Part Two! I arrived at the Byron RSL not feeling too well, and was greeted by the organiser of the Writer’s Cabaret telling me that I should have been on-stage an hour earlier ! He then proceeded to tell me that I had to “go on” right away” which was a physical impossibility. Two Bloody Marys (sp?) steadied my nerves and it was agreed that I would be the penultimate act. I sat down to watch my fellow performers and wasn’t quite sure if I felt better or worse ! Some were funny, some were sad, some were bawdy and some were bad ! “No names no pack-drill” as my mother used to say. I never did quite understand the meaning of that phrase and figured it has entered the lexicon from the British Army. Be that as it may, my participation in the cabaret seemed upon closer inspection to have been an act of reckless self-indulgence which was highly likely to see me booed off-stage. I tried to compose myself. I had brought with me a guitar that Keith (”the man that death forgot”) Richards had given me way back in 1969 on a Rolling Stones American Tour. I figured once, just once, I should get up on a stage and sing using the guitar. A kind of perverse thank you to Keith ! The dread moment arrived and I took my seat and played a short ‘lazy thumb’ piece by Elizabeth Cotton of Freight Train fame, and made a mistake and told everyone it was by Sister Rosetta Tharpe. Not to worry - it would not have made a blind bit of difference to the audience who were not blind drunk but pretty much drunk. They could see me, I was pretty sure, but whether they actually had heard what I said is debatable.I soldiered on like all good troopers do and the audience joined me in a raucous version of “Me and Bobbie McGee” - I’d like to say that I was offered a recording contract on the spot, but alas no such happy gift eventuated - there weren’t even any groupies ! Just a few dear people sympathetically mentioning my “rich” smoke-stained voice and my “laid back” delivery ! To be frank it was one of the few moments in my life when I have felt genuinely scared, and it reminded me of all those years ago when I had made the decision that I NEVER wanted to be a performer. Ah well, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, I told myself and me and the guitar (without Bobby McGee) made a hasty exit as the final performer bought the evening to a close. I left for the bus and bed, the safest place for me to be. The following morning (a Sunday) I woke feeling fabulous and more than ready for the fray. Puja came and went in a spasm of beneficent blessings from a glorious morning as the sun shone above the horizon. A brisk bare-foot walk on the beach reminded me that I had been wearing shoes for too long and several coffees later I was well and truly revived. Me and the bus purred into the Festival site and I parked across from the entrance ‘ready to rock’. I decided to spend some time talking to the ordinary people who were attending the festival and (of course) I soon found out that none of them were ordinary! In fact, as I wander and wonder through this world, I have yet to meet anyone that’s ordinary! All the people that I meet seem extra-ordinary to me! Amazing people, and each and every one that I have ever met possesses a story of a life which is rich and diverse in its joys and sorrows, its aspirations cruelly denied, its pleasures sated indulged or frustrated by cruel twists of fate. 6+ billion people on the planet and no two people really alike - it’s a miracle ! Mind you, I remind myself of me sometimes ! My afternoon session was with Domenico Cacciola (the former cop whom I knew) and Stephen Dando Collins, and Gretel Killeen. Peter Bishop was the moderator and the event was entitled “And then it came to me: how I found my writer’s voice”. The participants were interesting in their diversity. An historian, an ex cop, an ex tour manager, and Ms Killeen who’d ‘done Big Brother’ (the television program I hasten to add). I guess because it was obvious I had the biggest mouth, Peter Bishop started with me! He somewhat unnerved me by introducing me with words to the effect that as a young man he had never listened to the Rolling Stones OR The Beatles, but had instead devoted himself to Bach and Beethoven, or was it Wagner and Mozart ? Something like that ! Of course I felt that he had been somewhat ‘deprived’ as a child but (as is my wont) I refrained from chiding him about his childhood and instead graciously enumerated all the times my own parents had encouraged me to read and enjoy books, thereby planting in my emerging consciousness the idea that anyone (including me) could write. Each of us gave our reasons, great and small and the audience seemed to enjoy what we had to say, and thus at three thirty in the afternoon for the last time we made our way to the ’signing tent’ where authors sign copies of their books for the public. I was gratified to discover that for the second time my own book had sold out! Stephen Dando Collins and I swapped books, Domenico gave me one of his and insisted I come to visit him when I was next in Brisbane to taste his home-made Grappa, and Gretel gave me a sweet (if wary) smile. I retreated to the bus and headed for the highway. In a quiet part of Byron shire I found a place to stop and have a few hours sleep, before driving through to Sydney. It had been a memorable weekend and as I fell asleep I wondered where I would arrange for a retreat where I might give up the booze and the fags and live a healthy life-style. As I dozed off and my liver grumbled and my lungs laughed, such a possibility seemed as remote as the city to which I would next turn my attentions. © Sam Cutler 2009

Part Two!

I arrived at the Byron RSL not feeling too well, and was greeted by the organiser of the Writer’s Cabaret telling me that I should have been on-stage an hour earlier ! He then proceeded to tell me that I had to “go on” right away” which was a physical impossibility. Two Bloody Marys (sp?) steadied my nerves and it was agreed that I would be the penultimate act. I sat down to watch my fellow performers and wasn’t quite sure if I felt better or worse ! Some were funny, some were sad, some were bawdy and some were bad ! “No names no pack-drill” as my mother used to say. I never did quite understand the meaning of that phrase and figured it has entered the lexicon from the British Army. Be that as it may, my participation in the cabaret seemed upon closer inspection to have been an act of reckless self-indulgence which was highly likely to see me booed off-stage. I tried to compose myself.

I had brought with me a guitar that Keith (”the man that death forgot”) Richards had given me way back in 1969 on a Rolling Stones American Tour. I figured once, just once, I should get up on a stage and sing using the guitar. A kind of perverse thank you to Keith ! The dread moment arrived and I took my seat and played a short ‘lazy thumb’ piece by Elizabeth Cotton of Freight Train fame, and made a mistake and told everyone it was by Sister Rosetta Tharpe. Not to worry - it would not have made a blind bit of difference to the audience who were not blind drunk but pretty much drunk.

They could see me, I was pretty sure, but whether they actually had heard what I said is debatable.I soldiered on like all good troopers do and the audience joined me in a raucous version of “Me and Bobbie McGee” - I’d like to say that I was offered a recording contract on the spot, but alas no such happy gift eventuated - there weren’t even any groupies ! Just a few dear people sympathetically mentioning my “rich” smoke-stained voice and my “laid back” delivery ! To be frank it was one of the few moments in my life when I have felt genuinely scared, and it reminded me of all those years ago when I had made the decision that I NEVER wanted to be a performer. Ah well, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, I told myself and me and the guitar (without Bobby McGee) made a hasty exit as the final performer bought the evening to a close. I left for the bus and bed, the safest place for me to be.

The following morning (a Sunday) I woke feeling fabulous and more than ready for the fray. Puja came and went in a spasm of beneficent blessings from a glorious morning as the sun shone above the horizon. A brisk bare-foot walk on the beach reminded me that I had been wearing shoes for too long and several coffees later I was well and truly revived. Me and the bus purred into the Festival site and I parked across from the entrance ‘ready to rock’. I decided to spend some time talking to the ordinary people who were attending the festival and (of course) I soon found out that none of them were ordinary! In fact, as I wander and wonder through this world, I have yet to meet anyone that’s ordinary! All the people that I meet seem extra-ordinary to me! Amazing people, and each and every one that I have ever met possesses a story of a life which is rich and diverse in its joys and sorrows, its aspirations cruelly denied, its pleasures sated indulged or frustrated by cruel twists of fate. 6+ billion people on the planet and no two people really alike - it’s a miracle !

Mind you, I remind myself of me sometimes !

My afternoon session was with Domenico Cacciola (the former cop whom I knew) and Stephen Dando Collins, and Gretel Killeen. Peter Bishop was the moderator and the event was entitled “And then it came to me: how I found my writer’s voice”. The participants were interesting in their diversity. An historian, an ex cop, an ex tour manager, and Ms Killeen who’d ‘done Big Brother’ (the television program I hasten to add). I guess because it was obvious I had the biggest mouth, Peter Bishop started with me! He somewhat unnerved me by introducing me with words to the effect that as a young man
he had never listened to the Rolling Stones OR The Beatles, but had instead devoted himself to Bach and Beethoven, or was it Wagner and Mozart ? Something like that ! Of course I felt that he had been somewhat ‘deprived’ as a child but (as is my wont) I refrained from chiding him about his childhood and instead graciously enumerated all the times my own parents had encouraged me to read and enjoy books, thereby planting in my emerging consciousness the idea that anyone (including me) could write.

Each of us gave our reasons, great and small and the audience seemed to enjoy what we had to say, and thus at three thirty in the afternoon for the last time we made our way to the ’signing tent’ where authors sign copies of their books for the public. I was gratified to discover that for the second time my own book had sold out! Stephen Dando Collins and I swapped books, Domenico gave me one of his and insisted I come to visit him when I was next in Brisbane to taste his home-made Grappa, and Gretel gave me a sweet (if wary) smile.

I retreated to the bus and headed for the highway. In a quiet part of Byron shire I found a place to stop and have a few hours sleep, before driving through to Sydney. It had been a memorable weekend and as I fell asleep I wondered where I would arrange for a retreat where I might give up the booze and the fags and live a healthy life-style. As I dozed off and my liver grumbled and my lungs laughed, such a possibility seemed as remote as the city to which I would next turn my attentions.

© Sam Cutler 2009

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