Rock n Roll Babes from Outer Space

by Linda Jaivin

  She tried to talk to the others about it. Doll curtly replied that she was the last person to consult on a matter concerning Earth boys. Lati, for her part, offered to seduce Jake herself. After all, she wickedly enjoyed reminding Baby, Jake had provided her very first taste of the bodilies. Baby made it abundantly clear that if Lati so much as laid a finger on Jake, she’d find her antennae wrapped around her fucken neck.

  To make things even more complicated, Jake and Baby were becoming the closest of friends. They hung out together all the time, played music, laughed and talked about everything except their feelings for each other.

  For his part, Jake was coming to grips with these feelings. He recognised that he was falling more in, uh, whatever, with her each day. He wanted her more than any girl he’d ever met. He even kind of wanted, he’d decided, sort of, a, uh, you know, thing-o. A, uh, relationwhatsee. And, if that happened, he’d might even give commitment some thought.

  Yet he still couldn’t bring himself to make a move.

  At least there was progress in the musical department. With an alacrity that was almost alarming, the babes were developing a huge repertoire of original songs. Their playing was fast and furious at times, seductively slow at others. It was passion-fuelled, spontaneous, rough enough around the edges to be called loose, which was considered a good thing in the rock world, and yet controlled and synchronised enough to be called tight, which was also considered a good thing. Baby’s voice was a true chameleon. It could come growling out from under a stone one minute and turn the colour of air the next.

  But what was truly extraordinary was the way the music actually changed shape according to the tastes and desires of the listener. Everyone heard it differently. Saturna and Skye perceived a dark undercurrent, a touch of Siouxie and the Banshees or Sisters of Mercy. To Jake and the twins, the babes clearly came out of the girl punk tradition of L7 or Babes in Toyland with satisfyingly grungy touches like fuzzy guitars and more than a hint of metal. George, whose grasp of the genre was a bit on the vague side, simply understood that they were better than Abba, or the Rolling Stones, or whatever the group with that Elvis character called itself. Iggy and Revor appreciated it for the unique skate-and-surf-influenced post-industrial grunge-punk-power-pop-funk synthesis that it was.

  ‘Kurt Cobain was right,’ sighed Torquil after hearing another new song. ‘The future of rock belongs to women.’

  It was Saturday and they were all hanging out in the lounge. The phone rang. ‘I’ll get it,’ offered Tristram.

  ‘Crazy Joe’s Rock n Roll Warehouse. No, yeah, that’s right. Uh, who’s calling?’ They could all hear the conversation. ‘Julia? Let me see if he’s here.’

  By the time Tristram came back into the room, Jake had a pillow over his face. ‘I take it you’re not here?’ Tristram asked. Saturna and Skye rolled their eyes.

  ‘Extremely not here,’ replied Jake from under the pillow. ‘Like dead or diseased not here. Gone walkies never expected to return not here.’

  Tristram returned to the phone. ‘Uh, Julia? He just stepped out for a minute. Can I get him to call you? Yeah, no worries. No, I’m sure he has your number. No, I won’t forget. Yeah, I’ll tell him.’

  Back in the lounge, Tristram pulled the pillow off Jake’s head and whacked him across the arse with it.

  The phone rang again. Everyone looked at Jake.

  ‘Want me to get it?’ Baby offered.

  ‘Uh, no thanks,’ demurred Jake, remembering the last time she’d taken a call for him. ‘I’ll get it.’ He levered himself off the sofa. ‘Lazy bastards,’ he addressed the others. The phone was on its seventh or eight ring by now.

  ‘Hullo?’

  ‘Jake. My man.’

  ‘Timtam.’ It was Tim from Umbillica. Umbillica was to support Bosnia the following evening at the Sando. They were filling, in for Smokey Stover, who were doing their annual stint in detox.

  ‘I know it’s a bit on the last minute side of things,’ apologised Tim. ‘But do you know anyone else who could do the support for you tomorrow?’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Oh, it’s sorta embarrassing. My girlfriend’s really pissed off at me.’

  ‘So? What’s new?’

  ‘Yeah, well, she cut off all my hair in my sleep.’

  ‘That’s a bit foul. It does rather resolve the Metallica problem though.’

  ‘And she cut up my clothes with scissors.’

  ‘Really? Ripped’s a good look.’

  ‘And trashed all our instruments.’

  ‘Full on. What’re ya gonna do?’

  ‘Marry her.’

  Jake held the telephone receiver out from his ear and screwed up his face at it, incredulous. ‘Well, that’s fine for the short term,’ he finally said, ‘but I mean, what about the band?’

  ‘Well, when Styx heard about what she’d done to his drum kit, he decked me. Even if I had my hair, my clothes and my guitar, I couldn’t front up on stage with this doozy of a black eye. Two black eyes actually. I look like some bamboo-cruncher in a Chinese zoo.’

  ‘How’d the others take it?’

  ‘Much more civilised. They’re refusing to talk to me.’

  Jake shook his head. ‘Bastards.’

  ‘I know. It’s fucked. But anyway, I was wondering if you could line someone else up or if you wanted us to do it. We should probably call Trace at the Sando in any case and let her know. She’s always got zillions of bands with their tongues poised at her arse, just waiting for their big break.’

  ‘Timbo, you just whack a few beefsteaks on those shiners and chill. I think I’ve got the solution.’

  ‘You’re a real mate, Jake.’

  Jake wasn’t motivated only by mateship.

  ‘How about Zaygon?’ Tristram proposed. ‘The evil planet in This Island Earth?’

  Lati stopped munching on a spoon long enough to stick her nose up and her thumb down.

  ‘Scotty?’ suggested Torquil, with a drum roll on a soy sauce bottle.

  ‘Too boy,’ Baby vetoed.

  Although it had been Torquil’s suggestion, Jake felt himself blush at the rebuff.

  ‘Abduction Theory?’ Now Jake was making himself blush.

  ‘Mmm,’ Doll considered. ‘Let’s put that one on the list.’

  ‘Succubus,’ Skye submitted.

  ‘I like that,’ Lati conceded. ‘What’s it mean?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ admitted Skye, trundling downstairs to find a dictionary.

  ‘How about Spinar Tap?’ said Baby.

  Torquil laughed. ‘You mean Spinal Tap. Been done.’

  ‘No, Spinar Tap. Don’t you know spinars?’ Blank looks all round. ‘They’re black hole suns,’ Baby explained. Didn’t Earthlings know anything?

  ‘Black Hole Suns?’ repeated Tristram, nonplussed. ‘Like the Soundgarden song?’

  Skye reappeared in a flap of maroon and black velvet. ‘It’s a female demon who fucks men in their sleep,’ she announced.

  Jake choked on his beer.

  ‘What’s a female demon who fucks men in their sleep? What are you talking about?’ said Tristram, now thoroughly confused.

  Lati jumped up from her seat, clambered up onto the table and, clutching the pepper grinder like a microphone, boomed out, ‘Ladies and gentleman, I give you the one and only, the magnificent, inimitable, fully fucken fabulous—Rock n Roll Babes from Outer Space!’

  Back at Galgal the following afternoon, it was all systems a-go-go as the babes readied themselves for the gig. Doors whirred open and shut as they scurried from one section of the saucer to another, trailed by abductees, searching for outfits, lipsticks and guitar picks. The saucer was by now a complete brothel—clothing strewn everywhere, graffiti on the walls, Sebel room-service plates and pizza delivery boxes on the floor, sex toys wherever you looked.

  Baby emerged from her room wearing a tartan mini, tight white t-shirt and black opaques disappearing into ankle-high leather boots. She was doing a catwalk t
urn for the others’ benefit when Revor skirred in, sprang up on her leg and slid down, ripping her tights with his claws and riddling them with holes and ladders. Before she had time to react, he did the same to her other leg.

  ‘Revor’s right,’ Doll nodded. ‘That’s definitely the look.’ Doll was wearing what she always wore. Leather. Black. In a concession to stage glam, however, she’d rubbed glitter all through her hair-horns and over her scalp.

  They could hear someone calling from outside the saucer. Doll pressed a button and a porthole opened. She peered down. ‘It’s that keck-bag again,’ she reported.

  Baby rolled her eyes. ‘Better let him in. Otherwise, he’ll just stand out there bellowing and drive us all nuts.’

  Doll sighed. She fiddled with a few more buttons, and the saucer exhaled its magical stairway. Ebola struggled up, unable to get a firm grip on the shifting and ethereal steps.

  ‘Hi, Eb.’ Baby felt she ought at least to be nice to Ebola. She wasn’t the least bit interested in him. She still could not imagine performing even a teeny weeny sexual experiment upon Eb, what with his collection of ugly silver skull rings setting off the black hair on his pale knuckles, the awful corsetting of his paunch in the tight black leather, and his coke-snorter’s habit of constantly jerking his head back while sniffling and touching the tip of his nose with his forefinger. If this was love, and he insisted it was, she wanted no part of it. She did enjoy his tales of life as a big-time international rock star, however. She was also happy to satisfy him on one level, for Ebola desired to be as thoroughly abased by her as he had abased thousands of groupies in his time. It was all rather karmic, really.

  By the time Eb launched himself into the rumpus room, he was huffing and puffing. ‘Polish my boots, Eb,’ she greeted him. Without even stopping to catch his breath, he fell gratefully to the floor, tongue out, and began with the heel.

  ‘I could do a tattoo for you if you want,’ Doll offered to Baby, ignoring the homuncule at her feet. ‘We’ve got time.’ Doll loved doing tattoos. She practised on all the Earthlings. By the time Doll packed up her kit, Baby had a shooting star zinging its way around her left bicep, and a rendering of the mothership on her right, adorned with hearts and ribbons and the word ‘Mum’.

  Ebola, having finished her boots, watched the tattooing with tears in his eyes. ‘I’m sharing your pain,’ he informed Baby. ‘I really am. I’m here for you, Baby.’

  ‘It’s been real-o-rama, Eb,’ Baby replied, indifferently. ‘But we’ve got to be in Newtown in about half an hour.’

  ‘You spend all your time in Newtown,’ Eb whined.

  ‘Yeah, well, we’ve got a gig tonight.’

  Ebola jumped up and down, squealing with delight. ‘Can I come?’ he begged. ‘Can I come?’ Doll shook her head decisively. He burst into tears.

  Baby telepathed Doll, ‘Now look what you’ve done. The guy’s more sentimental than a Guns N’ Roses ballad.’

  ‘There, there,’ Baby comforted. ‘We need you to guard the saucer, Eb. It means a lot to us. You just sit there by the pool, and don’t let it out of your sight, okay?’ She tickled him under his hairy chin. He made a brave effort to smile as a little stream of snot fought its way through the stubble to reach his upper lip. ‘Good boy, Eb,’ she praised. ‘We’ll see you later. We’ve got to find out what Lati’s doing.’ She signalled to Doll and they zapped Ebola back to poolside.

  Entering Lati’s room was like walking into a blizzard of clothes. Lati was going through her wardrobe at the speed of light, trying things on, pulling them off, throwing them into the air, retrieving something from the bottom of the pile and starting all over. A gabble of abductees perched on her Reinvigoration Platform offering spirited and mutually contradictory sartorial advice of which Lati cheerfully took no notice whatsoever. In the end, she donned her favourite Bonds t-shirt, jeans and Converse all-stars, looked into the mirror and grinned. ‘That’s it,’ she concluded.

  Most of the abductees, including Larry, who hadn’t left Galgal since being kidnapped nearly three weeks earlier, were coming to the gig. They were almost more excited than the girls.

  ‘Yorp!’ Just as they were about to leave, Revor came running up to Baby and nipped at her ankles.

  ‘Go away, Rev. You can’t come. They don’t allow pets in the Sandringham. Enough. Off.’ She kicked out her leg and sent him flying. Revor landed upside down with his back against the wall and his head sideways on the floor, looking like some demented yogi.

  ‘You’re a strange bean, Rev,’ said Lati. ‘Catch ya later.’

  All I wanted was a lift to Newtown. Unfair as.

  Weary eyes peered out of a face that was an asymmetric wreck of blue wrinkly skin, bright green lips and fat orange ears. The eyes stared at a control panel glowing nuclear green, upon which spiralled endless patterns. In the next seat hunched a smaller creature, with the face of a mutant dog and bobbing antennae a foot long, also fixated on a small screen. The third chair was filled by a lumpish beast with simian features topped by a propeller beanie.

  Aubrey, a middle-aged Earthling of ordinary appearance, entered the room carrying a tray loaded with scones and tea. He put it down on the console, espied the mutant canine, and threw up his hands in horror. ‘I married a monster from outer space!’ he exclaimed, bending over to nibble on its ear. The dog glanced at her watch, picked up a stick upon which was mounted a small flying saucer and spun it round. The whirling disc shone blue and green and yellow. ‘Teatime,’ she announced, lifting her mask. The others followed suit, and soon they were all fanging appreciatively into the scones.

  It was 31 October, and the scientists on duty at Project Beam Me Up, Beam Me Down were celebrating Halloween. Beam Me Up, Beam Me Down was the nickname Professor Luella Skye-Walker and her colleagues had given to a task that was, on a quotidian basis, almost excruciatingly dull, but which had the potential to lead to the most exciting scientific discovery ever. Well, Earthling scientific discovery anyway. They were at Parkes monitoring the very same large satellite dish pictured on those old $50 notes. The satellite dish that was methodically eavesdropping on several hundred stars in the galactic ‘hood to see if anyone out there had anything to say.

  ‘Obi-Wan Kenobi,’ the cosmic ape greeted Luella’s. husband, swallowing a scone. ‘This is a treat.’

  ‘Pleasure,’ replied Aubrey. ‘So, how many radio channels have you checked today?’

  ‘24 million, give or take ten thousand.’

  ‘Any talkback yet?’

  ‘Nup, but I can see it now,’ Jason said. ‘With our luck, we’d finally make contact and it would be with an extraterrestrial John Laws.’

  The blue skinned alien, otherwise known as Aaron, was reaching for the strawberry jam when he happened to glance back at his screen. ‘Hey!’ he shouted. ‘I think we’ve got something.’

  ‘Well I’ll be…’ Plates clattered to the floor, scattering scones and cream.

  Ten minutes later, having run a check on ‘Elmer’ (the Follow-Up Detection Device—FUDD), Luella looked up from her equipment, white as a ghost.

  ‘What is it?’ Aaron was almost beside himself.

  Her face twisted into a funny little smile. ‘I think they just said, “Hello, Mum”.’

  Jake’s orange Kombi chugged and clunked its way up King Street in Newtown. She lurched to a stop in front of the Sando. ‘Good girl, Kate.’ He patted the dash and praised her for making the distance.

  The girls piled out noisily. Lati elbowed Doll who, upon seeing what Lati saw, grabbed Baby by the wrist. They all stared excitedly as Gregory the barman chalked in ‘Rock n Roll Babes from Outer Space’ just under ‘Bosnia’.

  ‘Hey, hey,’ flirted Gregory, looking up, ‘it’s my favourite purple people-eater.’

  ‘How do you know I’m a people-eater?’ teased Baby, raising an alarm in Jake’s chest.

  ‘G’day, Gregory,’ Jake loomed. ‘Don’t let us interrupt you.’

  ‘Interrupt away,’ smarmed Gregory, checki
ng out Doll and Lati. ‘These girls can interrupt me anytime.’

  ‘That’s us, you know,’ Lati said importantly, pointing to the name of the band.

  ‘Is it?’. Gregory whistled. ‘Now I’m really looking forward to tonight. Funny I’ve never heard of you before. Where d’ya usually play?’

  ‘Their place,’ Baby replied, jerking a thumb at the boys.

  ‘I bet,’ smirked Gregory.

  Jake, annoyed, extended a possessive hand towards Baby’s back. A charge passed between them, strong enough to knock Jake off the kerb. He nearly crashed into two girls with pink crewcuts who were so impressed with his acrobatic display that they gave him the finger. Trying to act as if nothing had happened, Jake brushed himself off and addressed Baby and the others in a voice he hoped was not shaking. ‘Gregory works the bar. You have to be nice to him, cuz he hands over our money at the end of the night. But not too nice.’

  Torquil, grunting with exertion, was hauling the drums out of the van and placing them on the pavement. ‘Careful, they’re heavy,’ he warned Doll, who picked up the entire kit and carried it into the pub as though it were a handbag. Torquil was still trying to slide shut the generic Fucked Kombi Door when Doll reappeared and waved him aside. She stretched the metal frame with her bare hands, slipped the door back into its slot, slammed it shut and re-adjusted the frame.

  ‘You,’ palpitated Torquil, ‘are a groover.’

  Kate the Kombi was thinking the same thing.

  Observed with idle curiosity by a handful of drinkers who’d been at the bar since early that arvo, the bands began setting up on the makeshift stage—strips of carpet laid over thin boards balanced on a great array of milk crates, all crammed up in one corner and shaped to accommodate the overwhelming central bar. Lati, Doll and the twins finished first, and went to the back room to play some pinball. Jake and Baby knelt at the front of the stage, plugging in the guitar pedals. ‘What’s that one called?’ she asked.

  ‘Tube screamer.’