Band Practice

Suburban blandness. Row upon row of brick veneer. Holden Commodores, Ford Falcons and a whole lot of Jap crap. For those fortunate enough to have a car.

My taxi pulled up and I trudged out, flight case in hand.

"What's this then?" The driver squinted at my luggage as I swung it into the car boot.

"A musical instrument."

"I can see that. A trombone, saxophone…?"

"It's a synthesiser." I sat in the front passenger seat and stared out the window, hoping that was the end of the conversation. Truth be told, it was a Korg Poly-800. It had taken me nine months of saving the shitty wage from my part time job at a sports stadium, spending hours on my feet in the cold and the heat. Nine months of buying one Bundy and Coke then swapping to plain Coke for the rest of the night. Nine months of scouring the Melbourne Trading Post on a Thursday morning, silently praying for a bargain to show up. Until finally I had enough squirrelled away to buy my dream machine.

"My son plays the organ."

Wow. Whoopee doo. I bet you do too, mate. Every night after your wife falls asleep.

We stopped at the intersection with the main road and the meter continued to tick over, emphasising the awkward silence.

"It's strange picking someone up when there are two cars in the driveway."

Ahh. That was triggering. Not much I could say, except to grunt an acknowledgement of the fact.

Late Sunday morning. We sped past my high school, still so familiar, but now looking dowdy and '70s. Weird. It was only six months or so since I was last there, anxious to get the results I needed for university, impatient to burst out of that repressive straightjacket into the real world. Through the side streets we went, until we reached a modest orange brick veneer. Justin's house. I strode up the concreted garden path, leading to a small patio guarded by a few neglected, weed-infested rose bushes. The front door was open and Japan's masterpiece Tin Drum welcomed my arrival.

Walking across the threshold, my nose stung with the tang of last night's curry. Justin's equipment sat in the lounge room, an impatient buzz thrumming through the amp.

He had Korg MS10, Roland SH101 and JX-3P synths and a Boss DR 55 drum machine. Like my synth, they were the budget versions of what pros used, sure, but an impressive collection for a nineteen year old, nonetheless.

The ironing board had already been set up for me. I suspected it hadn't been used for ironing since Justin's mum had suddenly died 18 months ago. We'd never talked about that. Justin wasn't one for introspection.

I unpacked my Korg. My next purchase would be a proper stand. I couldn't go on stage with an ironing board. When we'd played a private gig in Justin's lounge room for our schoolmates, they'd laughed and asked me if I'd iron their clothes afterwards. Fuckers. I'd show them.

Paul, the guitarist, shuffled in with his black Ibanez and nodded at the purple lining in my flight case. "Nice colour. That'll go down well when we play in the Gershwin Room at the Espy."

I'd heard it so many times now I barely cracked a smile. He switched off the stereo and laughed at my lack of humour.

"You got an 'E' there?"

I plugged into Justin's amp and held down the key. A couple of minutes of tuning and he was ready. The sound of Paul's distorted power chords brought Justin into the room.

Justin always reminded me of Pig Pen from Peanuts. With his thick curly black hair, three-day growth and the same unwashed woollen jumper, he was the least likely rock musician I'd ever seen.

But he wrote songs and they weren't bad. We played our eight songs for an hour and a half, going over each tune a few times. Justin's voice was a mournful monotone, but they were his tunes so no one complained.

Then, nervously, I presented one of my own songs — "Out Into The Void". I took them through the chords and sang, imagining I was David Bowie, constantly looking for a new character to become, not sure of who I really was.

Pretentious as fuck, yes. But this was not necessarily a bad thing.

As NME had gushed about Duran Duran, "Pretentious… but at least they're good at it." I hoped my lyrics could garner such praise one day.

Justin nodded his approval. "Not bad. Hey, how's Mr. Angry?"

It was his name for my father. Last year, Dad had dropped me off at my first band practice. Justin had come out to help me with my equipment and later he'd told me Dad had given him a look of complete disdain.

On the way home, Dad had lectured me about how I was ruining my life and how this "Pop Music" was a waste of my time and would only get me involved with lowlifes and no hopers and druggies. I sat in silence, unsure what to say in return. Music was my outlet, my chance to dream and be a part of something I loved. Why would he think I'd automatically descend into some drug-induced hellhole through my love of making music?

"Some people play in bands to help fund their way through university," I told Mum, hoping to get her on side.

She wasn't interested.

That was the last time I was driven to band practice.