MOTEL MUSIC
Peter Lyssiotis
M A S T ER T H I E F
I woke up on Wednesday with the K-Mart version of Moon River running through my head. I was thinking about what had happened the day before. First there was that driver in the S.U.V. and then there was that thing in the ANZ Bank. Finally there was the incident at K-Mart!
All things considered, Tuesday turned my expectations on their head.
(Kmart Music)
Air hockey doesn’t get any better than at Time Zone. In Hamilton, Johanna and I pooled coins and found that we had enough for three games. But all the doof-doof, ping pissy pinging of the machines was buried by the sound coming from an open second storey window. We stood and listened. We could see a band in silhouette: playing; singing into a single mike. They were loud. Solid. Willing. Lyrical, even. The whole thing made me think of Del Shannon’s Two Silhouettes. It’s night, Del’s been away and is returning home, only to see his woman in a clinch with a stranger. Del sees them in silhouette, framed by a suburban window, kissing. The sad rush of Del Shannon ripping the heart from his own chest and all the darkness of the American night, accompanied the band. This band, playing in an empty room, over an empty street, to an audience of two, on a Tuesday night in Hamilton. Just as Del’s woman took up with the stranger, so these kids were looking to take up with the night and give this empty world a soundtrack.
(Time Zone Music)
The girl at the post office makes a call on her mobile phone. She’s got a c.d and an Iris Murdoch novel on the bench in front of her. She’s assembling a package and getting ready to post it. She’s so happy speaking to the other person, that her body moves; slowly. She’s calling the boy she just met. They’d talked, had some wine, picked at their food like sparrows and ordered coffee. Even their parting was filled with anticipation. She’d just discovered Iris Murdoch through the film Iris and she was happy to be the girl who’d sat down with the boy that night over wine, a meal and coffee and the sound of Marvin Gaye on the bistro’s crackly speaker. The d.j. announced “…a Marvin Gaye triple play.” Everything had been right and now she knew from the sound of his voice that it was still good with him, too. She twisted the sticky tape round her index finger and swayed slightly; from left to right. And she knew from talking to him that he could still hear Marvin, too. And this time there was no static.
(Post Office Music)
Her red and gold security tag said Jill. She was at the Auckland Art Gallery. As I was leaving, she asked me if I liked the old ones the best. (I’m at that age, you see.) I said I’d only come for the Mc Cahon’s, twice now. That’s when she told me they were “…fixing up Mc Cahon’s funny little house at French Bay.” Up stairs the gallery had included Mc Cahon’s French Bay from 1956 in its Representation and Reaction show. The painting had won the Hays Art Award, but the Christchurch City Council refused to accept it- probably because they couldn’t recognize which part of French Bay it was. But now, as Jill tells it, they’re restoring Mc Cahon’s house. So much varnish! So much advertising! So much obscenity! So much for my Mc Cahon. Why don’t these repairers ever restore something in a living artist’s house? The plumping or the heating, for instance. The floor. The electrical wiring. Fuck, I’d even settle for repairs on a living writer’s bathroom! Here’s Mc Cahon, Jill, in his last years, drunk in a Melbourne park, when he’s supposed to be at his opening in Sydney. He’s here with a bottle of sherry and a paper bag full of sugar. He’s slurring that Bob Dylan lyric from Highway 61 Revisited:
“I started out on burgundy but soon hit the harder stuff
Everybody said they’d be behind me when the game got rough
But the joke was on me, there was no body there, even to bluff.”
This from the man, who after he’d finished a series of paintings wrote to a friend and said he wouldn’t paint again, until he was a better man. Now they’re tarting up his house. He wouldn’t even recognize it. Stay in the park, Col. You’re better off there, mate.
(From The Gallery)
If you step out of the entrance of the Grand Chateau, you can see Hikurangi to the north. Hikurangi is a gun- grey land form. It’s shaped like a table and is surrounded by a tussocked plain. Viewed from Tongariro- the first national park in the world gifted to a nation by its country’s indigenous people- Hikurangi reminded me of Uluru. The Tuwharitoa people worked out a deal with the white settlers which has preserved the region. Being reminded of Uluru made me sad because for the Aborigines there is no Waitangi Treaty. No apology. No native title. Sure, we can sing along with Mandawuy Yunupingu and Yothu Yindi. But we still end up with a succession of conservative governments, a wind- up police force and Terra Nullis. And all the while Hikurangi holds its ground. Sure we can punch the air with our fists and yell: Treaty yeh; treaty now; treaty yeh. But we’re still left with the stolen generations: Treaty yeh; treaty now; treaty yeh. But we still end up with Yunupingu’s nephew sniffing petrol, with his cousin being arrested on an assault charge; with his uncle dying in police custody…. And all the while Hikurangi keeps its original name. We can repeat the chorus, over and over again; Treaty yeh; treaty now; treaty yeh. But where does it get us? It gets us as far as The Rock. Ayer’s Rock. No further
(Treaty Music)
It’s evening again. A woman wraps a statuette in a small white tablecloth and settles it in the crook of her left arm like a child. The statuette is dressed in a rhinestone encrusted white jumpsuit with a raised collar. She sits on the edge of her bed and begins to hum. Occasionally the hum gives way to the words of a song:
“Suspicion……………………………………………torments my heart
Suspicion ……………………………………………keeps us apart
Why torture me……………………………………..?”
As she closes her eyes the statuette peeks out from its swaddling clothes, flicks back its black, greasy hair and grinds out a big pelvic thrust. Its lip curls into a sneer.
The next morning the woman can tell she’s had a visitor because the statuette is smiling and because there’s a pair of blue suede shoes on the other side of her bed.
(Pelvic Thrust)
It’s not her cowgirl walk and its not her knee-high boots. It’s not even her buckskin vest or her Stetson. It’s the way she sings Three Cigarettes in an Ashtray. She knows that if it wasn’t for her, we’d be alone a whole lot more.
“You all take so much from me.” She says,
“I’m sorry.” I reply, with her voice.
(Cowgirl Music)
One minute I’m the smooth operator of Sade’s dreams. I’m right in there, kissing her, hard. The next minute she up and disappears. All of her! Suddenly! Just like that!
I know she’s disappeared because my tongue is left poking thin air. I’m so annoyed. But being a migrant to the diamond life, I keep right on: eyes closed, never relaxing my embrace, and moaning, softly…….. until I feel her body once again, next to mine.
Love’s like that isn’t it- such sweet misery!
(Diamond Music)
I’ve come to know the regulars at The Memory Motel. There’s Big Nick the owner, Sid the barman, Ray the young blind girl in the corner, Sally the waitress and Billy the Club.
And then there’s The Juke- which Big Nick calls The Juke of Earl. It’s antique. Rock solid, all chrome and beautiful lights. There’s no two ways about it, The Juke is a gem.
You enter The Memory Motel, think of a song and if in The Juke’s opinion it’s a classic, the song comes on automatically, through crisp speakers- loud and clear. Billy once began compiling The Juke’s play list, but he gave up when I walked in one Tuesday night and The Juke lit up and began playing Howlin’ Wolf’s Killing Floor’, on repeat. Talk about feeling vindicated!
It’s o.k to dance while The Juke plays. But The Juke won’t tolerate sing-alongs. So no matter how hard you concentrate on Rod Stewart’s Sailing for example, or Gerry and the Pacemakers’ You’ll Never Walk Alone, The Juke freezes you out.
Sally says she remembers when The Juke loosened up enough to let a kid be Pete Townsend for the night and play air guitar to My Generation. But that was in the old days.
(Motel Music)
Yesterday I asked Johanna where she’d been.
“I was kidnapped,” she said “…..by Al Green.”
“What; the Reverend Al Green?
“Yes” she replied, “I was a bit resentful at first because I felt so out of my depth. Everything was blurry. I was really lost. It was like I didn’t know who I was. Talk about scary. I was on the edge…. the edge of me.
I only started to feel ok about it the day I found the courage to step back. After I stood back, I could see how people stumble through their lives, never giving themselves time to dream.
When I saw that, I thanked God it was Al who’d kidnapped me and not someone uncool. From that day, my only worry was whether I wanted to come back home or not. It was then that the Reverend took me to the river-a river just for me, where I could swim from here to him and from him to here. Pity you can only dog paddle, dad.”
(God music)
It’s because of Tes that I barely listen to my favourite album anymore. You see, there’s a spot in Procol Harum’s “A Salty Dog” where Tes, no matter where she is in the house, always comes in and asks, “Did you hear it?” And I’ll say “No,” because I haven’t. Then she’ll say. “You only hear what you want to hear!” And I’ll say “Alright, show me what it sounds like.” “And then she’ll say “Show you? You’ve got to be joking!” Then I’ll say “At least try”. Then she’ll say. “Try! Try playing it backwards!” and walk out of the room.
When she’s far enough away I’ll mumble something; and she’ll call out “I heard that.”
(Dog music)
I was a victim of a nightmare, once. It happened right after I’d seen Clint Eastwood’s “Bird.” In my nightmare, I want to photograph Charlie Parker. We meet, agree on a place and he even shows up on time. Bird’s first question is “Colour?” “Shit no, Bird “I reply quick as a flash, “you know jazz only happens in black and white, man.” (I’d had that exact sentence stored away for years and now that I’d used it, I was on a roll……confident, even.)
I look at Bird and refer to my notebook, because I always storyboard those photographs that are going to be important. I put Charlie and his alto against a seamless, white background.
I take the Nikon, get the light reading and start shooting. “I bet none of them look like me,” says Charlie, and I say “You never know.”
Half way through a shot I feel the horror! That dreadful slackness in the rewind mechanism that says no film. “Shit!” Meanwhile Charlie’s all mischief and smiles-just like Forest Whitaker. He begins to play a tune, without putting his sax to his lips. He just fingers the pads-and it’s such a lovely sound: honey; something no one else will ever hear. Just me and the Bird. And he’s laughing out loud; roaring.
(Bird music)
I’d borrowed four Charles Mingus albums from Theo. I listened to them, selected the tracks I liked best and burnt them on to a single CD. I’d reduced Charlie Mingus to one CD- 80 minutes of music! But it was still not fair. Because while I’m happy to go one on one with say Elvis, Roy, Del, Van, Neil and the others, I can’t with Mingus. Even if I reduced Mingus to a single song, he’d still frighten me, because there would still be so many of him and still only one of me.
(One song)
Motel Music
I love to dance. My mind knows exactly how to hitch on to a rhythm and bring it home. Each Saturday, I give myself to the holy trinity of “Dirty Dancing”, “Saturday Night Fever” and “Dancin’ in the Rain.”
Each Saturday night I dip into something Travolta-ish; something creame-colored, something that announces each of my moves a split second before I break them out
Each Saturday night takes me by the hand and leads me to another club. Tonight it’s El Culo Grande, a Latin dive. Three women are exiting the club as I’m going in. I can tell from the looks I get that my Greekness translates into Latin heart throb-easily
I enter El Culo Grande, get a feel for it, give security the nod and start to possess the beat. The deep grooves of ‘Salome De Bahia’ sink into my bones. I begin to do my thing-pulling moves like The Snake Around Snapper, The Scarface Hop and The Flaming Jump Split. I’m hot and by the time Shakira belts out:
“No puedo pedir que el invierno de a un rosal
No puedo pedir a los olmosque te den peras
No puedo pedirle lo eterno a un simple mortal
No andar arrojando a los credos miles de perlas”
I’m incandescent, like those damned glow sticks. I’m wowing the dance gods in the v.i.p.area. My face is glistening; my heart pounding; my thighs moistening. I thank myself for abandoning underpants several days ago. This is the holy Saturday when I evolve from hairy insect(normal man) into majestic butterfly(glorious dancing man)
“Watch me go sick, God.” I yell as my eyes lock on to a Maria. “Yes, you.” My chest pushes out. I nod. She understands, and in an instant we’re committed to The Flying Chest Bump, made famous by Milli Vanilli. The Maria takes a step forward and so do I….
At one o’clock each Wednesday I go to The Last Record Store on Smith Street, stand in the R part of the Soul Section and wait—sometimes for up to five minutes.
And it’s not her so much, it’s mostly that expression of disdain that crossed her face as she picked up the cover of Dianna Ross’s “Greatest Hits” that I can’t forget.
Simon drives a 1989 red Toyota. A mate put me on to it, Tes’s mother paid for it, and we covered the registration, and insurance. The radio and tape deck don’t work properly, and neither does the single speaker. When I get to drive it, and I’m only allowed to on ” important business occasions…”I take with me a selection of tapes ranging from Thriller to Blood On The Tracks, from Let It Bleed to Astral Weeks.
But nothing sounds good.
So I just drive.
Then I introduced Barry White to the Toyota. The sound system hasn’t been built that is bad enough to restrain Barry’s lovin’. Right from the start he filled the cabin with so much to sex that I had to wind down the window and let him spill out onto the traffic. (I almost forgave him for building a career on a scrap he snuck off Issac Hayes’ “Shaft.”)
Listening only to Barry over the last five years has made me wiser. To the point where I have to ask how much bigger Barry would have been, if he’d remained a virgin. Just look at Newton, Kant, Kierkegaard, Dickinson and Lewis Carol: all geniuses; all virgins! If Barry had told us he was a virgin he would have become America’s Poet Laureate, instead of being its greatest singing chocolate cake.
I found it in Whole Foods. A rainbow coloured business card with A NEW THERAPY FOR A NEW AGE embossed across it.
So I called and the voice at the other end said “We feature a registered therapist who is very sensitive; in the moment. You’ll find her wiser than her linear years. She’s lovely to talk to.”
“I’ll take it.” I said. Noneless I thought I should get some practice in before I went to see her. Friends who know have told me that it all went back to childhood. Lock onto the big hurt. Well, recalling the first bike in my life certainly summoned the sadness. Dad bought the bike-second hand, naturally. He cleaned it up and presented it to me in front of my friends one Sunday.
Admittedly he didn’t have much to go on, but to use Deb’s, the girl’s next door, bike as a template, was a mistake. I became the owner of a lipstick red bike, with coloured cloth tassels hanging from the handlebars, netting over the back wheel(in case my flowing dress got caught in the spokes and a banana shaped, purple seat. I was heroic then, so I rode in onto the street.. One. Next, I summoned up the birthdays I never had. I waited until the Big Three O to celebrate a birthday. What happened to those years between five and twenty one;acknowledged birthday years all of them!
Then there was the talk we never had. Instead I went to high school believing Ronnie Sinclair. Ron told the entire Auburn South Football team after a Friday afternoon match against Ashburton that you had babies by taking off a lady’s pants and sticking a pin in her bum. You then turned her upside down and if puss came out of the hole, you knew she was pregnant
I was loaded So when the therapist said”Yes?”. I spilt everything. I’d been warned about the sphinx like, antennae, and I was prepared for it. She did take me by surprise though when she said.”If you’re serious about finding someone to share your life you should take up a past time. And one, “the therapist added sternly “that a woman might share,”referring unfairly, I thought to my record collection. How did she know about that?
I paid, rushed home and checked on my records.
There and then. I decided to reorganize them. I’d begin with the singer-songwriter section and I’d do it in such a complicated way that even the guy who cracked Tutankhamen’s secrets would be baffled. Sure it would take a long time, but it was going to be worth it because once more, I’d become IMPENETRABLE.
