East

Silence - no thought one way or the other - no distinctions. Profound thoughts envelope however, such purity is often mistaken for mock whimsy, disorder even hugger-mugger and concordia discors, as it was once described.

One demiurge even set about proving an unrelenting inexorability under the aegis of ex-cathedra that could be both accosting and piercing. There is a natural flow to life - what may appear certain can be mistaken for fate - hence the pre-disposition for people to embellish reality with fairy tales.

Now where does all this leave us? Both writer and reader are duty bound to be on guard, to assign and perceive artistry, so when moments leap off the page, they can be held up to the light for introspection and forceful critique. To what end? Well that depends on a standpoint and attitude. A mere reflection is not unjust but certainly forgiven if not delivered with complete authenticity.

So, what is this about? The short answer is music and its environs, but not in a literal sense, for what constitutes music? Ye Olde Macquarie (concise) dictionary defines music as:

…art of organising sound in significant forms to express ideas…through…rhythm, melody, harmony…and interestingly, colour… which is not immediately obvious, of course this is all just about a musician’s output, there is a (sometimes) forgotten element.

The conception of music occurs in silence, at least to the external world. A musician operates internally which can be a maelstrom - an island of fire and abrasiveness as much as an oasis of calm and contemplation.

The internal journey of a musician - the life that surrounds and encompasses musical conception and direction - welcomes both triumph and catastrophe, and will be narrated accordingly.

So where to begin?

-Avalon-

…I’ll never go to Texas anymore…

- Robert Plant

Cherry Beer

The bathroom tap was on; hot water flowed into the sink as a lamp was switched off. He knew it was a lamp - the click was dull more prolonged than a light switch.

A set of eyes looked in the mirror before it was covered with steam - eyes that were red, his skin felt dry - a sharp, metallic scissors scraping on wet metal sound penetrated the gloom as he attempted to shave.

He tried to catch his breath in a cupped hand but it wouldn’t linger. Assuming it was not up to scratch he rinsed with some of her toothpaste. Careful not to touch the tube with his lips a small amount was squirted directly onto a bloated purple tongue.

He entered the shower recess with green gel swishing inside his mouth. He unwrapped the dinner mint size soap. He washed efficiently, as quickly as he could but the soap wouldn’t lather. A cognac tasting burp went largely unnoticed. He felt for any pimples, using fingernails to loofah unwanted dead skin on his buttocks and thighs.

Conscious of spending too long in the shower he struggled with procrastinating over washing his hair. Scanning the shower tidy to find only designer label shampoo and conditioner he reached for the soap again, he surmised she would recognise the familiar scent immediately. The smell of Palmolive Gold resonated kindly, from a long time ago.

After rinsing his hair thoroughly, as not to leave it too squeaky, he adjusted the shower lever for more hot water and let out a long thin stream of urine. He watched the amber swirl with the foam carefully splashing water with his foot over the drain.

He reached for one of the two yellow towels without leaving the recess. He did a pre-dry before stepping onto the yellow bath mat to continue the dry cycle. He leant forward to smell the luxurious fluffy cotton pile. The thought of her naked body made him conscious of his own, standing there in all its splendour and glory.

‘Why does a naked body imply sex? How strange to have a bare head, hands or legs without an inkling of sexual concern yet the merest sight of a buttock or breast automatically excludes anything else but sexual congress.’

He stepped gingerly onto the dark corridor carpet in no doubt as to what was about to happen. He gripped the roll of the towel and hung on for dear life. He still felt uncomfortable being naked. Not having the physique of a sixteen year old surfer dude named Robbie he continued the slow Second-Line stroll towards the bed but without the Brass Band or umbrellas.

Feeling better? Amy asked propped up in bed. Her bare shoulders visible over the Egyptian cotton sheet. Flanked on either side of the bedhead were two identical Chinese vases with intricate blue and white motifs.

It pained him to admit that her naked form was intimidating. Amy exuded calm - completely unabashed, a simplicity that both intrigued and annoyed him. She often walked around near naked, perhaps just a t-shirt and socks…and if it was warm she wouldn’t wear much more *

Raspberry Beret -Prince.

‘No no, please no singing!’

Now that the Mantegna revelation moment (as if being crucified wasn’t bad enough, some slimy daego had to paint the prostrate form of an Arab looking Jesus) was fast approaching he felt reverentially unworthy of her deep smile and tender look. He felt ashamed at distorting her image with lustful thoughts only to be re-assured by a firm pat on the quilt.

Come on, hop in, the water’s fine, there was a playfulness to her tone. He was stranded with the final dilemma. She stared back, seemingly unaware of the inner turmoil he felt over having to undress in front of her. To his surprise, Amy covered her eyes with a hand.

Promise I won’t look.

It was now or never, so in one swift motion he loosened the towel, reached for the sheets just as she slammed her other hand down on the bed. Unable to get under the bedclothes with the towel out of reach he was stuck mid-term Presidency in semi-darkness with all and sundry hanging out to dry which caused an eruption of laughter at his expense.

Amy eventually relinquished the pressure on the sheet which was alarmingly intense. The cool cotton on his slightly damp skin made him want - in a perfect Buddhist sense - to warm up before making contact, but he wasn’t afforded that luxury.

‘ there is nothing to gain, nothing to conquer, nothing to control - just let go.’

You brushed your teeth? That was thoughtful.

‘…sounds of sweet sorrow blanket my tears as perfect bliss swelters on magic lips…’

Max awoke to find, rather disappointingly, that he was still jet-lagged, but Amy not so - she was used to flying much more frequently. Amy did however disapprove of Max’s insatiable appetite for airplane food which she found abhorrent all the way from Sydney.

Max opened his eyes after an unsuccessful attempt to spark a passionate response with a caress and kiss. Amy shrugged her shoulders, patted his arm as a mother would to a child with a runny nose then rose to open the curtains and headed for the shower. Max lay still trying to ignore the incessant internal chatter which came alive with the return of a high pitch ringing in his ears.

Much too soon without a substantial breakfast, they ventured into the heat and tourist filled streets of Amsterdam. On tram no. 2 to Stadhouderskade, the first port of call was the Rijksmuseum where Amy was excited to see the original works of Rembrandt.

Amy loved trams and being a Melbourne girl was sufficiently confident enough to hop on and off at will leaving Max behind struggling with his ineptitude.

It makes me feel like Audrey Hepburn gallivanting around a foreign city, too bad you don’t look like Cary Grant, her laughter drowned out the conductor’s bell.

Thanks a lot, Max said, Well, I’m sure glad you don’t look like her.

Somewhat puzzled Amy asked, What? You don’t like Audrey Hepburn?

God no, too skinny, the perennial princess, all those naive carefree parts she played, too monotone. Nobody behaves like that, he stated smugly. Amy stared straight into his eyes.

It’s the movies! For god’s sake, that was her charm. I thought you had a romantic side. Don’t tell me you’re getting callous and cynical in your old age?

Listen I was born cynical and callous, he replied. Amy grabbed his arm as the tram slowed.

Rubbish.

The doors opened into a Dam with some ludicrous name, before a park with pathways leading to a foreboding museum entrance. There was already a queue which sort of halted her enthusiasm, as Max wondered why they had been running.

Settled at the end of the queue they waited for ten minutes before hearing gates being opened and heavy locks disengaged. As the queue edged forward, Amy whispered, You’ll never believe who is standing behind us. Don’t turn round, she scolded.

Well how am I to find out?

Amy frowned, her forehead wrinkled with annoyance. Max leisurely surveyed the park, casually looked at Amy then behind her to see the tall relaxed figure of Gene Hackman who was talking to a woman of similar height. Amy raised her eyebrows and squeezed his arm.

How funny? she said.

Max nodded but couldn’t remember much of the Broadway play they had seen the actor in. He endured most of the performance in the back stalls next to a group of elderly Jewish women with enormous purple hair and jewellery. One of them kept nodding off, falling onto his shoulder which sort of ruined his concentration with what was happening on stage.

It had been a whirlwind tour of the United States. Not much time for sightseeing however, they did manage to sneak in Ringo Starr’s All Star Band at Radio City Music Hall.

Max’s biggest disappointment was not seeing Jessica Lange in A Streetcar Named Desire, which apparently was the hottest ticket in town. Max had been in love with her since Frances*

Max cried at the scene where she was raped in the mental institution and even more after the electric shock treatment had rendered her a mere shadow of her former fire and brimstone self- completely infatuated with her looks, accent and pedigree – not as technical as Meryl but far earthier and more sensual.

Once inside the museum Max’s dislike of crowds quickly ambushed him but Amy was on a mission. There was one painting in particular she wanted to see. With brochure in hand and headphones on she tracked it down with the relentlessness of Private Eye* (how we miss Peter Cook) burrowing through crowds of people, checking the map, taking short cuts until arriving at a corner of a large room.

Max saw the top of a massive gold frame with hordes of people in front. Some guy was talking but couldn’t be seen. The crowd dispersed as a tour group moved on to view the next canvas.

I thought you said it was called, The Night Watch? Max pointed at the sign underneath the Dutch masterpiece - The Shooting Company of Captain Frans Banning Cocq and Lieutenant Willem van Ruytenbuch. Amy delved into her guidebook.

It was correctly re-named in 1947.

And not a moment too soon.

Amy kicked his ankle which hurt more than he let on. The flow of the crowd didn’t allow them to stay long. There were viewing-rooms containing the works of Vermeer, Hals and Steen but it was all too serious, gloomy and contrived for Max who could appreciate the technical aspects, for who was he to criticise, but it left him cold and uninvolved, as if they were simply putting on a master class, saying look what I can do but with no emotion or conviction, a bit like Celine Dion, who was the closest comparison he could find from his world.

Max couldn’t wait to get out of there, as a compromise he suggested they visit the Van Gogh Museum which was just around the corner which seemed to go down well.

The building was more welcoming, the lighting more conducive to viewing art which made the whole exercise less draining. In one room there were huge glass covered tables and cabinets filled with letters, memorabilia and personal artefacts from the artist’s friends and family.

One cabinet had a collection of correspondence from Monet, Toulouse Lautrec and Gaugain. One letter from Monet, written after Van Gogh’s death, to his surviving family expressed genuine sadness at the passing of such a great loss to the world. Max found this somewhat enlightening as he assumed Van Gogh had died relatively unknown and destitute.

Max stepped forward to view a display which housed a series of pictures. The majority of them were of flowers and rows of shrubs. An old man wearing a smock was identified as Claude Monet. A description of the river Seine went on in some detail like a travelogue of its path through forests and fields, past churches under the bridge of Argenteuil onwards towards Normandy.

Max was intrigued to know why such reverence for a river and its pastoral borders. Other painters like Corot, Pissarno and Cezanne were mentioned till the entire travelogue concluded at Giverny. Photo after photo both described and illuminated a blend of cultivated and wild gardens, ponds and bridges. The overwhelming brilliance of the colours stood out - lush green, opulent yellows and tangerine to sublime pinks and highlights of red.

Max felt each colour reprented a note and begun stringing them together to form a melody of sorts as he absorbed tulips, pansies, forget-me-nots and tresilled roses and rows of irises as far as the eye could see. Evidently Giverny was Monet’s home and what a magical paradise it looked. A home amongst nature but not as an imposition for this artist lived within nature’s ever-changing demands. The lasting image Max took with him as he was hurried along by she-who-must-be-obeyed*

Rumpole of the Bailey - John Mortimer once famously said he spent his days writing and his nights falling about dancing blind drunk (or words to that effect)

was of a Japanese styled bridge with white and mauve wisteria draped overhead in command of a nearby pond. The serenity and artistry struck an emotional chord…as I returned across the fields I’d known*

Fortress Around Your Heart - Sting. Max was upset at the demise of The Police but all was forgotten when Dream of the Blue Turtles arrived as it was a near perfect album with every note and lyric perilously positioned for maximum effect.

The Van Gogh exhibition appeared sympathetic to the man as a tortured soul and innovative artist. Whereas Rembrandt remained distant, reverential and aloof, Van Gogh’s works were displayed with sensitivity, colour and a sense of enjoyment.

So you liked Van Gogh did you? Amy asked walking towards the tram stop. He seemed to have redeemed himself after the less than impressive effort in the Rijksmuseum.

Along the way they stopped for Broodjes, a local favourite. There were several varieties; Max chose raw herring with mustard and pickled onion while Amy hoed into fries swimming in mayo.

Returning to the Scandic Crown the tram passed a café on the corner of Leidersplein Dam. Max suggested they stop and grabbed her arm as he pressed the bell but Amy was not a spur of the moment kind-of-gal.

Okay, she said rather tersely. Wait! I’m not off the damn thing, her voice rose sharply as she landed on the footpath. Amy wrapped her arm around his waist. Max laughed as they hurdled the tram lines to reach no-man’s-land. Slightly breathless they waited for a convoy of bicycles to pass. In between bouts of laughter she yelled; You’ll get us both killed, much to the dismay of the surrounding pedestrians.

Standing outside the café Max had spotted, he was overawed by the opulent etched motifs on the glass, the luxuriant brass hand rails and the sophistication of the patrons.

As if on cue, the Sun peered from behind cloud cover turning the dark green roof awnings into a sparkling emerald sheen. The Dam was alive with noise, bicycles and trams. People were on every corner. Electric yellow tightness, free-association celebrity dog-ville, this is where they came to blister in the sun. It was a celebration of activity. Max knew this was the life. He looked at Amy who appeared puzzled by his sudden unbridled enthusiasm.

Max couldn’t express this feeling. It was a culmination of events - the tram ride, the Museum, the food, seeing Gene Hackman, Amy by his side in one of Europe’s most fascinating cities - life had reached its zenith and there was no room for contemplation that things could ever slip from this ascension.

Max was composed walking up the stairs and through the entrance. Backpackers sat comfortably next to people in business attire. There was no class structure to adhere to, no bullshit to deflect, no line of demarcation, no-one checking if you had shoes on or the right kind of jeans, unlike back home.

A waitress, exemplifying that unique Dutch beauty showed them a table just inside one of the open glass doors. She was tall, moving with surety and power. She had sapphire eyes, short blonde hair, and flawless buttermilk skin. Max was totally enraptured by her physical presence. As she walked away, he noticed her calves had muscle tone from years of riding bicycles.

Amy tapped his shoulder with a menu. Max looked up to see her widening eyes. Two young men, dressed in identical bleached bright white singlets, light blue jeans with matching rips under the knees, walked up the steps and into the foyer. They were tanned and fit. gold earrings, bracelets and gentle posturing left no one in doubt to their effeminate pre-disposition.

What was more remarkable were the two matching Afghan hounds they held onto. The dogs were tall, majestic, pruned and preened to within an inch of their lives. Amy wondered where they were going to sit and could not stop staring.

The two men headed for a table nearby without waiting for Hilda-of-the-Alps to return. Noticing Amy’s stare one of them dipped his sunglasses and offered a slight twinkle of his eyes. Amy smiled back and then quickly returned to the menu.

You didn’t have to stare, Max whispered.

I couldn’t help it.

The café atmosphere was testament to the cutting-edge ambience of the city’s street life. Max visited many big cities - London, New York and Paris to mention a few but there was something unique about Amsterdam. It had no equal in not being anything that it wasn’t.

Amsterdam didn’t strive to be the benchmark like New York or labour its previous wealth and station like London and was nowhere near as self-conscious as Paris. Amsterdam did its thing with no regard for prestige or external approval.

Stop staring and order something, Max said sternly.

I can’t help it they look so cute together, the dogs, look at them, they’re just sitting there with those big dreamy eyes. Amy was now completely mesmerised.

You think they’re cute?

Adorable. They look like a married couple. One of them is explaining the menu. See how he is fussing over him. The way they look at each other, it’s so romantic.

Max could stand no more so he searched the menu for a distraction. The wine list caught his attention as it took up several pages. There was every imaginable choice from Gruner Weltliner; Giverny’s ramshackled arched terrace of wild roses to the chalky dry strawberry fields forest floor pathways of Oregon Pinot.

Max ignored the wine section and rambled his way through the world’s beers - Sapporo, Hite and ‘33’but nothing excited him until under the heading Belgium he saw names that wouldn’t have looked out of place in Lord of the Rings. He read down the list and stopped at Lambic Kriek.

Hilda returned to take their order and place a bottle of sparkling water on the table. Amy smiled and said, I’ll have a hot chocolate and the apple strudel.

And I’ll have a Lambic Kriek, please.

Amy looked at him like he was an alien. What the hell is that?

Well, to be honest, I’m not entirely sure.

The waitress waited to see if anything else was going to be ordered then left. Their view of the Dam was filling up with the lunch time crowd. Buskers and various street performers were strategically placed so as not to crowd each other.

The beer arrived first. Max held the tall glass up to the light. It was like holding a vessel of liquid ruby. Amy looked on inquisitively as he brought the glass to under his nose. The aroma was as distinct as biting into a cherry ripe. Totally absorbed by the surreal appearance of the extraordinary drink, the first sip was a joyous moment as if all the elements of exemplary taste, sophistication and good times were rolled into one. Amy shook her head and screwed up her nose at the offer to taste it.

You don’t know what you’re missing, Max said rather condescendingly. His new found friend was high in alcohol, giving it a slightly hot mouth feel. The bitterness lingered with an ever so slight wheat taste. He merrily sipped away as Amy’s order surfaced amongst the ever increasing din inside the café.

Halfway through his beer, Max felt something brush his leg. He looked down to see a large tail flop across her ankle. One of the Afghan hounds had wandered across and stuck its snout in Amy’s canvas bag. It had obviously found something to its liking. He bumped Amy’s arm causing her to look up with a mouthful of strudel and icing sugar on her lips. Max tried to reach and grab its collar but Amy interrupted with, It’s okay he’s not doing anything.

Max was challenged by the logic of her statement and continued to grab its collar. The walking door mat had found a waxy wrapper with some French fries and mayo. Max was puzzled at her acceptance of the intrusive foraging and repulsed at the thought of dogs and food mixing.

Just then one of the pretty-boys realised what was happening and quite dramatically leapt to his feet and headed their way. He shouted in Dutch which had no effect on the dog but certainly made Amy and Max sit up straight.

I’m very sorry, he stated.

That’s fine, replied Amy.

Did he hurt anything? He’s very, how do you say, harmful. No harmless. I’m very sorry again.

Max noticed amongst the politeness the dog hadn’t been retrieved from its burrowing. He curtailed his annoyance by gesturing for the man to sit down. With one hand on the dog’s collar the man swiftly positioned the animal to his side, shouted some more Dutch which Max hoped would bring the entire episode to a satisfactory conclusion, but Amy had other ideas.

He’s so beautiful, she said patting the far from disgraced animal. How old is he? Amy sighed. There was some conversation between the two men.

About eighteen months, the one still standing said. Amy took the animal’s head into her hands, Which means he’s still just a baby, aren’t you?

You like dogs? asked the guy seated at the table.

Yes, very much. I had a Beagle when I was young.

The two men exchanged quizzical looks, unable to picture the breed. Picking up on their unfamiliarity, Amy explained further, You know little hound dogs.

Max chimed in with, Snoopy. which garnered an instant positive response.

Ah the little Peanuts dog, yes yes.

A gap in the conversation was filled by a brief exchange in Dutch then Hilda was signalled and spoken to as if she had done something to upset them, but she smiled and walked away non-plussed.

I have ordered drinks as a small gratitude for your inconvenience.

Max looked at his almost empty glass but wished for the peace and quiet of looking at the Dam with people walking around in the sunshine, especially the formidable and robust young women on bicycles, a few of which, if they had asked, would have received his undying love and complete loyalty.

That’s not necessary, we’re fine, but thank you, he stated reasserting a bold maleness onto the scene.

But we insist.

Chairs were moved, dogs restrained, tables pushed together with no concern for the shiny parquetry floor. The Sun was high in the sky spraying the dark buildings with a generous wash of light. Reflections fascinated and formed shadowy crevices, the medieval architecture softened in the glow setting off the colourful signs above the bookshops, cafes and gallerias.

As collected belongings were repositioned and the hounds shifted away, Hilda appeared to distribute new coasters and glasses of beer. Without Amy being asked if she wanted anything else, the taller one, in a flurry of hand gestures, spoke to the waitress which sent her long thick fingers scurrying through her notepad which she retrieved from her apron pocket.

I will order food. You like mussels?

Before either of them could answer, he introduced himself and his friend, I am Wim, this is Klost and these are Riland and Tersse.

As they shook hands, Max excused the swiftness and coarseness of their interruption with the thought of a free drink. The previous annoyance that disturbed him soon receded as did the dogs sitting underneath the makeshift hybrid table.

Amy chatted away in her usual open, carefree friendly way while Max sat back observing. Wim was tall and dark, spoke fluent English. Klost, if indeed that was his name, was blonde, slender, and less talkative. Wim had quite a sculptured texture to his face, almost Mediterranean, with an olive tone to match his short curly hair. He was rugged and athletic. Klost had more classic Dutch colouring and shape reminding Max of Boris Becker.

I see you like Lambic Kriek, Wim said. With a new cherry beer in hand Max’s posture softened to allow a more flowing discourse.

I do, very much. I’ve only just discovered it. There were so many on the menu, I just picked this one.

Wim and Klost smiled at each other before Wim turned to Amy, I see you are not drinking like your husband.

He’s not my husband, we’re definitely not married, Amy quickly corrected his assumption with a little too much emphasis for Max’s liking.

Wim apologised while Max took the full brunt of their searching glances. He felt under scrutiny and had to remind himself that these guys were gay. Max chastised himself for feeling insecure and somewhat threatened by them.

‘And what if they are gay? Amy doesn’t seem concerned.’

Max didn’t appreciate the way she jumped to defend her marital status with so much repugnancy. Through all of his mental meanderings Max lost the thread of the conversation Amy was presently conducting.

Where do you think we should go? There are so many to choose from? I don’t know where to start. Can you suggest somewhere? We want to experience the real Amsterdam away from all the hash bars and backpackers. Amy stole a glance at Max.

Wim interrupted with a flurry of Dutch before a smattering of English to which Klost slowly nodded. It would be our pleasure to escort you on a tour of our city tonight. Please be our guests for this evening, we will expose you to the essence of our city.

Honey? Aren’t you forgetting something? Max leant towards Amy with a forced smile. Tonight we’re meeting Marty and Lucy, remember?

As Klost and Wim looked on, Amy replied, You can meet them anytime. They’re here all week aren’t they? Amy placed a hand on his arm and smiled.

Earlier, at the Hotel, she had trawled through a local tourist newspaper in search of venues that would replace Max’s permanent station at the Grasshopper bar. She latched onto Wim and was hell bent on leaching him for information.

I can’t make sense of it all; the street names are so confusing.

So while Wim and Amy settled in to mapping out an evening in Amsterdam, Max was left with boom-boom to puncture his way through broken English and pidgin Dutch in attempt to traverse the cultural and linguistic divide. Max extracted various pieces of information, but due to the method of their delivery they seemed unrelated and it was hard forming a cohesive chronological picture of boom-boom’s life.

Max ascertained Klost was either born or brought up in Utrecht, had a sister, and his father worked for a shipping company and his mother was a florist. Klost had trialled at Ajax FC having made it to one of the junior development teams before being overlooked due to his size. There was a brief conversation regarding Johnny Rep who Max remembered.

Didn’t he score the only goal in the ’73 European Cup Final?

Ja, in the 5th minute, my father was at that game.

Max wanted to ask him about the nature of his relationship with Wim but could not find the appropriate tone, and was still unsure why he was that interested anyway. He checked in with Amy and Wim who were discussing the Paradiso, Tropenmuseum and Placia. Amy was revelling in the detail; admission prices, tram numbers and street names whereas Max liked the idea of just roaming the streets looking for adventure using Frommer as a reference tool not a road map.

Look at this, Amy beckoned. Max was a world away, wondering how he was going to inform Marty he might not make it to the gig.

You’re not interested, are you?

Amy closed the guide book. She fixed her gaze so intently that her eyes narrowed with a mixture of irritation and disappointment. With her affectionate and amicable nature being tested by indifference, Amy permeated a stoic resentment. Her look made it clear to the extent of her feelings. Max smiled and leant towards her. The smell of warm marshmallows wafted back. Max took her hand off the guide book.

Maybe you’ve had too many red cordials, Amy said defiantly. A smile edged its way back onto the landscape. He sensed a turn of the tide so left Amy to converse with the boys while he paid a trip to the bathroom.

Heading towards the curved staircase that joined the café to the venue upstairs, posters for upcoming films and events adorned the walls. A large dark blue poster stopped him dead in his tracks.

A photo of an orchestra was dominated by the unmistakable figure of a musical hero and underneath in dark script - Rabobank and Jordan van der Jagt present Wilson Perrino Live at the Concertgebouw. There were tour dates and booking details but he didn’t have a pen so tried to commit them to memory while not blocking people’s access.

Max thought of all the times locked away in his room, or in the studio listening over and over to album after album trying to unlock the secrets of Wilson’s guitar playing and compositions.

Max read the poster again and studied the picture of the Ensemble Modern trying to hear the notes coming from the stage. He knew they had collaborated together on a recent album but had no idea that plans for a full scale European tour were under way. Upon his return to the table he was numb but not that comfortable.

The afternoon gathered its own pace, food and drinks surfaced then submerged out of sight. Every time he went to the bathroom he studied the Perrino poster a little more. He soon got bored with extracting information from Boom-boom and was getting agitated with Wim’s dive-bomb approach to conversation. Amy seemed happy and while the cherry beer kept appearing he was more than happy to ride the wave.

The bill was mysteriously taken care of without knowledge or interest; details of the night’s proposed entertainment were apparently a closely guarded secret. He reminded Amy that they had agreed to meet Marty and Lucy at the Milky Way. As they prepared to leave, Max noticed the two dogs still under the table.

What about them? he asked. Amy looked under the table while Wim casually remarked, They’ll be fine.

In a silent way he was relieved for the distraction Klost and Wim provided. He wasn’t a great talker and in fact enjoyed silence. Amy was a talker, viewing silence to be avoided at all costs. As with music Max found the intervals between notes sometimes more important than the notes themselves. Space and silence created definition and resonance.

The events planned in their honour seemed exciting enough, as long as it involved drinking Max was happy to go along with the crusade. They walked, dogs included, around the corner to Marixstraat on the way to Dam Square.

So where are we off to? Max tried to sound buoyant.

Well, now that you’ve asked, after consulting my guides we have organised a trip to the Medical Bar.

Fearing he hadn’t heard correctly, Max timidly inquired, And what pray tell might that be?

I’m not exactly sure, it’s not far away, Wim said it’s great fun.

Okay, he said with enthusiasm. ‘Well if Wim said so!’

They hadn’t walked far when the Red Light district appeared on the Nieuwendijk Damrak. Some guys up ahead in matching cowboy outfits made Max panic thinking he was headed for some urban cowboy hangout that the boys frequented.

Look honey, cowboys! Amy said, You’d look cute in a hat.

Sure would pardner, don’t forget the boots, love those boots! Max said in response to her level of joviality.

They continued to walk down the cobble stone path alongside a canal. They stopped outside a dark brick building. A doorway was guarded by two ominous looking individuals who hardly noticed them walk in. Max waited for one of the guards to react to the hounds, but they were hardly acknowledged.

Amy’s description of the Medical Bar didn’t register until he was inside. It was dark and spacious. A bar ran the length of one side with people sitting at glass display cases similar to those at the Van Gogh museum.

On closer inspection, Max noticed the displays were medical instruments, books and assorted paraphernalia from hospitals, morgues and libraries. Each display was backlit by low fluorescent lighting, each piece having its authenticity verified by a short description and brief history.

The cabinet they were shown to had callipers, strange barbaric looking utensils and pictures of nurses in long uniforms from a long time ago. The waitresses wore nurses uniforms and the bar staff were dressed as doctors. There was strange droning music in the background which Max took to be some sort of industrial garage band.

Max was mesmerised by the displays but seemed to be the only one interested in them. He tried to view other display cabinets in the vicinity but there was too much activity. The noise was deafening, it took all his resolve to get himself understood. In the end he stopped trying and simply nodded and smiled.

You like the music, nee? Wim shouted at one point.

Max could only nod.

They are called Nembrionic.

Satisfied he had been reliable informed, Max cast his gaze around. Amy seemed in her element oscillating between the two boys so Max continued his liaison with fruit beer, delighting in the Framboise variety ascending to Chimay Blue before retiring with Trappistes Rochefort.

The conversations grew louder the music more industrial. It was a sight to behold sending Max to the edge of reality. Over an hour into the agony, he was told, unceremoniously, that they were on the move.

Out in the street with ears ringing, Max waited for direction. Boom-boom was still inside having met someone. Wim waited patiently for a couple of minutes before re-entering the doorway to look for him.

Max grabbed the opportunity to convince Amy to leave and venture off to Milky Way, although having completely lost sight of where he was with so many beers under his belt.

We can’t just leave.

Why not? They’ll be fine. They’re probably sick of trying to understand us anyway.

They’ll think we’re rude.

So what, we’ll never see them again.

We’ll give Australians a bad name.

Max was getting nowhere so he decided to take matters into his hands. He would wait and politely tell them they had other plans and if Amy wanted to stay then so be it. Alcohol was giving him the courage to do what he wanted.

Eventually the two chaperones emerged from the Bar. They immediately looked around and bounced up waiting to continue their little adventure. Before Max could say anything, Amy launched into, Guys we’re going to meet some people, friends of ours. We had sort of made arrangements.

Wim shrugged, Okay, where?

Milky Way, friends of ours are playing there.

That’s where we were going to take you next.

Max couldn’t decide whether he was glad or disappointed, it was a combination of both. Amy looked at him as if to say - well I tried what now? Max thought, it could be a blessing in disguise, as he had no idea how to get there. Apparently it was a fair distance so boom-boom walked ahead to find a taxi.

Amy appeared in good spirits, occasionally stumbling on the cobble stones. They stopped at a convenience store which had a giant vending machine with little trays that for a few guilders dispensed spring rolls, croquettes and cheese pastries. The dogs were fed and Wim helped Amy to an assortment of Dutch treats.

After re-fueling, they resumed their wandering party while Max tried to resemble a different person. He took stock of himself. Not concerned with Klost and Wim, he was locked into going to see a mate’s band. It was an added bonus they were overseas away from the claustrophobic constraints of home.

They turned a corner to see a line of people. Max walked with confidence towards the main door. He felt self-conscious but was primed to assert himself and didn’t wait for the doorman to respond after proudly announcing, Max Dewey and party.

It was pleasing to be shepherded past the crowd lining up at the door. Max didn’t look back but could sense Amy’s pride in being treated like a celebrity. It didn’t happen that often as they kept a low profile as best they could. Max overheard Wim talking to Amy, as they went backstage, That was impressive. How did he do that?

Max didn’t hear the response as he was on the hunt for familiar faces, in particular the unmistakable form of Vic. It didn’t take that long to find her as she was pretty hard to miss - statuesque, loud and intimidating - in fact he heard her before seeing her.

Fuck me! Maxie a-hole Dewey, come here you little fucka.

The Vicsta.

Bloody fuckknuckle, what the fuck are you doing in this shithole?

Vic, as she was prone to do, grabbed Max’s bum and ground her groin into his. She stuck her tongue in his ear, then slammed his head into her chest. Amy’s reaction was as good as could be expected while Wim stood gobsmacked while Boom-boom had his hand to his mouth, giggling.

Fuck this one is cute. Are you rooting her, cause if you’re not I sure will.

Sweetheart, meet one of the true legends of the Aussie music scene. The one, the only Vicsta or better known as just Vic. Don’t be alarmed her bark is much worse than her bite.

Don’t you fucking believe it sweet-tits, you ever get sick of this limp dick, you come see me, I’ll lick your pussy till its red raw, listen sweetie women only have orgasms so they can fake ‘em otherwise why would we bother, and who the fuck are these load gobblers?

Vic, this is Klost and Wim, they are showing us the sights.

Victoria Sewell was brought up on a steady diet of The Slits, New York Dolls and The Runaways. She worked her way from barmaid at French’s to roadie for The Mysterons, Wet Taxis and Paris Green before taking over the poster runs for Frontier Touring. Vic would hire a van and drive all night sticking band posters all over Sydney and to save money she would often do it all by herself.

Vic’s dream was to work in Europe, to live the life or to be as close to it as possible so that meant working twelve hour days for just enough money to eat and pay the gas bill in a converted warehouse behind Ealing tube station where one night after roading for the Go-Betweens she met a young white-witch-prostitute named Bev.

Vic took it upon herself and a few hefty Leso mates to start an all-girl roadie business, hiring themselves out at cut throat prices, often working for little more than rent money and a gram of speed.

Eventually the subsistence existence paid off, for not only were they hard workers but extremely loyal and fanatical music fans. Vic had an uncompromising unapologetic attitude to life - it was all or nothing - which included a fanatical work ethic, a fervent appetite for young pussy and speed. A raft of Vic platitudes hollered through his memory banks but one stood out - Is there anything more annoying than a happy Shania Twain?

How are the boys? Max asked eagerly.

They’re fine, Steve is a pain in the ass as usual, Peter and Marty tell me to just laugh it off. Did you hear Mark and Chrissie are in town? I’ve been keeping an eye out for them but so far haven’t sighted them.

Cool, I’ll try to catch-up with them.

Vic was summoned backstage to sort out an issue with catering.

Duty calls.

Vic gave Amy a wink as Max navigated past people backstage with Wim and Klost bringing up the rear. With a twinge of delight, Max imagined what Amy must have thought of Vic and was curious to what Wim had translated to Klost.

Eventually they found the warm-up room. Max spotted Marty being interviewed by a delicious looking nymph who had stars in her eyes. Peter saw him first and came over to say hello.

You made it.

Yep, still in one piece.

Max harvested the introductions, while Wim subtly excused himself to visit the free bar alongside the cheese and fruit platters. Marty joined in amidst a lot of hugging, joke telling and reminiscing.

"It’s a long way from Bondi Road.’

Sure is, where’s Lucy?

She’s around, keeping Vic under control.

Yeah she assaulted us out front.

Man you should have seen her last week; we did a couple of festivals in Sweden and Iceland. Wow she took those fuckers on. The promoter was the son of some Bank Lord who tried to halve our proceeds and when Vic got wind of it, she went to town on them. We were standing behind in awe, it was scary, a cross between Peter Grant and Marcellus Wallace if you know what I mean.

I wouldn’t take her on; hey I hear Mark and Chrissie are in town.

Yep, they’re on sabbatical. Things didn’t go well last tour, Mark got pretty sick, and needed some time to chill out if you know what I mean. Anyway guys we have to go, curtain time is in twenty, see you after the show.

Max joined the others at the bar where Wim distributed little brown ceramic bottles.

What are they? he asked.

Wim scratched his head and turned to Klost. Max was now use to - even expected - their periodic excursions into their native tongue, enjoying the prancing tones and hollow vowels.

We can’t think of the English, we call it Jenever, Wim shrugged and poured a glass.

Straight?

Down ze hatch, Wim said as he smiled and drained his glass in one foul swoop. Max followed suit, shocked at the warmth and power behind the fire water.

Whoa that hit the spot.

Max could hardly breathe. He offered some to Amy who politely declined to sip her Stolli and lime instead. Max fondled the little brown bottle, feeling its shiny coarse texture. After a few more chugs he was infatuated with his new found friend. His tongue tingled; a film quickly covered the roof of his mouth. The fumes circulated through the sinuses and down his throat.

So you like our national pastime?

Very much, Max answered trying not to cough, Not too shabby.

Amy looked on with equal amounts of fascination and consternation. Although used to his indulgent drinking rituals she was more self-conscious when out in public, whereas Max gained confidence she retreated under the cloak of good manners and appropriate behaviour.

Klost moved towards Amy and asked; Are you guys orzses?

His chaotic blue eyes roamed but were still crystal clear. For some reason, perhaps it was the alcohol, Max associated the question with the term ocker, so was about to answer no with some venom. In the end Max resolved uncertainty by saying, Yes we are, but it’s just an expression to eliminate any confusion we might be Kiwis.

Amy laughed with a boldness that surprised Max. With Wim’s assistance, Klost explained; Many years ago my grandfather spent time in Indonesia. He worked for a company that built drying sheds for the local tobacco industry. He met quite a lot of orzses there, surfing, drinking and running amuck, Klost emphasised each word as if it were his last.

That’s interesting, Max said.

The conversation didn’t go any further as Wim couldn’t add anything. It seemed to exhaust all of Klost’s reserves so drinking took over before deciding to get ready for the show. Wim took Max by the arm in the corridor.

Have you seen what’s downstairs? He pinched his thumb and forefinger together and made a loud sucking noise.

Does she?

No, not really, Max answered quietly.

Do you want to afterwards?

We’ll see.

Max loved the anticipation of a live performance. He rarely saw other bands so when the opportunity arrived it was treated as a special event. Knowing the guys on stage also added to the theatre of it all. He knew what it was like waiting to go on - the nerves, the excitement, a last minute check then whammo! On stage, lights blaring, the roar of the ocean - no turning back - like on a roller coaster with a fear of heights and no control over the length of the ride.

The show went for two hours straight. The crowd knew a lot of the songs and Max was glad to see them get such a great reaction. Max had known them for years. Steve had actually auditioned for The Church before joining East. Steve was hard to fit in with other musicians so it wasn’t a surprise to hear they had declined on him.

Afterwards they re-convened to share in the post-show-space-cadet-afterglow. Max was happy to view from the sidelines to share old war stories about life on the road. Wim was anxious to continue the previous conversation before the show. He looked at Max trying to ascertain whether he was still interested or maybe morally against it in some way. Max was certainly willing but was unsure as to Amy’s particular view on the subject.

Look she may not like the idea. I don’t know how she will react. I didn’t want to rush down there in case she felt I was intending to spend the whole night there.

I understand. Wim patted Max’s shoulder. Klost had his hands in the air describing something to Amy that clearly she found funny. Her laugh was clearly discernible above the exiting crowd. It had a pleasant edge to it which somewhat went against her normally reserved calculating demeanour. To Klost it showcased an uninhibited free spirit but to Max it was another piece of her personality that he rarely saw. He was determined not to spoil her fun so positioned himself near her without wishing to influence or distract.

Klost finished his story as Wim waited at the base of the stairs. Everyone converged on Wim after being briefly separated by the ebb and flow of the crowd. Without any clandestine plan to entice her into a den of iniquity, Amy stuck her head over the railing and asked, What’s down there?

To which Wim answered, Well funny you should ask that. Let me show you.

Max watched Amy, under the protective arm of Wim, intrigued to see what she looked like beside another man. She looked smaller, vulnerable, unsure of herself, which was not what he was accustomed to. He wondered if she ever looked at him in the same way.

In the middle of the downstairs café a man sat in a glass booth. He had little room to move. He reminded Max of those coin operated booths at Luna Park. Wim found a table near the rear of the café while Klost guided Max towards the booth.

After you sir.

Klost motioned for Max to choose. Behind the glass under a set of lights, were two rows of trays. On top was a selection of marijuana - dried head or buddha sticks - as Max knew them. Underneath was a tray of Hash - Lebanese Gold, Afghan Black, Indo Red, but what caught his eye were yellow vials marked Oil.

Max pointed to the vials, Klost ordered in Dutch to the man in the booth via a speaker vent in the glass. He handed over three vials, a skewer and some foil.

At the table, Amy sat in silence while Klost rolled thin trumpets of cigarette papers with a snail trail of oil down the spline. It was an artistic event, his long elegant fingers showing great dexterity to fashion sublime looking slivers of glossy waxy paper. After he’d finished he sat back admiring his work, softly modifying them like little stick figures.

The thick resinous smoke engulfed them in a ritual of mutual intoxication. In the sophisticated atmosphere, musicians, artists and assorted other party goers went to great lengths to explain their relative worth. The café took on an overstated air. Like a masquerade ball where the participants believed their new disguise was in actual fact their true identity.

Hash doesn’t distort or impede reality it super-inflates it. Emotions become anchors dragging you to the bottom of your self-view. The intellect becomes rounded less observational and critical, physicality comes to the fore, sounds resonate thicker, tastes are more acute, sensuality overrides all like a good maître de at a banquet.

The act of conversation with people smiling took on attributes of a Bergman film, played low and close to the chest, giving away little but maintaining an intensity that was palpable and prehistoric in its development.

Seated at the table they resembled an ensemble cast in a Film Noir where under the auspices and tutelage of the smoke secondary players emerged onto the scene. Max noticed how he held his glass, as if he were Oscar Wilde. With an air of superiority he commanded a defiant wave for the waiter to serve more of the Green Fairy.

Amy was not enjoying the experience. It was too ghastly and European for her. Max watched and relished her, aghast at the years peeling by, regressing back to her childhood. Her middle class upbringing flirting with the strain of getting ahead. Always striving to be accepted, going through the social motions, taking on patterns that would propel her into the next social milieu - a change of suburb every few years, swapping postcodes till circling in on the desired residence of Toorak Road.

But that was unfair, why single her out, don’t we all do that, initially, finding our way, going along with the search for money and acquisitions, till we die then looking back thinking, what was that all about?

Amy wasn’t used to mixing drinks, her default practice was a few glasses of wine, maybe a Stolli or two whereas Max’s consumption of alcohol was like a night at a carnival, each ride consumed before being distracted by the brighter lights in the next tent - roll up, roll up, come see the naked snake woman, try your lucky sonny!

The oil was never going to be an option for Amy. To her credit she watched politely with no intention of breaking up the party however her polite refusals started to annoy Max. There was no sanctimonious high ground, just a stubborn refusal to let go and explore. He could sense her wrestling internally with all that she had built up, for if she stood on the precipice of her own undoing, who would be there to catch her?

Just try it! We aren’t going to let anything happen to you.

Max held a cigarette paper at arm’s length, enticing her with the blue wisp of smoke that curled up and away. Amy tightened her folded arms, barely holding onto to her calm voice.

No thank you, I don’t want any. I’ve had enough for one night and I think…

Max knew what she wanted to say, Go on, finish what you were saying…you think I’ve had enough, don’t you? Max’s voice deepened, his eyes focused on her, everything was sharp and acute. He could see three or four conversations ahead. Wim looked on, unsure what to do. Klost had gone to the bar as the waiter was missing in action. Max thought of Richard E. Grant in Withnail and I * we want the finest drugs known to humanity and we want them now…

For wasn’t he king of the world. He had it all, the life, the money the fame, the supermodel girlfriend and here he was being made to feel self-conscious on a night off from the circus.

Max went back to a time when it all seemed paved with gold. They arrived at the warehouse. The equipment had been set up. They guys arrived in dribs and drabs. Amy was getting changed, having her make up done. Her tight blue dress looked spray painted on. She was excited at the prospect of being at her first video shoot.

It was a bright sunny day as he looked out over the city, the playback of Blues Street buffeted by the breeze. His Gibson E355 was handed to him, he stood while his jacket collar was re-arranged…and now I’ve got some good news…listen…

Go on little-miss-holier-than-thou finish what you were saying.

The hurt in her eyes flickered briefly, instead of feeling sorry or empathetic it spurred Max on. Amy’s face looked narrower, pointed and drained of energy.

That’s not fair. I haven’t said or done anything to curtail your evening’s entertainment. I’m not feeling well, I’ve just had enough. I want to go back to the Hotel. You and the guys can carry on, just take me back and you can go on with whatever you were going to do, her voice was measured with a hint of desperation.

Max knew what he was doing and to an extent was enjoying it. Max was isolating her, making a stand, this is how I am - I want it all - the glamorous life with a woman who can stand the rigours of my indulgences, but it wasn’t enough to see her grant permission. That would lower him. Max was a man’s man, with his woman under control. She started to collect her belongings, un-necessarily rearranged the contents of her handbag to allow Max the opportunity to say something.

Wim had left for the booth while Klost spoke to a couple of people at the bar, so his options were; go back to the Hotel to patch things up or spend the rest of the night for who knows how long with a couple of Dutch gay guys roaming the streets of the most organised hedonistic city on the planet. All he had to do was reach out to comfort her with a few calming words. Max stared at her unable to talk, more interested in what Wim would bring back from the booth.

When you are with someone you have declared you care about compromises are a daily hazard. Max felt pulled between what he wanted to do and what was expected…madness is continuing to do the things you dislike…

Those words rang crystal true in the small smoky bar. Max suspected the moment Amy saw the hash oil the alarm bells would have rung, conjuring up all sorts of unsavoury visions.

Forays into oblivion had been scarce, always well concealed. Drinking and assorted drug taking was part of the deal. The Business almost dictated it. Her world was filled with coffee, cigarettes, the occasional amphetamine, but it was hidden, not talked about, rarely eulogised.

Max’s world had the resources and people to manage and distribute whatever he wanted; it was woven into the fabric. He even had buddies who were often paid in kilos not dollars.

Dark and disturbing thoughts surfaced. Feelings of frustration mingled with paranoia and guilt. He struggled to suppress them as they peppered and tainted his state of mind. Defences wilted away - true self became exposed - immersed in hedonistic pleasures. The only confusion was did he want to do this under the watchful eyes of two strangers.

Amy left with little fanfare while Max enjoyed some more oil.

He decided that he had been abandoned. He would have been quite happy for her to stay but she was the one that bailed so he started feeling reassured and righteous. It had been strangely exciting watching the spark drain away from her as if she was reinforcing what he’d always suspected; she was weak and boringly unadventurous, not really made of the stuff that was expected in this high calibre existence. Her beauty was her passport to fame and glamour, but underneath the makeup away from pampering hands that fuelled her world, she was plain and bland.

Hurting her had lifted him to a new position of power. He was the dominant force in the relationship. Her look of disbelief thrilled him with a declaration of independence.

Wim melted a large block of black sticky hash on a spike letting the resin drip onto a fresh Gauloises. The precision and delicacy he exhibited was as pure as a Jeff Beck melody. Max was spellbound and gratified beyond all comprehension.

The intensity of the hash was all en-compassing, so much so, that remaining in the small crowded smoky bar with conversation struggling to survive the house-music became less of an option. Boom-boom was nowhere to be seen as Max went outside.

Not long after Wim appeared and walked towards him. Max leant over a railing on a small bridge. He stared at the black water. It smelt of diesel and blocked drains. Wim looked at his watch and muttered something about leaving. They shook hands and separated.

Max counted cobblestones as he walked until shouting and laughing up ahead interrupted. The group of young cowboys from earlier on stood outside a row of windows where women dressed in various mis-matched lingerie, chiffon and boots paraded and beckoned.

One of the cowboys looked at him with a weird glassy-eyed stare of demented ecstasy. They spoke Spanish and were playful but focused. A couple of them opened their wallets and started counting Guilders. One of them held up a few notes in front of one of the girls. She shook her head. They offered up more. Max wondered when she would stop for she had them where she wanted.

Max looked at another girl in a window. She was young, petite, almost school girlish. Her long straight blonde hair covered her breasts. She moved towards the glass without any expression.