Last Long Drop

by Mike Safe

  One of these bands was the Riders of the Surf and Sage, a foursome who played a mix of electric and acoustic rock, country and blues with occasional surf music overtones. Naturally, Randy Wayne handled the lead guitar parts, much of it using a sort of sixties’ Dick Dale surf guitar sound played on his Fender Stratocaster with a variety of country and blues licks thrown in. Harcourt, who had played guitar badly for years, provided a choppy sort of rhythm back-up on a well-worn Fender Telecaster, although he preferred sitting around and finger-picking an even more battered Martin OM-21 miked-up acoustic. The two of them shared lead vocals, Harcourt not particularly well, but they managed to sneak by. The rhythm section consisted of Carpark, who was actually quite good, having played professionally decades before, on drums, while the bass player was whoever they could find at the time. At the moment, it was a younger guy, Buzzy Blair, one of Randy Wayne’s relief barmen and a local surfer. Buzzy had a half-decent voice so he was proving to be a help in that regard. He was also good looking and that brought a few extra young women, meaning paying customers who would attract other paying customers, into the bar, which suited Randy Wayne’s business disposition just fine.

  The band remained their bit of fun – what passed for an occasional rehearsal, digging up some long forgotten songs to play and coming up with some originals. Harcourt, as a professional wordsmith, was okay lyrically, even if he lacked a bit musically, while Randy Wayne could always be counted on to spice up his bare bones efforts with a few improvised chords or an interesting lick.

  As Stevie Ray shuddered to a halt on the jukebox, Randy Wayne asked in his soft west Texas inflection, ‘So you’ve got a couple of new songs for us, huh?’

  ‘Yeah, all but finished them,’ said Harcourt.

  ‘Bring ’em in and we’ll see how they go, okay?’

  ‘Well, you won’t like one – it’s called “Deeper Blue” and it sounds like something Jack Johnson might do,’ said Harcourt.

  ‘Aw, come on, man, none of that “surfer dude meets hippie” shit,’ said Randy Wayne, rolling his eyes. ‘You know I hate all that groovy peace, love and happiness stuff.’

  Harcourt guessed his friend was joking, but even after all these years he wasn’t quite sure. Randy Wayne had softened, but he was still about ‘keeping it tight and playing it right – blues you can use and twang that’s the thang,’ as he liked to put it. Still, Harcourt also knew that his friend didn’t mind playing up his redneck image – it was good for business, even if it was half put on for the punters.

  ‘Well, writing songs can be kind of strange, as you well know,’ Harcourt said. ‘Sometimes you start out in one direction and it ends up taking you in another entirely.’

  ‘Too true,’ said Randy Wayne with a smile. ‘And that goes beyond songs. Look at where I’ve wound up – at the beach. Anyway, what’s the other song?’

  ‘It’s called “She’s Driving Up the Coast”.’

  ‘Sounds like another of those surfing hippie numbers,’ said Randy Wayne.

  ‘No, no – it’s like one of those early Paul Kelly songs,’ said Harcourt. ‘Lots of straightforward guitar and a story about a woman who heads back to her family home up the coast after the city turns bad on her. Even you’ll give it a tick. It’s got room for a couple of nice guitar twangy bits. Believe me, you won’t be hearing it on girly pop radio any time soon – not that you’d ever be caught listening to that, of course.’

  ‘You’re right on that one,’ agreed Randy Wayne as he tore open a carton of imported Lone Star beer and begin stacking it in the cooler. Back where he came from, Lone Star was cheap, undistinguished fizz like a lot of American beers, but it had managed to somehow build an image as the favourite brew of real deal Texans and so, in another of his business moments, Randy Wayne had found an importer who could get him as many cartons as he wanted at a cut rate and he now sold it to otherwise ignorant Australians and a few homesick American tourists at vastly inflated prices.

  Randy Wayne checked his watch. It was almost five and his staff for the night would soon be coming in, including Buzzy, the bass player and back-up barman, as the summer holidays were a guaranteed busy time of the year. But no matter what the season or the demand, the Sand Bar never opened its doors before six in the evening. As far as Randy Wayne was concerned, it was all about ambience – and a place that styled itself on a Texan honky tonk by way of a Louisiana juke joint could never carry that off while Australian mums and dads and their kids with zinc-creamed noses spent all day parading by his front door on their way to the beach.

  After unloading the last of the Lone Star, Randy Wayne slammed the cooler door. ‘So how’s Jack doing over in England?’ he asked.

  ‘Okay, I guess,’ Harcourt replied. ‘We heard from him on Christmas Day and then on New Year’s. The four of them got a house somewhere in south London, close to the centre of things from what I understand. They’re pretty well set up there and have an okay deal on the place.’

  ‘The four of them under the one roof? That should make it pretty interesting – you might be in a band together but do you really want to see the other guys’ faces day and night, like twenty-four seven?’

  ‘Yeah, you could be right on that one,’ said Harcourt.

  Jack was twenty-four. After messing about with guitars since his early teens, he and three university friends had formed a band more on a whim than any grand plan. Their celebratory Oz-style music – a sort of coastal rock sound, for want of a better description – won them a following on campus that grew quickly into beach and then citywide support among kids who liked their music live and rocking, not the mechanical sameness churned out by DJs. The band name, the Solar Sons, was an outdoorsy take on their style.

  The songs and direction were supplied by Jack and his fellow singer–guitarist, Elmore Bruce, who came from somewhere down the coast. They wrote either alone or together, with Jack the McCartney figure, supplying the lighter touches, to Elmore’s Lennon. A leading management agency chased them and next thing they were touring nationally. Jack, who had been two years into a University of New South Wales arts degree, deferred his course to see where the music thing would take him.

  His father, who had come to journalism via the ‘get out and do it or get lost’ method, as it was styled back then, had not been impressed. He’d wanted his kid to finish his degree. But Tess had been much more amenable. Her attitude was that Jack could always return to his studies, but the music chance had to be grabbed because it could disappear as quickly as it had appeared.

  Grudgingly, Harcourt had come to accept Tess’s take on it and had since realised that more often than not he acquiesced to her in family matters. There were times when he was almost intimidated by her easy way with negotiation, a social skill he was also supposed to have as a journalist.

  Anyway, the next year had passed in a blur for Jack and his fellow Solar Sons. First, a recording deal with an independent label that at least seemed to have their best interests at heart; second, two albums, the first of which made the top ten of the national charts while the follow-up went top five and a couple of singles garnered considerable radio airplay; third, more touring and what Harcourt now reckoned had been the start of the real craziness. Randy Wayne had talked throughout to Jack, who’d appeared to be keeping his feet on the ground, more or less.

  ‘Anyway, Johno, sometimes you’ve just gotta let ’em have their heads and maybe mess up a bit along the way,’ the Texan had said to the father.

  ‘So you’re a parenting counsellor now among your many other talents,’ Harcourt had replied in a sort of mock outrage. ‘Not bad for a divorced guy who hasn’t any kids of his own. Well, at least none that he acknowledges publicly.’

  Solar Sons’ manager, Sissy Broughton, a tough old bird, worked up a deal that would take the band to Britain for a year. An influential independent record company was interested in them and their sunny Australian disposition, which its gurus reckoned might brighten the atmosphere in a land caught under grey skies b
y everything from class divide to Brexit to terrorism that never quite went away. The plan was to build the Sons’ profile through what remained of the northern winter and then launch them on the burgeoning summer outdoor festival scene.

  Harcourt found this strategy more than a little ludicrous – wasn’t success in music supposed to be about talent, not the weather, and if it was about the weather why couldn’t they play the long run of summer outdoors shows and festivals at home before going to England? Not even Tess could talk him around on that one. And so with his father’s scepticism noted and rejected, Jack and his fellow Solar Sons had jetted off on their own magical music tour of the world.

  Harcourt had been home from the Sand Bar for an hour or so. He’d tidied the backyard after the night before, cleaning the grease and remains of burnt meat from the barbecue hotplate before dragging the contraption back to its hiding place in the cluttered garden shed where he also kept his surfboards and wetsuits.

  Inside, he’d washed grease and charcoal smudges from his hands, popped the top off a can of beer and turned on the TV news.

  Typical silly season reporting – shark sightings down the coast, the ongoing bushfire alert, fifty drunks arrested after brawling at a cricket match, continuing hot weather that might mean power failures as air-conditioners worked overtime … and so it went. It was after eight o’clock, the sun all but set, although the heat hung heavy on the still summer air. He rang Tess.

  ‘Sorry, I should have called, but it’s been busy like you can’t imagine. I’m just on my way out the door.’

  ‘Everything okay?’ he asked. ‘You sound a bit wound up.’

  ‘No, no. Everything’s good, very good, in fact.’

  ‘Why? What’s happened?’

  ‘I’ll tell you when I get home. I promise it’s all good. See you soon.’

  Half an hour later, they were sitting outside at the newly scrubbed down garden table with a bottle of cold white wine and an over-marinated chicken and vegetable stir fry that Harcourt had thrown together. Way too much chilli was his immediate verdict, but it was more or less edible.

  ‘So what’s the go?’

  ‘We’ve got Edmund Harrison coming out for Writers’ Week with his new book.’

  ‘Hey, that’s a good get.’ He smiled. ‘You’d never guess – I was talking about him with Randy Wayne. He’s a big fan.’

  ‘Randy Wayne? You’re right. I’d never have guessed. Anyway, this is my little secret, even if I say so myself. You’re the second person in Sydney to know.’ Tess smiled and downed most of the glass of white while rolling her eyes at him in a sort of mock celebration.

  ‘What? Good old Billy Duane had nothing to do with it? I find that hard to believe.’ Harcourt smirked at his little jibe about Tess’s supposed boss.

  Billy, a bumptious New Yorker, was a long-standing employee of the publisher, dating back to the golden days when the printed word ruled. He and his wife, Joyce, had been in Australia for two years on a sort of protracted stopover before being shuffled off to well-padded retirement in their upstate New York mini-mansion with its tennis court and lap pool. More often than not, they were away somewhere – tropical Queensland islands, Broome resorts, Tasmanian spas … often accompanied by junketeers from New York HQ who had a talent for morphing supposed business into expense account treats. This meant much of the day-to-day running of the local office had fallen to Tess, who just got on with it because Billy, for all his talk and glad-handing, was as much a hindrance as a help when he was around.

  ‘No, Billy certainly had nothing to do with it,’ she said. ‘He’ll show up for a free lunch, but is missing in action where anything resembling work is concerned. We won’t be seeing him until the end of January, I guess. And, anyway, it’s probably better he doesn’t know about this one for the moment at least.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Well, there are a few dramas involved,’ Tess said. ‘But it was all agreed upon today. I’ve been having this email exchange with Harrison’s management for the last couple of months. I’ve also had a couple of phone chats with him and talked to him again in London early today his time – that’s why I was late – and he’s signed off on coming out here.’

  She poured herself more wine. ‘He’s super keen to do it and he’s sending the festival people his agreement via email and that pretty well seals the deal.’ She paused for a moment. ‘Well, it seals it as far as he’s concerned. So that’s being on passed to New York where it will cause a ruction or two, no doubt.’

  ‘Yeah, but why?’ Harcourt enjoyed it when his wife was like this. She was cheeky, full of enthusiasm, kind of sassy at the same time. Her determination when it came to the chase could never be denied. He’d often told her that she would have made a great investigative reporter.

  She explained how the book involved had been a long and torturous process. It dealt with the mess of Iraq and Afghanistan, spilling over into the Syrian war, the rise of the Islamic State jihadists, the beheadings and massacres while Russia and the United States dropped bombs from above. ‘Then, suddenly, it goes back to the States and the treatment of its returned soldiers, the shortcomings in the rehab of the wounded and psychologically messed up. It becomes this sprawling story of individuals’ experiences, not the opinions of politicians and boffins. Really, it’s several books in one that goes all over the place.

  ‘Harrison, bless his belligerence, managed to go through three editors, all pretty reasonable people supposedly, a couple of Brits, including the guy who’d handled most of his previous reportage projects, and finally an American who was foisted on him by New York with specific instructions to get the thing finished no matter what the cost, whatever the indulgences that had to be granted.’

  ‘Yeah, I knew about this major project of his being in the works for ages. What else?’

  ‘Well, the book’s called When Brave Men Fail – and even that’s under wraps at this stage. As the whole world knows, Harrison is a limousine liberal, chardonnay socialist, whatever term you want to use, and he’s been called such things all the way back to his early social realism novels. He was anti-George Bush and going into Iraq and then Afghanistan and he got himself further offside with governments on both sides of the Atlantic. Then, somehow, and against the odds, he managed to pull the stunt of getting himself embedded with American troops a number of times and thereby into the line of fire. So it turns out that while he watched them live and die, and a number of them did die, he underwent this kind of conversion and much of the later part of the book is an ode to the troops’ courage and sacrifice – hence the title When Brave Men Fail. Basically, it turns into a weird sort of endorsement of the United States military – well, at least of the guys thrown in there to get shot, not the politics of those who put them there.’

  ‘So that’s what all the argy-bargy has been about?’

  ‘Pretty much. We thought this was going to be – what’s the term? – somewhat more sober, a little more, well, a lot more from the left side of the argument. But some of it reads like a recruiting statement for his “brave men”. But, from what I’ve seen of it, it’s eloquent, quite beautifully written, a paean to courage and sacrifice – so readers will either love or hate it just as they already love or hate Harrison. But it’ll also confuse them. Has he switched sides? It’s the kind of book that promotes controversy, a lot of debate – and sales, hopefully.’

  Tess paused to raise her glass, pushing her dark hair away from her face. ‘Anyway, the book got lost in rewriting, updating and editing and was finally supposed to be out in the northern autumn in time for Christmas sales, but because of all the bickering that went on it’s now set for the northern summer.’

  She sipped more wine and then laughed. ‘And because Harrison’s got the clout, he doesn’t mind playing Mr Difficult when it suits him – and this is one of those times because no matter what side of the argument the book comes from it’s going to be an event and in the end New York couldn’t do much but let him have i
t his way. He’s happy to upset the powers to be just because he can, especially after they gave him a hard time over the direction and editing.’

  Swallowing the rest of the wine in her glass, she looked at him mischievously. ‘And that’s why he wants to come here in March for the festival. New York don’t want him to do anything until April into May when there’s to be the big publicity push in the States and Europe, excerpts in the Sunday supplements, prime time TV interviews, all the usual carry on. But now Harrison says he’ll come down to little old Adelaide before that and talk about the book, even do what will be the first readings, knowing that will upset New York even more. But they can’t afford to get too heavy-handed with him. His contract finishes with this book and, of course, they want to re-sign him. He brings in big money – and that’s the bottom line in these austere times.’

  ‘But won’t you get swept up in this power play of his, end up copping the blame as far as New York is concerned?’ Harcourt asked. ‘Don’t you have to be a good girl and toe the company line? Hell, wait till Billy Duane hears about it.’

  ‘Sure, it puts me in a weird position with New York and I guess I’ll have to take my chances with that. But I can handle it – I mean, if push comes to shove, there are other publishers out there. Some of them even think I’ve got talent.’

  She poured more wine. ‘But there’s a further agenda to Harrison’s naughtiness. Straight after the festival he’s nicking off to one of those mega-expensive Barrier Reef islands for a few days. Apparently, a couple of Hollywood studios are already scrambling for the rights to the book – god knows how they’ll ever turn it into a coherent movie. So the island sojourn is a gift from one of them to soften him up.