(Companion to Ben's 'Binge'.)
Just recently, myself and two close and long-standing friends decided we'd take a break from the freakishly large small town that is Adelaide and spend a long weekend in Melbourne. For two of us, it'd be our first opportunity to see a city where stuff, not to put too fine a point on it, happens. For the third, it'd be a chance to show off his love for a now familiar place to two trusting and eager tourists. The plans were enticingly basic: soak up some atmosphere, forget about our respective jobs and troubles, and drink heroic amounts of alcohol.
As well as doing a pretty good job on these, we had a bunch of other entertaining encounters, most of which we could never have predicted. I could tell any number of stories: the girls we found in our double-booked room the first night (who, of course, were not only from our home town but also attended the same school as Ben and I), the joys of retro clothes shopping, a set of experiences in each airport that frankly made me despair for the entire human race. But there is one incident that, for me, is a shining beacon of delight in an already deeply satisfying trip. It happens on a Saturday night, somewhere around Northcote.
We've just left a concert, aglow with musical appreciation and a modest amount of alcohol, and we're looking for a place to continue drinking and, hopefully, start dancing. We come across a small, unassuming bar. The lights are low and the people look like our sort. There's no dancing, but it certainly seems worth a drink or two. And the music, provided by a rather handsome black lady on decks, switches almost supernaturally from hip-hop to Lennon as we get our beverages - two G&Ts, one beer - and sit down.
We won't be there very long. The bar closes at 2.00 am, an hour fast approaching. The lack of dancing aside, we've enjoyed ourselves. We've been very happy with the choices of our DJ, which include songs like 'Young American', 'Golden Brown' and 'My Baby Just Cares for Me'. At ten-to-two, the DJ gets ready to play the last song. She turns to us, practically the only people left in the place, and says, "Sorry guys, but I gotta play some Etta James to finish." We assure her, with drunken amiability, that this is fine.
A moment later, a familiar orchestral swell plays. We bide our time, and then all together lauch enthusiastically into the first line: "At laaast, my love has come along..." And no sooner have we begun then our mistress of the decks bursts into immediate, uncontrollable laughter.
I wonder what exactly makes her laugh. Is it that we three are obviously very, very tipsy? Is it that our singing can at best be described as loud, and at worst would not be described at all for decency's sake? Is it simply the way we have boisterously defied her preceeding apology? Or maybe it's just that we are conspicuously a trio of white boys? Whatever the cause, it doesn't really matter. Because it wasn't a mocking laugh; it was one of pure, appreciative joy. I have rarely seen someone so delighted by something that, to us, would be practically unthinkable not to do.
We never found out the lady's name; I don't think we even knew the name of the bar, if indeed it had one. At the time I vaguely considered trying to get a photo with her, but I realise now that this would have imposed a certain artificiality on the moment. It was a sudden, spontaneous delight. And it means something special to me. Because, though I have been known to make people laugh with a witty aside, an absurd non-sequitur, or sometimes - to my slight shame - a scathing put-down, it is a rare and beautiful thing to cause pure happiness just by being who you are. The reward is as good for the bringer of the joy as for the recipient, maybe more so. It's a priceless treasure. And - let's face it - I don't often get the chance to look that funky.
Just recently, myself and two close and long-standing friends decided we'd take a break from the freakishly large small town that is Adelaide and spend a long weekend in Melbourne. For two of us, it'd be our first opportunity to see a city where stuff, not to put too fine a point on it, happens. For the third, it'd be a chance to show off his love for a now familiar place to two trusting and eager tourists. The plans were enticingly basic: soak up some atmosphere, forget about our respective jobs and troubles, and drink heroic amounts of alcohol.
As well as doing a pretty good job on these, we had a bunch of other entertaining encounters, most of which we could never have predicted. I could tell any number of stories: the girls we found in our double-booked room the first night (who, of course, were not only from our home town but also attended the same school as Ben and I), the joys of retro clothes shopping, a set of experiences in each airport that frankly made me despair for the entire human race. But there is one incident that, for me, is a shining beacon of delight in an already deeply satisfying trip. It happens on a Saturday night, somewhere around Northcote.
We've just left a concert, aglow with musical appreciation and a modest amount of alcohol, and we're looking for a place to continue drinking and, hopefully, start dancing. We come across a small, unassuming bar. The lights are low and the people look like our sort. There's no dancing, but it certainly seems worth a drink or two. And the music, provided by a rather handsome black lady on decks, switches almost supernaturally from hip-hop to Lennon as we get our beverages - two G&Ts, one beer - and sit down.
We won't be there very long. The bar closes at 2.00 am, an hour fast approaching. The lack of dancing aside, we've enjoyed ourselves. We've been very happy with the choices of our DJ, which include songs like 'Young American', 'Golden Brown' and 'My Baby Just Cares for Me'. At ten-to-two, the DJ gets ready to play the last song. She turns to us, practically the only people left in the place, and says, "Sorry guys, but I gotta play some Etta James to finish." We assure her, with drunken amiability, that this is fine.
A moment later, a familiar orchestral swell plays. We bide our time, and then all together lauch enthusiastically into the first line: "At laaast, my love has come along..." And no sooner have we begun then our mistress of the decks bursts into immediate, uncontrollable laughter.
I wonder what exactly makes her laugh. Is it that we three are obviously very, very tipsy? Is it that our singing can at best be described as loud, and at worst would not be described at all for decency's sake? Is it simply the way we have boisterously defied her preceeding apology? Or maybe it's just that we are conspicuously a trio of white boys? Whatever the cause, it doesn't really matter. Because it wasn't a mocking laugh; it was one of pure, appreciative joy. I have rarely seen someone so delighted by something that, to us, would be practically unthinkable not to do.
We never found out the lady's name; I don't think we even knew the name of the bar, if indeed it had one. At the time I vaguely considered trying to get a photo with her, but I realise now that this would have imposed a certain artificiality on the moment. It was a sudden, spontaneous delight. And it means something special to me. Because, though I have been known to make people laugh with a witty aside, an absurd non-sequitur, or sometimes - to my slight shame - a scathing put-down, it is a rare and beautiful thing to cause pure happiness just by being who you are. The reward is as good for the bringer of the joy as for the recipient, maybe more so. It's a priceless treasure. And - let's face it - I don't often get the chance to look that funky.
