Erasing Musical Boundaries

Saturday – 5 Oct, 2002

I went out in Brisbane alone for the evening. I was waiting for the familiarity to kick in, and eventually some things did, but not as much as I thought. I should have known better, everything I knew from years ago when I was last here would have gone out of my head with the breeze when I left.

Arna, my sister-in-law, had found 2 establishments with live jazz jam sessions for me to check out. Jam sessions at home generally mean people sit in, everyone comes with their instruments and join in. My hope was to find someplace to sing. Once off the bus, I figured out how to get back to where I needed to be at mid-night so I wouldn’t be discombobulated catching the last bus. I then found the Casino and caught a taxi from there. I had been inside that Casino once 5 years ago. I was tempted to go in and take a stroll just to spark my memory but I didn’t. My taxi driver, Jimmy, told me he came here from Egypt eight months ago to earn his MBA. Apparently Brisbane didn’t hold much interest for him. He asked if he could smoke while he drove. I would never say “no” and figured I’d hang Arna’s jean jacket on the clothesline tomorrow to get the smell out.

Jimmy didn’t know where Bohemia Café was, though he knew West End. We headed there and figured we’d eventually find it. West End is where Stewart had lived. It’s an artsy, eclectic kind of town with lots of great little shops and cafes on the main drag. We’d have breakfast at those places on Sunday mornings, Stew and I, and read the paper. Five years on, he’s married now, with a baby. Café Bohemia was a bit off the beaten path and was exactly as its name suggested: a café for Bohemians. A hippie-hangin, incense-burning, curry-cooking, b-y-o, hole-in-the-wall, one step down from street level and through a front wall of windows. The rugs, table clothes and mismatched chairs were adorned with gaudy scarves, candles with empowering scents and charms with secret meanings. But the walls…they seemed called to a higher purpose. The walls were muted with black and white, covered with laminated articles and photos supporting one of two things-left wing politics (as we know it) or local jazz musicians. I didn’t know where they intended to ‘jam’ but it would be a tight squeeze and not exactly the haunt I was looking for. I would have stayed for a drink and an hour of people watching but I’d have to purchase my own bottle up the street and I wasn’t that desperate. I had gotten Jimmy’s card before he left me off, but I knew the beaten path wasn’t that far away so I started walking.

Eventually I decided to stick with my original plan for the night rather than wander aimlessly, so I caught another cab to the second establishment on my list. The Brisbane Jazz Club had an address denoted as K. Pt. That would have to be Kangaroo or Koala Point, don’t you think? (It was Kangaroo.) The taxi driver didn’t know where this place was either. Another off-the-beaten-path venue; was my luck finally running out? I didn’t much care, I was on a mission. We finally found it, tucked away under The Storey Bridge on the riverfront. I made sure to notice how far we had gone and the way back should I have to walk again. Something told me I wasn’t as safe in this part of town as I was in West End.

The Brisbane Jazz Club, its name scrawled in big red letters across the side of the white building, and a full car park, looked as legitimate as it sounded. However, I knew I was in trouble when the 80-year-old lady in the ticket booth seemed surprised I wanted to pay the $12 cover. She seemed genuinely disappointed that she couldn’t cut me a break since I wasn't a member or a student. The look in her eyes led me to believe if I protested just a bit I could get her to break the rules, but I’m useless at stuff like that. I gave her my $12 and grabbed a few free newspapers from the lobby to keep myself occupied before the music started. A cover page caught my eye with an article about the cleaning up of Fortitude Valley, the slums I had worked in 5 years ago. The Valley was quickly be turning into the place to be seen for a very young crowd with lots of money. The front-page article of another paper cited the concern over the strip clubs breaking Queensland law by allowing sex to go on in the clubs. These clubs don’t have nearly the taboo linked to them as in the States and are prevalent everywhere in the City although most of the strip clubs are in Fortitude Valley. Two very different and interesting spins on what’s happening in the same part of town.

Papers in hand, I opened the door to the Brisbane Jazz Club. My eyes dropped to the plastic tablecloths with the Hawaiian motif strewn over approximately 40 card tables with folding chairs around each. My fears were confirmed; my luck had indeed run out. I had paid $12 to get into a VFW Hall. I immediately scouted the room for a bar and found one at the other end of the sloped wooden dance floor. Then I scouted the back wall for bottles of alcohol-whew! Upon my assessment of the room, I noticed I was the youngest thing there by a good 40 years. Most of the tables were already occupied by what seemed like friends and friends of friends. I took a seat at the empty table right next to the door. This suited me, as it would allow for a quick getaway should that become necessary. There was a lot to be desired in the way of atmosphere and décor, but this building would surely be considered prime real estate. It was right on the river, and had a great view of the City and Ferries through a wall of windows on the big deck on the back that jetted over the water. The band was warming up, more 70+ year-old men in matching long sleeve polo shirts. It wasn't what I was looking for but I bought a drink and decided to wait it out. In all actuality, I knew this was the place I was meant to be tonight and that it would probably be the first time I smiled in days. I was right.

The place filled up with more old people, some single and some couples, but most danced to the ragtime/dixie jazz all night. The band was great! The ensemble included a sax, double bass, drums, upright piano, trombone, clarinet and trumpet. The horn players used those rubber plunger heads to make those old time sliding sounds. It really was fun and inspiring to sit and watch. I couldn’t help but wonder what my Bass player, Don, would think of their drummer. Those two instruments are very much reliant on each other and usually have very strong opinions about each other’s level of talent. Everyone knew everyone and all obviously came here regularly, as much to see each other as to hear the music. I felt like I was crashing someone's wedding reception or a sleuth eavesdropping on a 50th high school reunion. My friend Pat would love this. He would tool around from table to table all night, spinning stories about our lives and gathering bits and pieces of everyone else’s. This was as close to a theatre experience in Brisbane I would get for $12.

I have always been fascinated when I watch people generations older than me dance with each other. I find it sensual, the way they hold onto each other so gently and look into each other’s eyes, as their feet float across each other’s; it is as if it were a secret language between the two of them. It made me wonder what their lives were like. Were they married…to each other? What do they talk about in their kitchens? Do they look at each other like that any other time? During one of the band’s breaks, I saw one of the dancers, the most energetic of the bunch, grab an old metal cheese grater from behind the ticket booth and prance around the wooden floorboards grating something I couldn’t identify, but was obviously intended to create more traction. I didn't get to sing that night, but the drummer told me to come to the Hotel up the road tomorrow, where he played with a blues band that I could sit in with.

Just before the last set of music, a beautiful woman came in; she was many years on but very glamorous, almost sexy. I found out later she was 75 years old! I never did get her name but I called her Lucy. Lucy was decked out in jeans that sparkled ever so slightly and were probably more ‘fitted’ than most would think appropriate for someone her age, but she had the figure to get away with it. I was envious. Her blouse was black and fitted, made of gauze, with a low neckline and a few rows of elastic around the waist, which seem to accent the length of her legs. The only things that really belied her age were the pearls around her neck and her hair. The strand of pearls was longer than it should have been and I couldn’t help but wish they hugged her neck closer to better accessorize the outfit. Lucy’s hair was upswept and the colour was a dull grey, not shiny or silver the way I would have expected. It was a little dishevelled but obviously long, something else I think most would consider taboo given her age. Certainly my mother would. She was alone, but had dancing shoes on and an expectant look on her face as she quickly scanned the room. When she seemed to not find whatever it was she was looking for, she was at a bit of a loss, so I invited her to sit at my table. I had been happy to have it to myself up until that point, and I had 2 empty chairs. She flashed an easy smile, which I didn’t expect, and I realized there was sternness about her face that would make one think she wouldn’t smile so easily. I am often fearful I have that same look. There was a youthful spirit in the way she carried her body, reflected in her face. Her blue eyes were clear and keen and her teeth were perfect through a pretty pink smile. She had very little makeup on and her wrinkles looked as if they hadn’t been there very long.

A would-be suitor made his way to our table almost immediately. I found out later his name was James. James made an obvious attempt to ‘chat Lucy up’. Lucy seemed to know this man and was completely uninterested but he was not to be easily dissuaded. I’m not sure why, exactly, but I got the feeling he had played this game with her many times before. I pretended not to watch. He stood at her side and chatted at her, but she would not stand up; she made him bend to talk and listened with one ear, never looked directly at him but answer his questions and nodded in turn. Lucy tried to be obvious without being downright rude; we were alike in more ways than one, she and I.

Eventually James asked if he could sit in our empty chair. She told him “No, her boyfriend is sitting there”, referring to me and the boyfriend I wasn’t with. He worked his way over to me and asked if he could sit in our 3rd and last available chair. Unaware of Lucy’s original excuse, I didn’t deny the old man a chair. He continued to talk at Lucy but she would not turn her body towards him; she was very coy and calculating, and made sure not to give him any rope whatsoever. I watched her like a student drinking in a technique I was sure I knew as well. Eventually he engaged me in conversation but because he couldn’t hear very well, he had to involve Lucy to hear and answer most of my generic questions about the history of the club and the band, etc. Lucy eventually took her leave to another table and I was left with James on my own.

He was from Holland, 80 years old, came to Australia in 1950, married twice, 3 grown children, loved Jazz but shared that during the war they were not allowed to listen to it in Europe where it was considered dirty. The accent he spoke with still seemed surprisingly strong but then I realized by now it would be an interesting mix of Australian and Dutch and the combination may seem stranger to my ears than it really was. I noticed the whiteness of his watch face and thought that it should have been more yellowed, stained with time. The brightness was out of place on his 80 year old hand. He seemed a bit put-off by the fact that Lucy left us to sit with another table and told me that she was beautiful but a very strange woman. Like most men, I imagined he truly believed this because he could not fathom that she would not be interested in him. He told me more than once he was looking for a ‘permanent female companion’ and I began to worry a bit. Eventually he said age meant nothing to him, asked if I thought Lucy was miffed because “he chose me over her”, and said he would like to get together this week before I leave town. I knew then I should be worried. I went to the bar to get us some water and find out the best way back to my bus station. The bartender, who was young and not ugly, said he was pretty sure I'd be safe walking up the road to the hotel to catch a cab or he could call me one. Of course I chose to walk. When I got back to the table James had his card on the table ready to present to me. He mentioned again his dancing lessons were to start on Monday and there were meant to be more women than men. I didn’t want to leave but he was beginning to ruin my night, so when he offered me a ride home I pretended I didn’t hear him above the music, looked at my watch, grabbed Arna’s jean jacket and told him I needed to meet my brother who was picking me up at the top of the street in 5 minutes.

It was about this time somewhere in the back of my mind I began to rethink my life long penchant for older men. James started to follow me out the door, said he’d go get his car even as I insisted I’d be fine, thank you anyway, and I began to take bigger steps. Another gentleman literally jumped in front of him and suggested I not leave alone. He gave me his arm and asked where I was going and said he'd walk me to the hotel. I took it reluctantly, knowing I was taking my chances, but more relieved than scared by now. I had seen this gentleman dancing all night with a few of the ladies who all seemed like regulars and he was closer to 60 than 80 years old. I was walking fairly quickly now, talking and paying very careful attention to my surroundings to make sure we were heading back to the beaten path. Stephen was Swedish, still owned a home in Stockholm where he spent 5 months each year. He had just got back last weekend, as a matter of fact. I knew I was walking too fast for him and he was struggling to keep up, but I was not out for a lazy stroll and I didn’t care. He left me at the hotel like a hero and as he turned to walk away, I remembered my manners, offered my hand and my name and thanked him very much. Chivalry is not dead, not amongst his generation, or his nationality, and I was reminded how unconditional suspicion can rob a shiny experience of its light.