Cinnamon Sweat

by Paul Greenway

‘Do you?’ Mitch swallowed nothing hard.

  Sean and Mitch glanced uneasily at each other, and then glared menacingly at the three band members, who grinned back.

  Boyd checked his watch. ‘OK, you guys get on stage now before the crowd …’ He gazed through a slit in the black curtains and groaned at the sparseness of the gathering. ‘Just bloody get out there!’

  From behind the black curtain, the band sauntered on to the middle of the bowling green and acknowledged the sporadic applause from the crowd, which had somehow doubled in size within seconds. Nigel, with a guitar slung around his neck, tested that the single microphone was working. Trevor checked his equipment with the most thunderous drum roll he could manage on his beginners’-sized set. And Cockles thumped a few strings on his bass guitar with a chubby thumb. Madge subdued the string of lights drooping above the makeshift stage, and Dave picked up the needle from the turntable in Deb’s shop.

  Nigel stretched out his arms. ‘Hello, Chittingford Dales!’

  ‘We're from Upper Chittingford, you wanker!’ The rest of the twenty-five people in the crowd jeered in agreement.

  ‘Oh. Um, anyway, it's so great to be back here after, er, so long. Here's a song about, um …’ Nigel glanced at the other two, who shrugged. ‘Actually, I forgot what it's about.’ He turned to the drummer.

  Trevor raised his drumsticks high and boisterously counted in the song. ‘One ... Two ... One, two, three ...’

  At that exact moment, the heavens opened and sheets of rain slanted across the stage. Their antiquated electrical equipment immediately fizzled before completely short-circuiting, while the microphone blew over and their limited array of stage lights exploded. Almost instantly, the crowd dispersed, and within seconds all that was left on the flooded lawn were the three band members, each soaking wet in the complete darkness as rain continued to pelt and the wind howled even more viciously.

  ‘… four.’

  Some of the crowd crawled back to wherever they’d come from, but about fifteen rushed through the torrential rain to the only building with any lights: the pub.

  ‘Have you seen Deb?!’ Mitch had to shout above the deluge to Sean, who protected the handy-cam under his shirt.

  ‘No idea where she is.’

  They, and the two extra cameramen with their sophisticated and waterproof equipment, took refuge under the veranda before realising the pub was closed; the only functioning door was bolted tight.

  * * * * *

  In a Welsh mining village with an unpronounceable name of twenty-three letters, a bunch of rugby players yelled at a TV screen in a pub.

  ‘Go to the Town Hall, ya git!’

  ‘The hall is bloody open!’

  ‘Go there, you plonker!’

  ‘But where's Deb?’

  ‘And where is the freaking band?’

  * * * * *

  Mitch’s instinctive response to any crisis was to check his phone. He was relieved to scroll through some helpful, unaggressive tweets that urged him and the others in the crowd to shift to the Town Hall. ‘Over there!’ he roared above the persistent wail of the wind and rain. ‘C’mon!’

  The crowd obediently followed Mitch as he tried dodging the mammoth puddles that had formed at the intersection. They almost bowled over Gladys clutching her Zimmer frame and Arnold grasping his walking stick.

  * * * * *

  In Pamu, a dreary fishing town south of the Estonian capital, a group of women rugged up against a Baltic blizzard huddled outside the window of a shop selling imported TVs, and shrieked.

  ‘Yes. Good.’

  ‘To the hall! Hurry!’

  ‘But find Deb! You must find Deb!’

  ‘Where is the old fart band?’

  * * * * *

  The crowd scuttled through the torrent and poured into the Town Hall. In the claustrophobic foyer area, Mitch waited until Sean and the two cameramen had dashed inside. Mitch then stared restlessly at the flooded bowling green, where the black curtains were swinging from the top of a light pole, and the drums trundled across the lawn. ‘Trevor! ... Nigel! ... Cockles! ... Deb, are you there?! ... Anyone?’

  Standing smug and dry at the bar counter inside the Town Hall, Madge observed the crowd hustling in, each trying to wring the rain from their hair and clothes. The mattresses, blankets and pillows had been put aside, and the undersized stage was now set up with four stools, three acoustic guitars and some minor percussion instruments. As the crowd quickly gave up trying to dry out, they noticed the rows of plastic seats facing the stage and eagerly sat down.

  While Sean and the two cameramen set up their recording equipment, Mitch anxiously peered around the hall. Sean caught his eye and shook his head.

  * * * * *

  With collective arthritis, sciatica and irritable bowel syndrome, the band shuffled to the veranda of the pub before realising it was closed. They stopped squabbling among themselves for a moment when they heard sounds somehow piercing the squall. It wasn’t the ping of Madge’s microwave, or a ding from Dave whacking an engine, or the ching noises of locals losing at the pokies – or even the skwarrrk of the ubiquitous and diarrheal magpies. Eventually, the noise became familiar to the three men; words they hadn’t heard chanted for decades, if ever.

  ‘Cinnamon Sweat! Cinnamon Sweat!’

  They twisted around in several directions before realising the chants emanated from the Town Hall. Rushing as fast as any sodden men with middle-aged infirmities could possibly move, they almost bowled over Gladys and Arnold, both staggering in knee-deep puddles without their respective frame or stick. As the band approached the hall, they also heard other chants that made no immediate sense to them.

  ‘Semens Wet! Semens Wet!’

  * * * * *

  In the kitchen of the “For Bidding Settee” restaurant, located within a few hundred metres of the most famous tourist attraction in Beijing, staff ceased chopping chickens’ feet and screamed at the laptop on a table. ‘Sin-mon Sweat! Semens Wet! Sin-mon Sweat! Semens Wet!’

  * * * * *

  Nigel, Cockles and Trevor stumbled into the Town Hall as the audience cheered. The three of them noticed the stage, picked up their instruments, and perched themselves unsteadily onto the stools. Bob and Jack moved to the side of the stage to continue their roles as “security officers”, while Dave sold more beer and Madge maintained a roaring trade in overpriced toasties.

  Mitch dashed into the hall again and mouthed the question ‘Deb?’ to Sean, who shook his head. Mitch scrolled through the latest tweets:

  Who killed Deb? Where is she? We love Deb!

  Deb is the best thing about your stupid program!

  If you don't find Deb, we will kill you!

  Find Deb or you will die!!

  As Nigel raised his arms, green liquid dripped from his dyed hair. ‘Hello, Upper Chittingford.’ He was delighted with the audience’s positive response. ‘How many of you bought our first album “Thanks for the Mammaries”?’

  The crowd became immediately silent.

  ‘Before the band starts, perhaps I can answer a few questions.’ Deb strolled towards the microphone on the stage. Instantly, the audience stood as one and cheered. Sean and Mitch turned to each other with disbelief and relief.

  * * * * *

  In a café along the rocky highlands of Yemen, a bunch of young men carrying ceremonial daggers and chewing the hallucinogenic qat leaf stopped plotting the overthrow of their government and yelled at the TV screen.

  ‘We love Deb!’

  ‘We will kill anyone who touches Deb!’

  ‘Deb for President of Yemen!’

  * * * * *

  Deb continued with a confidence that astounded Sean and Mitch. ‘The producers of this webcast-thingy were obsessed with something that doesn't matter even to me – and should never ever matter at all to anyone else. Something I could've answered if only they'd simply asked me.’ Deb glared at Mitch, who decided to look sheepish and turn away. ‘My father is not
Nigel ...’

  * * * * *

  ‘Not Nigel?’ Deep inside a dingy bar along a seedy section of the port in Naples, Mario spluttered his café latte as he read the subtitles across the TV screen. ‘I thought her father had to be Nigel!’ He gesticulated towards his bodyguard who was polishing a pistol.

  ‘Nah, boss. Nigel is too fat.’

  * * * * *

  The crowd, which had somehow quadrupled within minutes, was spellbound as Deb continued. ‘My father is not Cockles …’

  * * * * *

  In the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, a cluster of Japanese whalers squatted around a table loaded with wads of yen. Staring at a laptop, they continued shouting odds, exchanging money, and sneering.

  ‘Who wants a father called Cockles?’

  ‘Too ugly!’

  ‘I’ll give you two to one that it’s Trevor.’

  * * * * *

  A group of Inuit inside an igloo near Barrow along the Arctic Circle groaned as Deb continued on their iPads. ‘... and is not Trevor. Or Oscar.’

  * * * * *

  Deb had to raise her voice above the murmurs and gasps from the crowd. ‘My father was an American soldier working in Perth.’ She turned to the three members of the band. ‘You see, during the tour of '75, my mother Lynne – who you all knew so well – thought she was pregnant. Then, she found out she couldn't actually have children. So, she adopted me – as well as my sisters, Brenda and Gail, who both live in Adelaide. And my brother, Dave.’

  Mitch shook his head with disappointment and frustration as Sean smiled nervously at Dave.

  ‘In fact, I’ve never met my father or biological mother. But the main story here is not my father, but Oscar, the original guitarist of Cinnamon Sweat. A man who was different, who loved poetry but didn't want groupies. During the tour of 1975, Oscar fell in love …’ Deb paused, unsure about the crowd’s reaction. ‘… with the band's manager, Robert.’

  The crowd couldn’t decide if it wanted to gasp in shock or shriek with surprise. Those who dared to speak were firmly told to shut up so they could all hear Deb continue. ‘Oscar was a genius, but spurned and ostracised by the band, and by almost all of its fans. You have to remember that in the 1970s Elton John had to pretend he was straight, and even marry a woman. These days, no-one cares, and Elton and his boyfriend are in women’s magazines with their adopted children. But Oscar could not be open about his sexuality, so he disappeared after the final gig of the '75 tour at Whyalla. The police believed he'd committed suicide, although no body or note was ever found. Many in the media claimed that Oscar had been murdered ...’

  * * * * *

  ‘My God!’

  Along a corridor within the sacred confines of The Vatican, three white-frocked cardinals whispered to each other.

  ‘Murdered?’

  ‘How can that be?’

  They were mesmerised as Deb continued in subtitles on their phones. ‘… by someone in the band.’

  They bowed reverently as The Pope approached them and murmured. ‘It must be Nigel. But I'll give you three to one on Trevor.’

  * * * * *

  As Deb continued to explain each possibility, two of the band members gazed at the third with suspicion. ‘In a diary, my mother wrote that Trevor had poisoned Oscar. She also said that Cockles had pushed Oscar down a mineshaft. And she believed Oscar had been stabbed by Nigel.’

  * * * * *

  ‘C’mon.’ During a late-night meeting of the United Nations General Assembly about the civil war in Syria, the President of the United States turned up his headphones and mumbled to himself. ‘Tell me who did it.’

  * * * * *

  ‘You see, each member of the band blamed Robert, their manager, for what happened to Oscar. But I asked the right questions of the right people – and their answers were all recorded on the “Deb & The Sweat” webcast-thingy.’ She again glared at Mitch, who once more looked sheepish and turned away. ‘And I realised that the band’s manager, Robert, could never have killed Oscar, because Robert also loved Oscar.’

  The crowd collectively inhaled.

  ‘And Oscar could not have been murdered anyway because he is … still alive.’

  They gasped even more loudly.

  ‘And, in fact, Oscar is watching this show …’

  The audience could not inhale or gasp any more.

  ‘… from right here in this room!’

  Deb had to yell as the crowd collectively exhaled and began prattling among themselves. ‘My mother lied in her diaries about Oscar, because she wanted to keep the police and media away from the truth. Oscar and Robert wanted to escape the discrimination and persecution and homophobia rampant in the 1970s, particularly for someone in a rock band. My mother also wanted to protect Robert, so she helped him settle in a small country town. Oscar and Robert changed their appearances, but Robert did not change his name.’ Deb turned towards the side of the stage. ‘Did you?’

  The jaws of Dave, Arnold, Gladys and Madge dropped as Deb smiled at Bob. And the crowd were shocked into silence as Deb pointed behind her. ‘And I placed an extra guitar there, because I thought Oscar might like to join the band.’

  The crowd erupted as Jack ambled onto the stage. The other three members of the band stood, clearly shocked but keen to shake his hand. Nigel indicated for Jack to pick up the spare guitar and sit on the empty stool. As one, Dave, Arnold, Gladys and Madge swivelled from Bob’s direction and began staring open-mouthed at Jack.

  Nigel had to holler above the uproar reverberating around the Town Hall. ‘We'll start with a song Oscar ...’ The lead singer grinned. ‘… I mean, Jack, wrote as the title track for our second album, which we recorded but never released …’

  * * * * *

  On the 25th floor of an office block in North Melbourne, several executives from “HasBeen Records” were assembled around a massive conference table and staring at a computer screen. The oldest and fattest of the group stood and bellowed. ‘Get over there pronto, and sign that band for that second album!’

  Two eager record executives with Armani suits dashed out of the room.

  * * * * *

  ‘… and don't forget that tonight's gig is being recorded for a DVD.’

  * * * * *

  On the deck of a luxury yacht bobbing along the Sydney Harbour, a handful of executives from “NostalGick Films” were watching the webcast on their iPads. The tallest and scariest of them leant over and yelled. ‘Get over there now, and sign them up for rights to that DVD!’

  Two ambitious young film directors jumped into an attached boat and rowed vigorously.

  * * * * *

  Nigel had to pause so the crowd could regain some composure. ‘Jack wrote this song in the ‘70s about pathetic old wannabes and has-beens still strutting around on stage at that time as if they were still teenagers.’ He glanced at Jack. ‘I changed the words a little so the song is now about us. I'm sure you can remember how to play it.’ Jack nodded.

  We’re too old to grow more hair, and too lazy to even care,

  And I’m too fat to wear my shorts, and my ugly face is full of warts,

  We should get off the stage and act our age,

  Get a proper job with a regular wage,

  Cos we're too fat to rock 'n’ roll,

  Ugly, bald and far too old,

  Burgers 'n’ booze have taken their toll,

  We're too fat to rock 'n’ roll

  The crowd inside the Chittingford Dales Town Hall – as well as Australians in their homes and offices, Welsh rugby players at pubs, Italian mafia inside dingy bars, Estonians outside TV shops, Arab terrorists in cafés, The Pope and cardinals at The Vatican, Alaskans in igloos and the American President – all joined in as the band repeated the chorus.

  Cos we're too fat to rock 'n’ roll,

  Ugly, bald and far too old,

  Burgers 'n’ booze have taken their toll,

  We're too fat to rock 'n’ roll,

  We’re too fat
to rock ‘n’ roll

  … to rock and roll

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Thursday

  The next morning, the band, groupies and some of last night's crowd were still snoozing or nursing hangovers on the mattresses strewn across the floor of the Town Hall. As Madge served leftover reheated toasted sandwiches, she quietly sang some vaguely familiar words: ‘Burglars 'n’ blues have shaken their tail … They’re too fit for Roxanne’s rolls.’

  Sean’s mouth and eyes opened wide as Madge created a perfect cappuccino from a coffee machine hidden under a dirty tea towel. Although desperate to satiate his caffeine addiction, Sean dashed out of the hall to avoid the two eager record executives with Armani suits and the couple of ambitious young film directors, all holding contracts and pacing about anxiously.

  He located Mitch striding across the intersection. They checked if they were being hounded by the four men with contracts before briefly pausing at The Big Turnip. It had now been splintered into hundreds of pieces.

  Mitch risked a chuckle. ‘Must've been stuck by lightning.’

  ‘... during The Storm of '14.’ Sean opened his handy-cam.

  ‘Doesn't really have the same ring to it, does it?’

  They rushed towards the mechanics yard, where Boyd, Bob and the band members – now numbering four – watched Dave whack the engine of the band’s van with a spanner while singing the second refrain from last night’s opening song. ‘Stay out of strife. Be nice to the wife. Accept what happens and lead an ordinary life.’

  Sean noticed two other vans, both newer and far more luxurious than his or the band’s. Logos indicated that they belonged to “HasBeen Records” and “NostalGick Films”. On the other side of the intersection, Deb was signing autographs and posing for photos. Fans who had driven overnight from Adelaide screeched to a halt when they spotted Deb and Jack – thereby, creating Chittingford Dale’s first and only traffic jam.

  Jack managed to escape the throng and approached the others assembled around the band’s van. ‘I'm really surprised you guys didn't recognise me.’

  Nigel shrugged. ‘I can't remember anyone from the '70s.’

  Jack peered around Trevor’s back. ‘What happened to your ponytail?’

  ‘What?’ Trevor clutched the back of his head and squealed. Sean and Mitch’s glances of guilt were promptly overtaken by smirks of delight.

  Jack chuckled as Trevor stormed off. ‘But how did you know that Bob and I are gay?’