by Debra Oswald
‘You know, mate,’ said Vic, screwing up his face, ‘your hair is looking far gone.’
Lately, the twins had been experimenting with hair dyes and a crimping iron, so Charlie’s hair was more tortured than ever.
‘I know,’ moaned Charlie, tugging at the last spindly, plasticky tufts of his hair.
‘We’ll fix that,’ said Billie Novak.
The twins somehow got hold of battery-powered clippers. While everyone else cleaned up and packed away the breakfast things, Nina and Billie shaved every scrap of hair off Charlie’s head. He was left completely bald, with a pale soft scalp like raw chicken.
Back on the minibus, Charlie kept sliding his hand over his hairless skull.
‘It feels good, you know,’ he said. ‘Weird but good.’
‘It certainly looks weird,’ said Erin, teasing. ‘Weird but hot.’
‘Thank you kindly, Miss Erin.’ Charlie bowed. ‘Maybe being a baldy will help me grow a beard faster.’
‘Umm, don’t think it works that way, mate,’ laughed Ash.
Charlie was rubbing his chin, stroking his imaginary beard. ‘When I grow a goatee long enough, I’m going to plait it and have a single plait sticking straight out from my chin. Sizzling.’
‘I bet you’ll really do it too, you mad pixie,’ said Erin, laughing. She loved the way Charlie didn’t care how other people might judge him.
Erin realised that Ash was laughing too, looking across the aisle of the bus at her.
Mandawarra was a fishing and holiday town on a meandering river lined with oyster beds. The fishing harbour was protected by a long breakwater of boulders and, beyond that, fantastic surf beaches extended north and south of the town. Inland, rainforesty mountains formed a misty semicircle behind the town. Vic Novak said it was a place he’d always fancied living.
From the bridge across the river, you could see bright flags and banners fluttering above the festival site.
‘There it is,’ called Charlie. Erin could hear the shiver of excitement in his voice.
Chapter Seventeen
Erin watched Charlie’s hairless bony head as he darted across the road from the car park towards the blues festival entrance. He was as excited as a six-year-old arriving at Disneyland and seeing him like that made Erin laugh.
The festival was being held on a sports oval. At booths out the front, Erin, Ash, the Novaks and their assorted friends bought tickets and put on the blue wristbands that allowed entry for the whole weekend of music.
Before they went in, Charlie’s mum checked she had everybody’s mobile phone numbers in case anyone got in any trouble. She nominated a meeting point for the end of the night. But other than that, the older kids were on their own.
Volunteers checked the wristbands at the entry gate and handed out festival programs listing all the performance times over the two days. A week before, Charlie and Ash had downloaded the program from the website and the two of them had talked endlessly about which bands they would die if they didn’t see, which acts they wanted to suss out and which ones they could afford to miss. Charlie had written out a timetable for himself for the weekend but he kept changing his mind; he’d redrafted it so many times, it was incomprehensible.
‘I’m not sure who I should see,’ said Erin, scanning her copy of the program. ‘I have trouble making decisions on an ordinary day. I mean, I can’t even decide whether to have Vegemite or jam on my toast in the morning. So how is an indecisive nutcase like me meant to work out where to go?’
‘Can I make some suggestions?’ said Charlie. He leaned over with a felt pen and scrawled big blue stars on Erin’s program. ‘I’ve marked some highlights you shouldn’t miss.’
There was a bit of time before the music was scheduled to begin, so the three of them explored the place. The stages were inside marquees: a huge one, a mid-sized one and a smaller one for acoustic acts. Apart from the time it took to get one band off and the next one on, there would always be three lots of music happening simultaneously.
Across from the marquees were rows of stalls selling food, clothes, candles, jewellery, leather goods. A lot of it was hippyish stuff: skirts with tiny mirrors sewn all over them, lumpy homemade toys, incense, nubbly knitted sweaters and scarves. There were booths offering massages, a bushfire brigade display and a special tent selling the CDs of the acts playing at the festival. At the far end of the sports oval were banks of portaloos. Behind those was a temporary campground where people had pitched tents for the weekend.
Charlie reckoned this was a mid-sized festival – only about ten thousand people – but the place was starting to fill up with bodies quickly. Erin found it a strange mix of people, excellent for stickybeaking at. There were families with kids in prams and pouches, swarms of old bikers, straight-looking business gents wearing their weekend clothes, laughing Scandinavian backpackers with blindingly blond hair, elderly couples who carried their own folding chairs, many packs of young guys and girls.
There were older hippies with festy dreadlocks and bare feet as dirt-caked and knobbly as potatoes, plus twenty-year-old hippies with dreamy faces, wispy beards and small round multicoloured hats. There was also a surprising number of kids round her age, ranging from cool types to dags, plus a few goths.
‘I guess goths can like blues music,’ said Ash.
‘Of course they can,’ Charlie replied. ‘Blues music is for everyone.’
Ash had his eye on the tent where they sold CDs. ‘Hey, I want to check out what they’ve got over there.’
‘No time now,’ Charlie declared. ‘First act starts soon and we’ve gotta get ourselves a spot right up the front. We need to feel the sweat flying off that stage and onto our faces.’
‘We do?’ Erin said, wincing. ‘We really have to cop the sweat on our faces?’
‘Yes indeedy.’ Charlie tugged at Erin’s sleeve, pulling her and Ash towards the middle marquee. The three friends dodged and weaved through the crowd, trying to keep together.
Ash, Charlie and Erin didn’t stay together for the whole day. They lost each other a few times when someone scooted off to get a kebab or to queue at the portaloos. But it was easy enough to find each other by texting if they needed to.
At one point in the afternoon, the three of them wanted to see three different bands. Erin had picked out all the bands that featured keyboards and Ash was pursuing the guitar heroes. Charlie had his own peculiar Charlie reasons for catching particular musicians.
The first time Erin found herself entirely alone in the crowd in the biggest marquee, she felt the usual twist of panic in her guts. Pressed tightly around her were a lot of bodies, all of them strangers and some of them quite strange. Erin often became anxious in crowds. She had to take deep breaths and consciously focus on individual faces, otherwise she’d be overwhelmed by the sense that hundreds of people were surging around her.
Erin felt someone nudge her from behind and she took a step sideways, clumsy in her nervousness. She accidentally trod on the thonged foot of a beefy guy wearing a blue singlet that showed off his massive arms and heavy-duty tattoos. The guy growled like a wounded bear and turned round to see who had trodden on him. Erin held her breath, expecting to be clobbered or at least barked at.
‘Oh sorry, darling, was I in your way?’ said the beefy guy. ‘It gets a bit squashy up here, eh. Here, you stand in front of me.’
‘Oh no, I can’t,’ said Erin, flustered.
He gently steered her to stand next to his wife, a woman in her forties. ‘No worries. You’re a short arse like my wife. I can see fine from here.’
‘Uh, thanks.’
The guy’s wife smiled at Erin. ‘Hi. Where you from?’
‘Sydney.’
‘Oh right. We drove up from Bombala. We come every year.’
‘Never miss it,’ added the guy.
His wife rolled her eyes, teasing. ‘He mucks around on the guitar at home.’
‘Pretty hopeless at it but,’ laughed the beefy guy. ‘Play an instr
ument yourself?’
‘Umm, yeah,’ said Erin. ‘I play keyboards.’
‘Keyboards, eh? Great. You’ll enjoy seeing the keyboard player in this band. We saw him here two years ago – excellent. What kind of stuff do you play?’
‘Oh, I’ve only just been having a go at – I mean, I don’t even know if – y’ know …’
The guy’s wife pointed at the stage and grinned at Erin. ‘We might see you playing up there one day.’
‘Oh well, I don’t think –’ Erin began, about to explain that she’d never be good enough to perform at a festival like this. But then the band came onstage and Erin had no chance to run herself down.
She could feel the crowd packed around her, but she could also feel how incredibly happy and friendly everyone was. Maybe they weren’t always happy and friendly, but under the influence of the music, everyone was in a good mood.
The beefy guy was right about the keyboard player in the band. Erin loved him madly and she got so carried away by the music, she forgot to be anxious.
When the band’s set ended, all the people in the audience started moving. As the crowd surged out of the marquee, Erin felt the push of hundreds of bodies. This was like whitewater rafting or improvising solos: she could either be freaked out by it or enjoy it. For this weekend at least, she decided to swallow down her anxiety and go with the flow, letting herself be swept along by the river of people.
Erin ended up wedged between tent ropes and a happily noisy mob of women, in the smallest marquee. She hadn’t intended to go to that venue for the next session. But then she heard a woman singing: a full-throated voice sliding down an octave and then dissolving into laughter. Erin wanted to see who that voice was coming from, so she stayed put.
On the stage of the small marquee there was a woman with an acoustic guitar, backed by a guy with drums and percussion. Erin’s program said the woman was Christine De Sousa.
There was something about Christine De Sousa that glued Erin’s feet to the grassy floor of that marquee. She was probably about thirty years old, wearing a blood-red flowing vintage dress and black Doc Marten boots. She had masses of springy black hair that fell halfway down her back and flew about as she sang. Her high-voltage smile shone out over the audience. She had an American accent but the soft kind of American accent, not the electric-knife-through-your-brain kind.
Christine pounded away on the guitar: nothing fancy but with good bluesy riffs and the rhythmic power to drive through each song. She talked to the audience between numbers, telling funny stories about how she’d come to write the next song, sometimes cracking up laughing herself, especially when she told stories about her disastrous relationships with men. She teased and joked with the guy playing percussion, who grinned back at her. Erin wondered if he was her current boyfriend.
Most of all, Christine De Sousa sang her guts out. Her voice was strong, swooping, husky, silly, sweet – whatever was right for the bit she was singing. Sometimes the voice was full of pain; sometimes it was as if she was laughing-singing. Some of the songs were fun and witty enough to make you laugh out loud. Some of them were full of sadness or anger. Maybe it was because Erin knew she had written every word she was singing that it was extra special.
As she launched into one of the last choruses, Christine De Sousa threw her head back, eyes closed, and really belted out the line. Erin found herself making an ‘oh’ noise out loud. Christine was amazing. The song was everything, so she threw herself into singing it for this audience and there was no space to hide her emotions or be self-conscious about any single thing. But at the same time, she could laugh at herself and she didn’t take herself too seriously. Erin was mesmerised.
After a musician finished their festival set, they went to sit at a trestle table in the official merchandise tent. The fans could buy CDs and line up to get them signed.
Erin only had enough money to buy the most recent Christine De Sousa CD they had for sale. She would save up and buy the other one online later. By the time she’d decided and made the purchase, there was a line of fifteen people waiting to get Christine’s signature.
Erin mooched around in the merchandise tent, flicking through the stacks of CDs. She could hear Christine De Sousa chatting and laughing with each person who came up to the table.
Erin was way too nervous to line up to get her CD signed. She was too nervous to speak to this fantastic person she’d just seen performing. Anyway, it didn’t matter. She didn’t need to get the autograph. Seeing the concert and having the music on disc were the important things. A signature was just a scribble on a piece of paper.
The last person in the queue was finished and Christine De Sousa packed up her stuff to leave. Erin was just slinking out of the tent when she suddenly felt compelled to say something to her.
‘Hi. I mean, thanks. Y’ know … that was great,’ said Erin. ‘Oh, great is such a lame word. I mean, better than great. It was – ohhh …’
She was a tongue-tied prawn. And anyway, why would Christine De Sousa care one scrap whether some dopey girl thought her gig was fantastic or not?
But in fact, Christine seemed genuinely stoked. ‘Thanks a lot,’ she said. ‘It’s always hard to be sure if people really liked it or – I mean, it’s good to hear.’
Christine pointed at the CD Erin was clutching against her belly. ‘I can sign that for you, if you like. Oh well, maybe you don’t want to bother getting it signed. I mean, a signature’s just a scribble on a piece of paper, isn’t it?’
Erin laughed. They’d had the exact same thought. Their brains were wired the same way, at least a little bit.
‘You write the most fantastic songs,’ said Erin. The thought came out of her mouth before she had a chance to think about how it would sound.
‘I’m glad you think so. Do you write songs too?’ Christine asked her.
‘Oh umm …’ Erin was about to wriggle out of it and say ‘not really’. The trouble was, Christine De Sousa was looking directly at her, smiling but with sharp eyes. She was the kind of person you couldn’t snivel or talk crap to.
So Erin blurted out, ‘Well, I’ve had a go at a few songs. One of them is maybe okay but I’ve been stuck since I wrote that one.’
Christine laughed and nodded. ‘Yeah, yeah, I know what that feels like. Stuck.’
The two of them ended up talking for a while. In true clock time, it was probably only about fifteen minutes but it felt like ages to Erin. They talked about songwriting and being nervous on stage and worrying too much.
In the end, Erin did get her CD signed. Later, she couldn’t stop staring at the words scribbled above the liner notes: ‘Good luck with your songwriting, Erin. I can’t wait to hear your stuff. Cheers, Christine De Sousa.’
Chapter Eighteen
When Ash scanned the crowd at the festival, Charlie was easy to spot. The pale dome of his newly bald head was pretty conspicuous.
Some people misunderstood Charlie Novak’s baldness. Ash overheard a woman whisper, ‘That poor kid must have cancer.’ She thought his hair had fallen out because he’d had chemotherapy.
‘Oh yeah. Oh, I hope he’s going to be okay,’ said the woman’s friend.
Ash felt bad and was tempted to explain the situation to those sympathetic people. Maybe he should say, ‘Don’t worry. He hasn’t had chemo. His mad little sisters just shaved his head.’
But then he figured that might sound rude and it probably didn’t matter if they got the wrong impression. It wasn’t as if Charlie was trying to fool anyone to get sympathy. He was just rocking around the place being Charlie.
Later, when it was getting dark and colder, Charlie bought himself a bright red beanie from one of the stalls to keep his bare scalp warm. Ash could spot the red beanie right up at the edge of the stage, a woolly tomato bouncing to the music.
The Novak twins were usually near the front of the gigs too, wearing matching yellow pointy hats, dancing like a pair of demented cockatoos. Joanne or Vic was always nearby keepin
g an eye on them. Boy spent most of the day perched on Vic’s shoulders so he could see over the heads of the adults. In time with the music, Boy pounded on his father’s head as if it was a bongo drum.
Ash had been to a few live music gigs in his life but nothing as brilliant as the Mandawarra festival. The crowd wasn’t full of aggro guys or wankers showing off; people were there just to enjoy the music. The bands on the program all played blues music but over a big range, from where the blues turns into rock music or funky stuff, through the folk end of the spectrum.
Ash liked the way he could wander from stage to stage if he felt like it, sampling the various bands to find the stuff he liked best. It was a musical all-you-can-eat smorgasbord.
There were a few moments when the thought pinged into Ash’s head: I wish Ben was here. There might be a particularly hot guitar solo and Ash would wonder what his brother would say about it. He imagined discussing the bands with Ben and started to make a mental list of the ones he would’ve liked best. But there was no point thinking about Ben. He wasn’t there.
The biggest act at the festival was Jimmy Nicholls, so he was scheduled to play the prime slot: the last set on the Saturday night, in the huge marquee. Ash had loved the whole day so far and he’d discovered some new bands that would become favourites. But for Ash, The Jimmy Nicholls Band was still the main course at this feast.
Ash had listened to Jimmy Nicholls’s records over and over. The guy had been a star in the blues scene for a lot of years and had played with all the big names. People talked about ‘the Jimmy Nicholls sound’ – the man had a guitar sound named after him! He was a blues legend. But given Ash’s high expectations, there was a risk. Maybe he wouldn’t be so great live. That sometimes happens with musicians you know inside out from their CDs. Plus, the guy was sixty years old now. Maybe he was over the live-performance thing.
Ash and Charlie got themselves to the front of the marquee by quarter past ten, fifteen minutes before the start time. This gig was going to be jam-packed and they planned to be as close as they could get to the band. Charlie was texting Erin, making sure she got herself a good position.