You see Old Mate around this area of the city all the time. He seems to have a perpetual rock concert going on his head as he walks around air-drumming and air-guitaring up and down this city block.
He sleeps rough outside the new apartment complex that is being built behind the old Federation Hotel on the corner of High Street. He rolls his swag out on the deck of the apartment sales office, under the cover of the entry canopy, and sleeps like a King.
We see him there most mornings when we get our morning coffee across the road – he is usually still sound asleep, oblivious to the humdrum of our vocations. He is then often found commanding stage presence downtown at lunchtime, strutting and headbanging yet otherwise silent, as we scurry for lunch.
Today, however, he has something unfamiliar: a shiny, brand new, electric guitar.
He had played this venue before. It was a long time ago, yet it felt like yesterday. The music, the lyrics, were as fresh in his mind now as they ever were.
The crowd were waiting, and he would make them wait no more. He raised his arm and held it high for a moment before letting it sail down over the strings. The notes burst out from the stage speakers over the crowd, and he let the lyrics soon chase after them as his song left him from the top of his voice,
“I am the son
And the heir
Of a shyness that is criminally vulgar
I am the son and heir
Of nothing in particular”
The juxtaposition of him with the guitar makes the scene impossible to ignore. He is filthy from months, perhaps years, of living on the streets. His old denim jeans – filthy too – are ripped not with a sense of fashion. He wears a sleeveless jacket over what was once a white t-shirt, both now collection rags of various spilled fluids. His once shaggy mullet a matted and grey mop that merges with his crusty beard to conceal nearly his whole face. The guitar, however, is white and polished to a piano finish, gleaming in the morning sun.
Where, or how, he came into possession of what appears to be a very new and expensive musical instrument is a complete mystery to us. Speculation of such is our topic of discussion while we wait for our coffee order.
Meanwhile, he is standing there across the road with one foot up on a milk crate, an amp lays beside him on the ground plugged inconveniently to the Hotel’s outside outlet, and he is thrashing the bejesus out of the guitar chords while singing in our direction.
Unfortunately, or fortunately as the case may well be, we cannot hear him – the traffic and city noise has muffled the sound.
He loved the effect the tremolo arm makes on the chords. In past times, at other venues, he was often chastised for overdoing it. But this was his stage, his gig, so he pumped out a wave of electronic pulse powerful enough to engulf a city block, before launching into the chorus.
“You shut your mouth
How can you say
I go about things the wrong way?
I am human and I need to be loved
Just like everybody else does”
That building behind seems to mirror Old Mate today; the front façade is what remains of a 19th century Federation Hotel, and a modern, very contemporary, new apartment building rises from its gutted belly.
The old Hotel survived many reincarnations over its history – 19th century golden era hotel, a series of nightclubs and live music venues in the late 20th century, and most recently a Friday night watering hole for we local business folk – but its heritage listing could only save face to modern development.
We figure that it won’t be long before someone makes Old Mate move on. It’s a shame really, he’s not hurting anyone. But, the apartment complex was recently completed, and the doors are opening to the public later today.
Verse two always made him emotional, no matter how many times he played the song. The words, the lyrics, as raw and biting now as they were the night he first heard them. He channelled that emotion into his performance though, to release it and let it absorb into the crowd.
“There’s a club if you’d like to go
You could meet somebody who really loves you
So you go and you stand on your own
And you leave on your own
And you go home and you cry
And you want to die”
We reckon he must have stolen it. No one has seen Old Mate with any possession more noteworthy than his swag. And it’s not like he could walk into the local Music Store – the Mod Squad Mafiaso that run that shop won’t even let us in the front door without a judgemental stare and an impatient finger rapping on the counter until we leave.
No doubt soon the police will come too then. Old Mate doesn’t seem to care though, he’s clearly flaunting it, rubbing it in our faces that he can do whatever he wants. Lucky bugger; it’s hard not to be jealous of the freedom he seems to display – a true ‘zero-fucks-given’ performance.
His band had been to the venue earlier, but they didn’t hang around to join him on stage. They left him a gift and wished him well. When was the last time he had seen them? It was hard to recall. It seemed like they were always with him, supporting him while he was in front of the stage, yet he hardly recognised their faces. How did they get so old?
“When you say it’s gonna happen “now”
Well when exactly do you mean?
See I’ve already waited too long
And all my hope is gone”
Our coffees arrive, it’s time to go back to the office. Our moment in the morning sunlight now spent.
We all can’t stop looking across at old mate as we walk up the street. I wonder where he will end up sleeping now that the apartment complex is in operation. Perhaps that is why he stole the guitar, if that’s what he did – prison would surely seem a good option for free accommodation from his position.
Anyway, it’s hard for us to fathom why anyone would choose vagrancy when there are so many options, and assistance, available in our modern society.
Our talk moves on to the day’s order of business as Old Mate’s morning performance fades into the background and our memories.
The final chorus. He had nailed the performance, he knew he had, he always did. The crowd were all wide-eyed, gaping mouths, hungry for him to close strong. He never disappointed the crowd. His guitar and he himself seemed to merge into one instrument as he belted it out,
“You shut your mouth
How can you say
I go about things the wrong way?
I am human and I need to be loved
Just like everybody else does”
Old mate pauses after the final guitar note fades out to silence. He shuffles his feet to realign himself to the centre of the stage and wipes a drop of sweat off the guitar using his crisp white shirt.
A moment passes in the morning light.
Old mate turns his head – he is on stage, guitar in hand, but how did he get here? No matter – he had played this venue before. It was a long time ago, yet it felt like yesterday. The music, the lyrics, were as fresh in his mind now as they ever were.
The crowd were waiting, and he would make them wait no more. He raised his arm and held it high for a moment before letting it sail down over the strings. The notes burst out from the stage speakers over the crowd, and he let the lyrics soon chase after them as he sang at the top of his voice,
“I am the son
And the heir…”
Song Lyrics: The Smiths – How Soon Is Now
