Rock n Roll Babes from Outer Space

by Linda Jaivin

  On stage, the three girls exchanged animated glances. It was working! Then, bizarrely, just as they started their third song, the pub began to empty out, leaving only Jake and the twins, Saturna and Skye, and the faithful abductees. Jake felt himself break into a cold sweat, as though it were his own band dying on stage. Torquil and Tristram fidgeted in unison. They couldn’t understand it. The Babes were fucken brilliant. The energy was pulsing off the stage in great waves, they played like they’d been at it for years, they were sex in motion, and the songs had hard rocking cred and excellent hooks. Why was everyone running away?

  The answer came by the start of the fourth song. Every single person who had run off now reappeared, dragging in tow entourages of friends, flatmates, colleagues, case workers, even complete strangers they’d run into on the street. On King Street, cafes were emptying, and other pubs and clubs deserted as the intense gravitational pull of the babes’ alien charisma sucked half the population of Newtown into the Sando. Soon, the pub was so packed out that the walls were beginning to bend under the pressure.

  Wham! Bam! ‘And how are you today, Ma’am?’ Baby yelled out to the newcomers as she introduced the next song, ‘Astroturf’. If the babes were cooking—hot as—the punters were broiling and baking and steaming. Those lucky enough to get a view didn’t care if they were turning into dimsum. If they ended their lives the following morning on a wheeled trolley somewhere in Chinatown, it would have been worth it. One person, then another, then another, clambered onto the bar to dance until there was no space to rest a beer. Others hung from the rafters, shimmied up the columns, perched on the pokies and pinball machines.

  There was Doll, arms a blur, head banging, choppin’ out on the toms, sending the beat straight into people’s feet. Ladi swayed and dipped infectiously over her bass, teasing amazingly complex rhythms out of those four simple strings. Baby, for her part, and her part was major, was 1000-watt electric ladyland. The punters up the front could have sworn they saw sparks streaming out from her antennae. Her guitar was a magic wand. She was a caterwauling Janis Joplin one minute, a soulful PJ Harvey the next, a riot grrrrl and a pop queen, with the hell-raising outrageousness of a Courtney Love thrown in for good measure. She was a red hot chili pepper, a smashing pumpkin, a delicious bowl of pearl jam, an entire, blooming one-woman soundgarden.

  I wanna fold you in my bionic arms

  Wanna smother you with space-girl charms

  Wanna switch on all of your alarms

  Comet karma, Earthling of my dreams.

  Those who couldn’t squeeze inside pushed their faces against the window panes. It became so wild out there that the police were called to clear King Street for traffic. The coppers ended up leading an impromptu dance party on the pavement that leached down several side streets.

  ‘Who are these girls?’ was the question on every pair of lips.

  Jake’s elation at their success was tinged with foreboding. He’d be in for some pretty stiff competition on the Baby front before long.

  The last song of their set, ’In the Sexual Experimentation Chamber (Anything Goes, Everything Cums)’ went down like cunnilingus. YUM! screamed the punters. YUM! ‘We’re the Rock n Roll Babes from Outer Space,’ declared an elated Baby, soaking up the cheers and applause like a solar cell taking in rays. ‘Thank you very much. Bosnia will be on after a short break.’

  ‘More!’ screamed the punters. ‘More!’ The pub shook with the stomping of boots and clapping of hands. ‘More! More!’

  Baby looked over at Jake questioningly. He shrugged assent. On the one hand, it was fantastic. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a support band besieged for an encore. On the other hand, it was a hard act to follow, and he had to follow it. The Babes finished up with a cover of the Stones’ ‘2000 Light Years from Home’.

  Bosnia opened with their crowd-pleaser, ‘Away with the Paxies’, a song voicing sympathy for a family of welfare recipients that the government and media had picked on for refusing to take mind-deadening jobs requiring ugly haircuts and the wearing of spewsome uniforms. The family had become national heroes for a significant portion of the population. All of Newtown, for instance. The crowd was so thoroughly warmed up by the Babes that it gave Bosnia the best reception the band had ever received. Baby, Doll and Lati, besieged by fans, tried to do the right thing and at least look like they were listening to Bosnia. It wasn’t easy.

  After it was all over, Henry came over and solemnly shook the hand of each of the girls. ‘It was an honour,’ he mumbled, turning and exiting with dignity.

  When Greg finally turned on the lights and shooed the last drinkers out of the pub, the two bands, dazed by the success of the evening, packed up and lugged out in near silence. Jake and Baby dismantled the stage—a ritual for bands playing the Sando—and were hanging round the bar waiting to get paid.

  ‘Well,’ said Jake. ‘Well, well.’ It had been quite a night.

  Torq and Trist, who’d been packing up the van with Doll, wandered back inside. ‘Where’s Lati?’ asked Baby. ‘Isn’t she with you?’

  ‘She’s moved on,’ said Torq mournfully.

  ‘To bigger and better things,’ added Tristram pathetically.

  ‘To triplets,’ Doll clarified, ‘with a fast car.’

  ‘No way,’ Jake stifled a laugh.

  ‘Way,’ said Torquil.

  ‘Definitely way,’ confirmed Tristram. ‘She even persuaded them to let her drive. Laid down a strip of rubber several metres long. Unbelievable.’

  ‘That’s how we know it was a fast car.’

  Doll sniggered. Baby looked worried. Like Baby, Lati had been banned from driving for life on Nufon.

  ‘What a gal,’ sighed Doll.

  Greg handed over the $200 the bands had been promised and then an extra $150 bonus. ‘That’s for packing it out, guys,’ he said, looking at the girls.

  ‘Kyoool,’ Jake exhaled, starting to divide up the money. He stopped. He put $100 in one pile on the bar, and $250 in another, which he pushed towards Doll and Baby. ‘You earned the bonus.’

  Doll looked at Baby. ‘We wouldn’t have been here if it weren’t for you.’ They pushed it back.

  Torquil and Tristram held their breath. ‘Let’s go halves then,’ Jake said reasonably. ‘And our shout for drinks at Sleepers. “We’ll do cocktails. You’ll love the marguerita glasses.’

  On a deserted road outside of Wollongong, a police siren whoopwhooped out of nowhere. Blue and red flashed in the rearview. ‘Shit!’ chorused the triplets. ‘Stop the car, Lati,’ said Bob or Rod or Rob.

  Lati shrugged and applied the brakes. The car went into a dramatic spin. Jerking hard on the wheel of the police car, Sgt Alvin Pepa just managed to avoid crashing into them. When all bodies in motion finally came to a rest, the triplets had turned green as an Alpha Centaurian’s toenails, Lati let loose a scale or two of wild xylophonic laughter and Sgt Pepa stormtrooped over with one hand on his gun.

  ‘Wanna suck my cock?’ Lati greeted him.

  ‘Better get a lawyer, son,’ he exploded at her.

  ‘I know that song,’ Lati chirped, still exhilarated by her little joyride. ‘Cruel Sea, yeah?’

  ‘Licence and registration.’

  ‘Who do you think you are—God?’ Sassy as.

  Sgt Pepa was losing patience fast. ‘Out of the car.’ He waved his gun at her by way of emphasis. ‘Put your hands in the air.’

  ‘I know that one too. silverchair.’ Lati blew him a kiss. ‘Just kidding. Doan go off yer crumpet.’ Of all the babes, Lati was quickest with the local lingo. Ignoring the desperate, triplicated signals of caution emanating from her fellow travellers, she grinned at Sgt Pepa, a big, juicy, magic, knock-them-Earthlings-dead alien grin.

  Sgt Pepa blinked. His anger drained out of him quicker than you could say ‘Lonely Hearts Club Band’. In its place he felt himself filling with love and peace. Lati was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen in his life, more beautiful even than Lily the denta
l hygienist who’d given him his first sexual experience, in the chair, when he was fourteen, more beautiful than his wife’s sister in her red suspender belt and stockings, more beautiful even than Guy Pierce in Priscilla. He struggled to keep his mind on the job. He looked at the registration. ‘Uh, you’re only registered to, oh, that’s this year,’ he faltered. Pepa struggled to remember what he was supposed to be doing. ‘Guess that’s all in order then.’ He sank to his knees.

  ‘How’d you do that?’ whispered Rod or Rob or Bob admiringly, stepping out of the car for a better look.

  Lati ignored the question. ‘Eat me,’ she commanded, addressing Sgt Pepa and spreading herself out for delectation on the bonnet of the car. The car glowed, imperceptibly at first, but with a brighter and brighter light. Small welts erupted in the duco where it came in contact with Lati’s skin. Lati was hot. The sight of Sgt Pepa in his cute little Earthling uniform, on his adorable big Earthling knees, had already been enough to excite the formation between her legs—more or less—of something for him to eat. To the triplets, she remonstrated, ‘Don’t go away. You’re next. And pass me an E, will you?’

  ‘Allow me,’ said Sgt Pepa gallantly, retrieving one from his shirt pocket as he shuffled forward on his knees across the bitumen. ‘We, uh, carried out a bit of a raid earlier this evening. Good stuff, I believe. Very pure.’

  ‘How many pairs of handcuffs do you have, sir?’ asked Bob or Rob or Rod. Sgt Pepa looked over as though seeing them for the first time. Three identical young men with lean muscular builds, randomly chopped hair dyed platinum blonde, big blue eyes, red bow lips like those of angels—or, Lati thought with a smile, Cherubim—stretched over clean white teeth.

  ‘Enough to go around,’ replied the policeman suggestively.

  ‘Around what?’ chorused Rob and Bob and Rod with a mischievous twinkle in their eyes, taking the suggestion.

  Lati didn’t make it back to the saucer for three days.

  Your faithful revewer had a bit of truble waking up on Sunday morning, evening, whatever, and got to the Sando just as the chicks from Rock n Roll Babes from Other Space (dig the antennas, girls!) were halfway threw their set. Someone at the bar told me they came from the Planet Newfon, but maybe he just said Planet Newtown. Newtown’s sort of a plant unto itself, yeah? But getting back to the Babes, where have they been all my lyfe? Their sound is all-woman and taught and connected right to people’s heads with killer hooks. My predicktion: these babes are going to go astrological.

  I have to add, they’re acid for the eyes. Oh, Baby Baby if you’ll pardon the pun. Ladee’s a Hole nuther thing entirely, yeah, that girl’s definitely the Oz answer to the Courtney question. And Doll—love that snarl! Not that looks should be a factor in girls Becoming rock stars or anything. But I’ve never seen such sexual energy mulching off a single stage, male or female, and I’ve seen Paige and Plant (only kidding). Seriously, the Babes connect in a big way.

  Bosnia’s amp blewe in the middle of their fourth song, but they were riding on the excellent vibes which the Babes had filled the room and no one seemed to mind much. The rhythm twins were in fine fourm, and lead man Jake was fully in tent, which was good to see him into the music like that because sometimes it’s like he seems almost too likeadaisacle or something. Oh shit, Bosnia’s the lead band and I shoulda given them more space but sorry, guys, I’m outta room. Catch ya next time.

  Des Blight, On the Drum

  Iggy lay on his back. Revor was stretched out on top of him and, by gently wriggling, they were slowly rubbing all their nipples together. Considering Iggy had six and Revor seven, three of which were now pierced, this was a particularly sensual exercise. ‘Mmmm. That feels sooooo good, little fellow. Bay beeyucan dryvmy ka.’

  Like all lovers, Iggy and Revor were developing a language of their own.

  ‘Yissymg unnabi asta,’ Revor replied, ‘Nbay bee ayl uvyoo. Mind scratching behind my left ear for me? Ahh. That’s it. Ta.’ His eyes were spiralling like pinwheels in a cyclone.

  Iggy laughed. ‘Oh, Rev,’ he sighed, looking into those mad little orbs. ‘Ever heard the Underground Lovers’ song “Your Eyes”? They wrote it for you.’ Iggy bounced Revor off, rolled over, gently swatted him to the ground, took one of his three lemony nipples in his teeth and nibbled. ‘Yaw eiff, yaw eiff…’ he hummed, his lips vibrating against Revor’s tummy, causing him to gasp and giggle.

  ‘Zaza kynde huhshall o vathawuld too niyt!’ cried Revor breathlessly.

  ‘Anitz feelingud lykluvazi nluf,’ replied Iggy contentedly from between closed jaws.

  ‘There they are,’ Saturna motioned to Skye. Skye stood on tippy toes and peered over Saturna’s shoulder at the two pets, curled up together in the junk closet. She stifled a giggle at the sight.

  Back downstairs in their room, Saturna lit a musk candle and bent to kiss Skye on the side of her neck, where Doll’s latest bite mark was still healing. ‘Let me put some aloe vera on that, Dark One,’ she said.

  ‘Pets and girls,’ Skye mused, as Saturna massaged the ointment into her skin. ‘At least there’s two categories of life form in this house that don’t have problems with the concept of relationships.’

  ‘We’re only on this Earth for a short time,’ Saturna replied, wiping her hands and turning down the bed’s black satin sheets. ‘It’s foolish not to make the most of it.’

  ‘You know, the funny thing is, I do believe that Jake thinks that in his own way, he is making the most of it.’

  ‘Maybe he is,’ Saturna conceded, unzipping Skye and watching layers of velvet and lace slither sensuously to the floor around her naked ankles. ‘Maybe he is.’

  Jake had a full day planned for Monday. First, he needed to pop into the bank and check that his dole money had come through. Then…well, that was about it, really. He set the alarm so he could get an early start. The telephone woke him first. Trring. Trring. Jake groaned and pulled the pillow over his head. Trring. Trring. He dragged the pillow off again and listened groggily for the pitter patter of other feet going to answer the phone. Silence on the pitter patter front. Trring. Trring. Maybe whoever was calling would give up. Hold on! Maybe whoever was calling was Baby! Wrapping a towel around his waist, Jake made a mad dash for the phone. Before picking up the receiver, he let his breathing settle. ‘Uh, hel-lo?’ he murmured, playing the sexy sleepy voice thing for all it was worth. In his experience, it was virtual big bucks.

  ‘That Jake?’

  He knew the voice. It was Tracy, the woman who booked bands for the Sandringham. Blunt as the needle on an old gramophone, Tracy didn’t have much time for niceties. Like ‘Hello’, for instance. He pictured her sitting in her little office above the bar, a cigarette dangling out of the corner of her black lipsticked mouth, one hand threading through her unruly shag—an ironic haircut—the other white-knuckling the receiver as though it might run away if she loosened her grip.

  ‘That’s Jake,’ he confirmed with a sigh, sexy dropping out and leaving sleepy to handle the call.

  ‘D’I wake you? It’s Trace.’

  ‘Mm. Wozza time?’ His tone was reproachful.

  ‘Eleven-thirty,’ she snapped. Tracy was not easily intimidated. Her job involved saying no means no to any number of rock wannabes who made up with persistence what they lacked in talent and originality. ‘Not exactly the crack of dawn, Jake,’ she observed dryly, taking a drag on her cigarette. ‘I think you need a real job.’

  Jake let that one go. He knew it was her standard way of stirring musicians. No one got up before well into the afternoon if they didn’t have to. She should know that. ‘Wazzup?’ he yawned.

  ‘Heard the gig on Sunday went off,’ she whistled. ‘Best response we’ve ever had to anything since I’ve been here anyway, and that certainly feels like a lifetime and a half.’ Tracy was twenty-five. She’d been booking the Sando for four months. ‘So I’m not gonna hassle you for not letting me know about the change in lineup. You know the drill. Anyway, we want both bands back as soon as
possible. Week Saturday’s the earliest I can book you in. Howzat suit?’

  ‘Yeah, great,’ said Jake, cheered. Saturday night. That was a real break. Bosnia had been doing occasional Sundays and weekdays for ages.

  ‘Wanna give me a contact for Rock n Roll Babes from Outer Space?’

  ‘I can pass on the message. I’ll be seeing them. They don’t actually have a phone.’

  ‘Joking! Not even a mobile?’

  ‘Nup.’

  ‘Unbelievable. Uh, Jake. Mate.’

  Jake pursed his lips philosophically, waiting for the blow. When some people called you ‘mate’ it didn’t mean ‘friend’. It could mean sucker, wallie, dickhead, fuckwit. It could also mean the speaker, the mater, as it were, needed a favour from the matee and, what’s more, knew it wasn’t exactly going to make the matee’s day.

  ‘I’d, uh, like to have the Babes headline. You’ll be the support, mate.’

  ‘…’

  ‘Is that okay with you?’ Her tone implied it didn’t really matter if it wasn’t.

  ‘Yeah, whatever,’ he replied. One part of him, the not-that-I’m-looking-for-it-or-anything-but-if-success-came-knocking-on-my-door-I’d-say-come-in-dude-where-you-been-my-whole-life part, was outraged. ‘What?’ it frothed. ‘We’ve been at this for years and these girls blow in and we encourage them and help them and get them their first gig and then we just stand back and watch while they shoot on past?’ Then there was the Unreconstructed Male that lurked in the dark corners of even the most enlightened psyche and came up with sentiments as embarrassing as they were unspeakable. Like, but they’re GIRLS for fuck’s sake! And we’re BOYS! It’s not fair! It’s not fair! But another part and, happily, the biggest part of Jake, was clapping its flippers and spinning a ball on its nose out of pure glee. The Babes were awesome and Baby was so cool. She was a fucken star and he’d be happy just tuning her guitar. And besides, maybe when he told her, she’d give him a big kiss, and one thing would lead to another and one thang would lead to another and…