I used to manage Australia's first, fine-dining, certified organic restaurant. Or something like that. I'm not sure if it was the very, very first, or if it was precisely fine-dining, but it was at least an approximation, if not an exaction, of the two. It's regardless, for either way it doesn't really have that much to do with the story I wish to tell you here today. I used that statement, just to provide a historical timeline and framework. It was my first, real, restaurant management job. I was grossly under qualified and only won the position due to a combination of personal, dashing charm and a Machiavellian power struggle and reshuffling between some of the directors of the group, that owned the place. My hiring was meant to provoke a further on reaction and I am not so vain as to be so unawares, that I was simply a pawn in their game.
As it turned out and for reasons I couldn't be bothered to go into here (it's a whole other story, that I may save for a whole other post), I ended up remaining at the helm for far longer than anyone, including the staff under me, expected and as it turned out, ended up being fortunate enough to get a pretty good job done. Towards the end of my tenure there, I was pulling longer and longer hours. Some days, I would arrive back at my thin, yet sparse Blessington Street flat after 3am, only to return back to the restaurant's Flinders Lane location, the very next morning, at 10am. I was obviously younger and stronger then, but after a period of time, I began to be weighed down by a cumbersome dense haze of sleep deprivation.
It was one such evening (or shall I say, early morning) at around 4am and just as I was fading off into sleep, that there was a violent knocking on the door. I grunted once and rolled back over onto my other side. Occasionally, the 'local girls' who 'worked' out on the streets out front, would wander onto our entrance patio out the front and seek shelter from the rain. When they did, their 'managers' would follow after and yell at them to return to their 'work stations'. Usually, a heated debate would ensue, followed, sometimes, by a bit of smashing on my door. This is surely what was happening - no one I knew would suddenly drop in at this ridiculous hour.
The knocking recommenced. This time and somehow, even louder. It stopped and I heard my name being called out. That's odd, I thought, there can't be a prostitute with the same name as me. I jumped up from the bed and harried out of my bedroom and into the brief hallway. Through the distorted, opaque glass, I recognised the raking, tall figure of The Mandolin Picker, raising his long arms to recommence the whole banging routine.
To me, he always was and always will be The Mandolin Player, but he actually did alot more than just play mandolin. In fact, around town he had the reputation for being one of the best sound engineers available and regularly stood behind the mixing desk at gigs by some of the biggest and best bands. For a short while, his girlfriend had rented the second, tiny bedroom from me and he, sort of, moved in. It was during this period, that one day, he installed an immense, black wood, antique Pump Organ into the living room. I'm not sure if you would be familiar with this particular 'old-timey' instrument - it's certainly the only I've ever come across. Sometimes called a Reed Organ, it is a keyboard instrument, that somewhat resembles a small upright piano, with the sound it emits being generated and amplified by air that is pushed or sucked through the bottom of the unit. This air exchange is flowed by two pedals, looking exactly like oversize car brake pedals, that are pushed up and down whilst you play across the keyboard. The Organ remained after they moved out and he would drop by from time to time play around on it. Sometimes, he would turn up after midnight with members of the Bluegrass band he played mandolin in and all of us would jam. We all got quite friendly and I got particularly close to The Mandolin Player - closer than even when we were living in the same house.
His band's reputation was slowly on the rise and they had been approached to record an EP, to be produced by an Australian, 70's rock icon. During one of these recording sessions, he mentioned me and my music to their producer. The Icon asked for some demos of my stuff, which I happily and excitedly recorded and sent across to him. Weeks passed and heard nothing. Nothing that is, until this cold and rainy night.
I pulled open the front door, to find The Mandolin Player's shining and wet face, beaming at me. His eyes darted beyond and behind me and then back to my face.
"You ready?" he asked
"Ready for what?" I grumpily retorted with. I wasn't in the mood for a impromptu jam session tonight. It was too late and I wanted to sleep.
"He is ready for you. The Icon. He wants you to come and play for him now and maybe even lay some tracks down."
"Oh man, I don't think so. I'm fucked and I just need sleep. Why does it have to be now?"
"Now is perfect. You gonna let me in?"
"Oh yeah. Sure. Sorry. Come in."
I stepped back and he breezed in, with a rush of cool air, beyond me and into the living room. Wordlessly, he headed directly over to the far corner where he scooped up my guitar off it's stand.
"Where's the case for this?" he asked, holding the guitar up.
"Oh man. I am so tired."
"Leave that to me. Just grab the case."
I wandered back into my bedroom and returned with the hard-case he had demanded. As I approached up to where he stood, to take a hold of the guitar, he suddenly reached out his right hand and forced his index finger into my mouth. Bitterness. I immediately tasted a searing and biting bitterness. Drugs. He had just force feed drugs into my mouth and it was progressively, yet quickly dissolving into my tongue. Great. Just what I needed.
"What the fuck??!? What was that??" I loudly demanded.
"You know what that was." he softly responding, as he took the guitar-case off me and placed the guitar into it.
I did know what it was. Only one, relatively easily accessibly, narcotic has this particular, stomach churning, bitterness, as one of it's defining characteristics. I wont get into it totally here, but suffice to say this drug really does wake you up and help you 'go' on. (There you 'go'. This should really help define what it was, for those of you up to date with Australian drug slang.)
"Now let's please go to the studio." he commanded and we trooped off.
I arrived there to find only The Icon and the owner/operator of the studio. We all piled into the so called 'Live Room' and I started playing. I covered the full gambit. There were bottleneck-slide blues wails, finger picked ditties and heavily strummed rockers. Every song was played fast. Real fast. Alot faster than they were meant to be played. I'm not sure if it was more the fault of the drugs now coursing through my system or the palpable rising nervousness as a result of this sudden and potentially life changing opportunity, but I was rushing through the changes. The Icon kept repeatedly stopping me and asking me to slow down. I would restart the song I was hacking my way through at initially at the correct pace, but would quickly increase the speed way beyond an acceptable level. The whole time, I felt outside myself. It was as if I was standing above where I was sitting and watching a metaphorical car crash happen. I knew I was playing too fast, but I couldn't stop it; couldn't control it; couldn't reign it in.
After about 20 minutes, The Icon told me to stop.
"Look, son," he started with a sigh, " Your songs are good. They sounded good on the demo and they sounded good here. And your voice? It works. It really does. But you gotta get your tempo under control. You play too fast and your rhythm jumps around too much. You gotta get that under control. I think the best thing you can do, is go away and work with a band for a bit. Get some other instruments and players around you and have them slow you down and keep you in a particular groove."
"OK." I answered simply and somewhat despondently.
They all rose as one and headed back into the control booth, whilst I packed away my gear. By now, I was completely - there's no other more eloquent to put this - drug fucked. As I passed through the control booth, The Icon followed behind me to let The Mandolin Player and I out. He farewelled my friend first and then grabbed me by the point of my left shoulder. He looked me in the eye and said this.
"Come back. I want you to come back. Ok? And next time, be good. Next time, be good."
He genuinely wanted to give me another chance. I felt it. He wanted to make sure that I did. He wanted me to feel, that on some restricted level, he was emotionally bought into the music and wanted to work with me, but I needed to be better. I needed to be less forced. I needed to let the music tell itself. I needed to be more true. I needed to be more professional. I needed to be good. It was all very black and white. Quite simply, there was 'Good' and then there was 'Not Good', with no grey area inbetween. The Icon was not interested in potentials, only realism and actualities.
"Next time, be good."
The Mandolin Player and I returned to my flat, to debrief the short, early morning affair. We drank Jameson's, strummed various instruments and brainstormed for potential bandmates. A band -that'd be the solution! Something to force slow my play down. A backbone for me to balance off. We could practice at my place and use our contacts around town to secure plenty of gigs. We'd play a style that married pre-war country, blues and roots, with touches of more modern Southern Rock. Yeah, that sounded great. We would keep it acoustic, sparse and loose. Music to get drunk to. Music to play when drunk. Drunk, American music. Done. Resolved.
Eventually, the rising, morning sun began to fill my lounge room. I kicked my new bandmate back out onto the street, with the hope of pulling an hour or two's sleep, before having to be back at the restaurant. Before laying down, I took a blank A4 sheet of paper out from the printer and, in deep black permanent maker, scribbled this across it:
Next time, be good.
I grabbed some tape and tacked it up on the wall opposite the foot of my bed. The idea being, that every time I would wake up, this sign - this commandment - would be the first thing I see. It would remind me of the line between success and failure and it would placate me, that sometimes, one can and does get a second chance. Inspired by reality and motivated by memory.
I never did get to play for The Icon again. I know it would work so well for this little story if I would have, and, I suppose, I can could fictionalise an account of a fantasy second-chance, however, this would be demeaning to the integrity of the man himself. He was diagnosed with cancer shortly after and withdrew from 'The Scene'. Our band, that drunkard American thing, petered out as well. We played a few gigs, practiced a little as well, but there was always an excuse provided by life, that stood in the way of maintaining a consistency of union between us. Pity, really, for we sounded quite good. What I love about music is the intangible and instant inspiration of improvisation, performance and creation. But the repetition of rehearsal and recording, always seemed too unemotional, mathematical and worthy of avoiding. I've never really wanted to make an album and this just turned into one of the many times, I have subconsciously sabotaged or intentionally avoided gilded and golden opportunities to seriously record.
However, that tiny little exchange between The Icon and I, has stuck with me for life. (So many great and memorable life moments for me, seem to occur for me in doorways.) All of us know, that there are going to be times when we don't get a second chance - sometimes, we barely even get a first - but I now know to prepare for one, just in case I do. And not just passively prepare, but actually be determined to rectify the failure or the fall-short. For, in order to be viewed as 'Good', after being first viewed as 'Not Good Enough', requires such a performance that is so different, so markedly improved, that it seems as different as black seems to white.
There's no greys in a second chance. Only the line that stands between me and you.
