We’ve been driving for four hours. There’s movement in the back seat. Karen yawns. I turn around. ‘So you’re awake?’

  ‘Best sleep I’ve had for a long time.’

  ‘That’s what happens when there’s no sex, drugs and rock and roll.’ I smile. She does too.

  Angie and Irina wake up as Eddie turns into a highway rest area. ‘Pit stop,’ he announces. Toilets, stretching our legs and food. I breathe in the scent of eucalyptus. It’s lovely. Irina brings out the box of food packed by her mother. Karen produces cans of cola and lemonade and we head for the picnic shelter with its wooden tables and benches. The breads packed by Irina’s mum are fresh and delicious. There are three varieties of cheese, tomatoes, pickled onions and herrings. The herrings are for Irina, of course. As we eat, white sulphur-crested cockatoos fly into the trees. Ancient ferns spread their leaves like exotic fans. I see a possum. The bushland is beautiful like a different world.

  Suddenly I feel myself choking. I pretend I need to go to the toilet. I glance back. This is so insane. Here we are, in paradise, but why do I feel like I’m lost?

  What’s everything mean? Why did Karen want to die? Why does Irina struggle with being Jewish? Why are we angry at Angie because she’s beautiful and doesn’t know about struggle? Why won’t Karen’s mother fight for her? How can her father hit her? How did Mum let Dad suffocate her dreams? Will I ever trust a boy? Will Eddie be allowed to be Eddie? Will I be allowed to be me? My music pounds into my head.

  Why do I feel so alone?

  Like I’m standing here all by myself.

  When there are people all around

  I am lost but I wanna be found.

  I splash water on my face, clinging on to the basin. The mirror isn’t glass. It’s metal, distorting my face, making it fatter, then narrower, all over the place. I take a few deep breaths. Not Perfect’s going to the Breakers Festival. It means something. It means we’re choosing for ourselves. Choosing to do what we want. I clear my head and slowly walk back to the picnic shelter. I want to be happy. I’m going to be happy.

  Angie is plaiting Karen’s hair. Irina is packing up the breakfast foods. Eddie is carrying leftover drink cans to the car. It’s ordinary, but they’re not ordinary. My brother, my friends. I’m not alone. I run towards them.

  We’re packed again and on the road. The pressure is on. We have to get to Breakers before the gates open. No more stops. Not Perfect dominates the conversations. We’re a band now. We have to try and get a gig. Where can we play? How good are we? What will we play? Karen is writing new songs. I’m writing new songs.

  There are phone calls from all parents.

  Angie: ‘I’m having the best time, Mum. We stopped for breakfast in a forest. Yes, everyone loved the quiche you made.’ We haven’t eaten the quiche yet. ‘Yes, Eddie’s driving safely.’ Her dad comes on the line. ‘Not funny, Dad. There aren’t any sharks here. Yes, I’ll phone when we get there.’

  Irina: she speaks to her parents in Russian. When she finishes the call, she groans. ‘My father wants to know if I’ve brought my books with me, and if Eddie’s driving safely.’

  Karen: ‘Mum, it’s fine. We’re nearly there. Sure, the drinks came in handy. Sure, things will get better with Dad. I’m okay. Yes, Eddie’s car is holding up. Yes, he’s driving slowly.’ When her father rings, she answers him in monosyllables. After she puts the phone down, she grits her teeth. ‘I hate him. He actually put that woman on the phone. The baby’s kicking now. Wow, I’m so interested. A pity they can’t remember who I am.’

  Me: ‘Eddie can’t speak, Mum. He’s driving. Yes, he’s a great driver.’ Eddie shouts out to confirm this news. ‘It’s going well, Mum. How’s KISS? Has Gene Simmons dropped by yet
?’ Mum laughs. Then Dad calls. If one more person asks if Eddie is driving safely, I’ll throttle them. ‘Yes, Eddie’s a great driver. Yes, we’ve stopped for a break. It’ll be a great festival. Thanks for the postcard.’

  I put on another of my CDs to complaints from Angie about my music selection. ‘Well, if you do the work, you get to play your music next time. Stop complaining.’

  Angie sulks but Eddie interrupts with jokes, until the moment is over and the tension is gone. Biscuits and drinks are passed around the car as a substitute lunch. When we see the first sign for the Breakers Festival, Angie, Karen, Irina and I scream in unison.

  ‘Hey, don’t break my eardrums.’

  Eddie turns onto a dirt road leading to nowhere. There are paddocks with crops and grazing cows, and more signs to the Breakers Festival. Other cars are following us now and there are cars in front of us as well. Excitement rises when we see a farmhouse. No, it’s not the Festival. More fields, more cows, a river, three bridges, more dirt road, the river again, potholes, fallen trees pushed to the sides of the road. ‘Watch out,’ I shout as I see a crater in the middle of the road. Eddie swerves past it, just missing a decaying tree trunk. He’s a great driver. We all cheer. His big head swells to an even bigger size.

  ‘I’m good,’ he says.

  ‘Pumpkin Head,’ I call him.

  ‘Right, Pip Squeak,’ he laughs.

  ‘There, over there.’ Angie points. We join the line of parked cars. Just another hour and it’ll be open. People are hanging out of car doors or sitting by the side of the road or checking out the scene. ‘Time for food,’ Eddie announces. Irina gets out her mother’s box, which is filled with rich cream cheese and salad grain-bread sandwiches and thin black bread slices topped with salami chunks. There are pickles on the side, of course.

  We lie back on the grass eating sandwiches and pickles. Music is coming from a few directions. Irina hits the ground in time with the bongo drum player. There are guys strumming guitars. Dope wafts between the cars. We listen to the music, basking in the sun like satisfied adventurers. Can’t believe we’re actually here. We made it. Yes, we made it.

  Eddie snaps photos. I stick out my tongue. ‘Good one, Pip Squeak.’ He laughs. Suddenly, he sees people heading for their cars. He stuffs his camera in his pocket and drags us up. ‘Let’s go.’ Engines are being revved. We’re on the move. The Breakers Festival.

  The search-and-destroy security team are waiting as we drive through the gate. Eddie’s car is frisked under, over, through sleeping bags, behind seats and into backpacks. No contraband discovered. Karen winks at me. She’s definitely brought some with her. I wonder where it is? Other security guards give each of us a program and a map of the Festival ground, then direct us to the camping site.

  We make a charge for the front. Success. Our parking spot is on the hill overlooking the main stage. We mark out the biggest possible area, before the thousands of other cars and people overrun us. Dad’s ten-man tent and Eddie’s two-man tent cover substantial territory. We spread the tents and groundsheets over the grass, staking our claim quickly. Eventually, despite a few incidents like misplaced pegs and collapsing corners, the tents are raised. The car is unpacked and we’re ready to rock. It’s only four o’clock and the music doesn’t start till six. Plenty of time to check out the stages, the stalls, the toilets. Showers are cold and communal, and there’s the freezing river as well.

  The main stage is a natural grassy amphitheatre called the Main Event. That’s where the major bands and singers play, most significantly Insomniac Road. The other stage is on top of a hill, next to the hill we’re camped on. Hill Stage. That’s for new bands. They’ll be performing tomorrow. There are market stalls just below our campsite at the back of the amphitheatre. They sell everything from fast food to T-shirts to massages. There’s already a queue at the tent with ‘Bar’ written on it. ‘Line up, Eddie, line up.’ We drag him towards the queue. He’s got his ID. Eighteen. Drinking age. He comes back with cans of beers and mixed drinks and drops them in our cooler. We lounge around in our huge tent, taking photos, raiding the mothers’ food parcels. I get my guitar. Karen gets hers. We start playing, singing some tunes. The guys from the tent behind us come over to listen. Eddie waves them inside. A couple of girls from another tent join us as well. There’s music, food, talk, drinks. One of the guys brings in a bottle of Scotch. Karen strums her guitar extra-loudly as he hands her the bottle. The bongo player we heard earlier arrives. He really can play.

  Karen grabs my arm. ‘Pip, you’ve got to help me,’ she whispers.

  ‘What is it?’ It’s not an it. It’s a Josh. ‘Is he here?’

  ‘He wanted to see me, but he’s got no tickets and they’re all sold out. He’s waiting behind the wire fence.’

  ‘Why do you have to complicate everything, Karen?’ She tries to explain. ‘No. Don’t say anything. I’m getting Eddie.’ She doesn’t want me to. I ignore her.

  Eddie loves a challenge and he’s an expert when it comes to planning. It was Eddie who planned the departure time, arrival, camping gear, where we were camping, everything for Breakers. He’s been to other music gigs, so he knows how security works. There’s always a blind spot Security can’t control.

  Eddie talks to the bongo player who was at Breakers last year. Security checks the Festival perimeter on regular rounds, but there’s a blind spot near the river. If gate-crashers get caught, Security goes nuts. It’s next stop the local police station. It’s called crowd control.

  Eddie raises his thumbs at me. He knows how to get Josh in. He checks with Karen.

  ‘Is Josh fit?’ Karen nods. ‘Right, then. I’ve got this under control.’

  Commando Eddie checks out the site. He gets his team organised. Irina and Angie are lookouts. Karen’s too involved to be really useful, according to Eddie. So she gets a minor job assisting me. ‘Pip, you check that no one’s watching from this side of the fence. If they are, you have to divert them. Start running away from the fence. That’s your job.’ He quickly looks at Karen. ‘Yours too.’

  A hand waves from behind a tree. It’s Josh. Eddie’s phone instructions are clear. ‘We’re waiting until Security has been round. They’ll be back in ten minutes. They can’t see this part of the fence, but it’s only for a few minutes. When I say go, you go. Climb the fence fast. Really fast.’

  The lookouts wave from their posts. Karen and I watch the crowds. People are busy putting up tents, wandering to the stages and stalls. I wave. All clear. Eddie gives the sign and Josh runs. He’s climbing that fence like Spiderman. He’s stuck. No, he’s moving. Come on. Come on. We’re holding our breath. He’s at the top, then he jumps, landing on his feet. He looks around quickly before he races towards us. We’re all running for tree cover, adrenaline pumping. We collapse onto the grass, piling on top of each other.

  Karen jumps on Josh. ‘Made it. Made it.’ Josh is gasping.

  ‘Get off him.’ I drag Karen away. ‘Let him breathe.’

  Karen’s laughing so hard that we all start. Josh is the first to catch his breath. ‘That was good, guys.’

  ‘Eddie’s good.’ I smile. Everyone agrees. Eddie’s the hero. He loves that. Josh is here. Karen loves that. ‘No more dramas?’ I twist Karen’s arm.

  ‘Promise, Pip.’

  Security is already checking the perimeter. We congregate in the ten-man tent. Debrief after the great break-in. ‘Thanks so much.’ Josh shakes Eddie’s hand. It’s strange seeing him do that. He seems different from Karen’s other guys. ‘Thanks, everyone.’

  ‘So how’d you get here?’ Eddie asks.

  ‘My car’s parked down the road.’ He winks at Karen. ‘Thought the Festival sounded too good. I’m glad I’m not stuck outside.’

  ‘You might’ve ended up in the local cop shop, you know,’ I shake my head.

  ‘Might have. Hey, Karen’s worth it.’

  I give Karen a look. She looks back. Josh might be okay.

  Music starts filtering through the
trees and we check to see what’s happening. They’re testing equipment. It’s time. We grab each other’s hands. It’s really on. We race towards the amphitheatre to hear the sweet sounds of Rosi Rose. Everyone’s crooning and Angie is in heaven. This is her music. It’s forty-five minutes of sedation and relaxation, which is great preparation for the next act. Black Bullets rampage onto the stage. Hordes of punk rock speed freaks dive for the mosh pit in a bloodied stomp of adrenaline. We stay safely back on the slopes of the amphitheatre. But that doesn’t mean we aren’t yelling with them, stomping the grass in an orgy of rage and energy. We are. We’re totally exhausted when Black Bullets thunder off the stage, throwing stands and drums into the mosh pit.

  I think about Insomniac Road. They’ll be on soon. Just one more act to go. ‘Billy, Billy, Billy,’ rings inside me. I look over at Eddie and see him chatting up a girl who retreated to our spot when Black Bullets went nuts. She hasn’t moved back into the crowd. I lie on the grass next to Irina, waiting for Sally Jones to start. Then Insomniac Road. Sally Jones is all trippy when she sings. Her fans are trippy too. They’re in love with the world and peace. The smell of dope is in the air. Angie has connected with a good-looking guy with sandy hair and a cute smile. Sally Jones starts her act and they both sing along and I want to laugh. They don’t need dope. They are dopes. Groan. What a lame joke.

  I jump up. Insomniac Road is next. ‘Come on, Eddie, please, please.’ I drag him away from the girl, towards the mosh pit.

  ‘I’ll be back after this,’ he says to the girl as he follows Josh, Karen and me into the mosh pit. Irina and Angie refuse to come.

  The screaming is ear-blasting. ‘Insomniac Road, Insomniac Road’ pulses through the amphitheatre. We are pressed, crushed, as arms pump and people yell. Flashing lights, explosions belt from the stage. The band appears and Karen and I scream like always. Scream until we’re hoarse. Scream as they sing the songs that are part of our lives. As their music rings through the amphitheatre I can hardly breathe. Their raw power, scathing guitars, rock solid riffs let every emotion out. ‘Insomniac Road, Insomniac Road, Insomniac Road’ pounds over the valley.