Cinnamon Sweat

  I'm gonna max out all my credit cards and keep all my pay …’

  ‘Really? You don't know this? It’s called “I Hope You Die Before I Get Old”. It's a classic!’

  ‘I'm gonna sail across the world with a chick half my age,

  I'm gonna join a band with my mates and rock up on the stage …’

  ‘That song was part of their grunge faze, about fifteen years before grunge became fashionable.’ Deb joined the chorus with far more passion than melody.

  ‘I hope you die before I get old,

  I'll be outta here before your body's cold,

  Pack my bags before the house is sold,

  I hope you die before I get old …’

  ‘Awesome, eh?’ She sang the next verse in perfect unison.

  ‘I’m gonna grow a beard and never cut my hair,

  I'm gonna say whatever I want and bloody frigging swear …’

  Sean risked a smirk. ‘But can you really relate to those words?’

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘Never mind.’

  Deb continued bopping out of time and singing out of tune.

  ‘I'm gonna eat take-away every night and leave dishes in the sink,

  I'm gonna leave the toilet seat up and never mind the stink …’

  ‘I like it,’ lied Sean.

  ‘After being a grunge band, Cinnamon Sweat went heavy metal, reverted to pop, before toying with funk, and finally returning to what they do best.’

  ‘You must've seen them loads of times in concert?’

  ‘Nope.’ Deb stopped flailing her arms and started shaking her head. ‘Never.’

  ‘Really? You’re their number one fan, but you've never seen them live?’

  ‘I've been here in The Dales all my life. I took over the shop when my mother …’ Deb paused, gulped and looked away.

  ‘But I think Cinnamon Sweat are touring South Australia right now.’

  ‘I know, but I can't go. I don't have a car. The bus only comes past twice a week. Tickets probably cost ten dollars … And who'd look after the shops when I'm away?’

  * * * * *

  Sean knew where to find the dusty mound surrounded by the hopeful ring of grass in the middle of the Edna Barrington-Smythe Memorial Park. He was also relieved when the appropriate lights on his mobile phone started blinking encouragingly. ‘Archie? Can you hear me?’

  ‘Yeah, Sean. Just.’

  ‘The landlady at the pub said that if I stand here on this mound between 3.15 and 3.25, face east and shout I might get some reception.’ Sean grinned at the other four standing on the embankment, all facing the same direction and shouting into their phones.

  ‘God, Sean. It sounds like you're on Mars.’

  ‘It feels like it too.’ Sean expertly opened his handy-cam with his non-phone-hand and started filming. ‘My bloody campervan is shot, and I'm stuck here in Chittingford Dales.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘It's the most ironic name in Australia. With the possible exception of the place I'm staying –the Bella Vista Caravan Resort and Spa. Listen, mate, you know what's going on in the music business …’

  * * * * *

  Now knowing which of the pub’s doors would actually open, Sean wasn’t surprised to find the same people perched at the same tables eating, drinking and watching as they had done at lunchtime. And he now recognised the ping and ching sounds that emanated from the microwave and the attached room crammed with poker machines.

  Bob and Jack had come in from the veranda and were soon arguing about how best to set up the fire required during a winter evening in the state’s mid-north. While trying to adjust every knob on the TV for better reception, Dave nodded perfunctorily at Sean.

  And on the jukebox the familiar chorus was being repeated ad nauseum:

  I hope you die before I get old,

  I'll be outta here before your body's cold,

  Pack my bags before the house is sold,

  I hope you die before I get old …

  Madge stared at Sean in the same ambiguous way she’d done earlier that day, while Deb was polishing glasses pointlessly and singing tunelessly as if she’d done neither every evening for years.

  Sean approached the counter and squatted on a stool next to a man who appeared bereft of any will to live. ‘Well, I did it.’

  ‘Fixed the TV?’ mumbled Dave.

  ‘Nope. But if Mohammad won't come to the mountain ...’

  Madge scowled suspiciously. ‘You ain't one of those religious funda-mental-cases are you?’

  Sean opened his handy-cam and pointed it at Deb. ‘Brace yourself, because coming to play here at this very town …’ He paused melodramatically. ‘… is Cinnamon Sweat.’

  Deb opened her mouth and dropped the glass. Robotically picking up another to polish, she started stuttering. ‘Wha-wha-wha ...’

  ‘Oh, God.’ Jack groaned from the fireplace. ‘Not that bloody band, please.’

  Perching himself more comfortably on the bar stool, Sean nodded when Madge wordlessly suggested he buy a beer. ‘Listen, Deb, I made some calls ...’

  ‘Wha-wha-wha ...’ Deb dropped another glass.

  ‘How about Bob Dylan instead?’ Jack angrily flung another stump into the hearth.

  ‘... and I pulled some strings ...’

  ‘Wha-wha-wha ...’ Deb absentmindedly picked up another glass.

  ‘Or maybe John Lennon?’

  ‘… and made some promises I probably can't keep. But the bottom line is that your favourite band, Cinnamon Sweat, are playing here in Chittingford Dales.’

  Madge stopped pouring Sean’s beer to catch the third glass slipping from Deb’s hand, and guided her to a corner table.

  ‘Wha-wha-wha-when?’

  ‘Monday.’ Sean turned towards Jack. ‘And, sorry to say, but John Lennon is dead.’

  Madge looked on helplessly as Jack dropped his glass.  

  CHAPTER TWO

  Friday

  Sean strolled confidently past the row of shop windows with cobwebbed curtains, “antique” cups and saucers for sale, and ludicrously optimistic “For Lease” signs. On the mound, he nodded and grinned at the handful of locals he’d seen the previous day, including Jack, who was now too surly to acknowledge him.

  Sean checked if the correct signals on his phone were blinking before expertly pressing a few keys. ‘Mitch? Are you there?’

  ‘Sean? I can just about hear you.’

  ‘Listen, I have a great idea for you. Believe me.’

  As a useless guitarist in a hopeless punk band during a previous life, Sean had gathered contacts, and contacts of contacts, across the music business and, more importantly these days, the video/internet industry. Mitch worked as a reporter/programmer for a website called RealiTV that streamed reality “fly-on-the-wall” programs live using the slogan “Onlooking Online”.

  Mitch was in his trendy, upper-floor office surrounded by ten equally nerdy staff, all engrossed in their laptops. ‘Is this like the last idea for a series you pitched to me, Sean? About you following a group of nude models across Paris?’

  ‘I still think that was a great idea.’

  ‘What is it this time?’

  ‘I'm here in a …’ Sean peered at the others on the mound, all facing east and shouting into their phones. ‘… in a time warp. I've turned left and ended up in 1953. In a one-dog town where people listen to vinyl records, communicate by fax, use beepers, don't have latte machines–’

  ‘Good God!’

  ‘–eat nothing but toasted sandwiches in plastic bags, and boast about something called The Big Turnip that looks like a small pumpkin.’

  ‘Sounds horrible.’

  ‘No.’ Sean shook his head. ‘Not really. But the premise for the video series is that I've arranged for Cinnamon Sweat–’

  ‘Christ! Are they still alive?’

  ‘Yep, but on life-support – medically, musically and financially.’

  Mitch groaned. ‘God, I covered
that stupid band when I was ...’ Sean pressed his phone closer to his eardrum as Mitch’s voice flickered. ‘… toured ... music mag ... drugs ... Oscar ... dead ... 1975 ...’

  ‘Sorry, Mitch, but you're cutting out. Madge said I should ...’ As Sean started jumping and wildly flinging his non-phone-hand, he turned to watch the four others on the mound doing exactly the same. ‘Can you hear me now, Mitch?’

  ‘Yeah, that's better.’

  ‘Which phase where The Sweat into when you interviewed them? Punk, pop or metal?’

  ‘All three. And I only worked at that stupid magazine for one month. But how the hell did you get The Sweat to visit your ghost town?’

  Sean jumped and flung his arm a little more. ‘A mate told me that gigs on their current tour of South Australia have been cancelled for security reasons.’

  ‘Which means a lack of tickets sold.’

  ‘And the band was rapt to be asked to play. Anywhere. And they think Chittingford Dales sounds posh.’

  ‘My God.’ Mitch chuckled. ‘Cinnamon Sweat, eh? They're probably even more untalented and ugly now. So, what angle is there for any reality video series?’

  ‘Well, they're playing here on Monday in a town with an official population of fifteen. And that includes Deb, the founder, manager and sole remaining member of the group's first and only fan club.’

  ‘That does sound truly pathetic.’

  Sean was encouraged that Mitch hadn’t scoffed yet. ‘And Deb has never even seen them play live. This is massive human interest stuff.’

  ‘And really cringe-worthy.’

  ‘This is reality, Mitch. None of your usual contrived crap–‘

  ‘Hey!’

  ‘–where people are selectively chosen and placed in quote-unquote real situations, and more or less given scripts, and provided acting lessons on how to act real.’

  Mitch paused. ‘Your idea does sound sad, lonely, pitiful and toe-curling.’

  ‘It's real people doing real things in real places.’

  ‘But that's always risky.’

  ‘C'mon, Mitch. It'll be just like old times. You interview. I film. We argue.’ Gazing at the others on the mound, all frantically jumping and flinging their arms, Sean opened his handy-cam. ‘And I've already got some amazing footage that you would not believe.’

  ‘But aren’t you meant to be filming something important to justify this grant of yours?’

  ‘Oh, yeah.’ Sean hesitated. ‘I’ll just fudge it. I’ll tell them my documentary is about a cultural experience among a disadvantaged community in a deprived rural area. It’s almost true.’

  ‘OK. I'll talk to my boss, Dustin. If he says “yes” – or, doesn't say, “no” – we're on ... But how do I get there, to Shitting Full Wherever?’

  Mitch stopped making notes on his iPad as Sean continued his answer. ‘You head straight through the '90s, go past the 1980s, bypass the '70s, ignore the '60s completely. And stop when you reach about 1953.’

  * * * * *

  ‘Monday?!’ Deb paced back towards the main door of her shop. ‘But that's, that's the day after, after Sunday!’

  ‘It usually is.’

  ‘But that's in two …’ Deb stopped pacing to count on her left hand. ‘… No, three days! God, my hair!’ She swiftly lifted her other hand to her head. ‘Gladys does it for me, but she's in Upper Chittingford getting her hip replaced.’

  ‘Look, Deb, I'm sure your hair–‘

  ‘And the town is so, so dusty. I'll have to vacuum Main Street. Polish the street light. Dust off the Turnip ...’ Deb frantically searched for a pad and pen and started writing a list. ‘... Sweep up the dead dogs. We’ll need better loo paper for the pub, and we have to get–’

  ‘– a coffee machine?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘And Wi-Fi?’

  ‘Why what?’ Deb glared at Sean for a split-second before continuing with her list. ‘I have to make a welcome banner. Print tickets.’ She scowled at Sean. ‘My God, there's so much to do!’

  ‘Settle down. Dave seems in no hurry to fix my van, so I can stay and help.’

  ‘Thank God.’

  ‘But listen, Deb, there is something you should know.’ Sean glanced uneasily at the array of posters adorning the walls. ‘Cinnamon Sweat has been less than honest with its fans – or fan in your case. During all the break-ups and reunions, there's been a turnover of band members.’

  ‘Oh?’ Her previous expression of panic was replaced with one of dismay.

  ‘My friend Mitch reckons that in the band's 41-year history there's been ...’ Sean extracted a phone from his pocket and scrolled through an email. ‘… 79 different members.’

  ‘Oh, God.’ Deb steadied herself against the old-fashioned cash register.

  ‘Of the original four members who formed the band in 1973, one was arrested for something that involved girls who weren't as old as he thought, so he moved overseas. One checked into that famous loony bin for aging rock stars.’ To avoid Deb’s increasingly panic-stricken face, Sean again glanced at the email on his phone. ‘Another killed himself, or was possibly stabbed, though his body was never found.’

  Deb inhaled deeply. ‘So, which of the band is coming?’

  ‘The same line-up that recorded their only album and toured South Australia in 1975.’

  Deb now gulped nervously. ‘Does that include Trevor?’

  Sean checked the email. ‘Um, yes.’

  ‘Thank God!’ Screaming like a 13-year-old girl, Deb clapped her hands and hugged a startled Sean. ‘I'd die if Trevor wasn't coming. I can show him these.’ She hurriedly began unbuttoning the top of her blouse.

  ‘Deb!’ Sean turned away in horror and checked if anyone was peering through the window. ‘What are you doing?’

  Deb unfastened three buttons and proudly showed Sean a tattoo of Cinnamon Sweat on her upper chest, which he glanced at perfunctorily. Turning away again in embarrassment, he noticed Dave strolling past the shop window. The Occasional Mechanic growled at Sean and then glared at Deb before sluggishly moving on.

  Deb pointed to some smudged ink on her skin. ‘That's Trevor. Isn't he gorgeous? You can't recognise him these days, of course, because of the fat.’ Deb’s chuckle was infectious. ‘Mine, not his!

  * * * * *

  The Institute was located at the town’s only intersection – opposite the pub, now temporarily closed; Dave’s Mechanics, where Sean’s campervan lay untouched; and the row of three shops, now with “Closed” signs. The building was typically square and built of sandstone, with tiny windows, a broad wooden door and drainpipes that emptied underground. Built in 1898, it was extended and renovated over subsequent decades for extra functions no longer needed in the 21st century, such as a library, dressing rooms for actors, and a cinema. The only indication that it was still being used these days as the Town Hall and local branch of the Returned and Services League (RSL) was the Australian flag fluttering next to a memorial dedicated to the three citizens from the town who had “Fallen in the Great War”.

  Inside, the floor was partially covered with tattered crimson carpet and littered with shabby plastic chairs and tables. Elsewhere, there was a diminutive stage barely 30 centimetres high; war service emblems haphazardly pinned to the walls; a frayed pool table; and a jukebox cranking out the familiar refrains of “I Hope You Die Before I Get Old”.

  Assembled awkwardly around a fold-up trestle table were Dave, still scowling at Sean; Bob; Madge; the lifeless man from the bar known as Cyril; and Arnold, a doddering octogenarian with an oversized hearing aid and undersized walking stick. In one corner, Deb was frantically dusting everything and anything in preparation for the band’s arrival while singing the only tune on the jukebox with no melody but plenty of passion. And in another corner, Jack was creating a small shrine on a spare table with photos of John Lennon. As usual, Sean was filming in anticipation of using the footage for the RealiTV webcast, although no-one knew this yet.

  Bob decided it w
as time to growl. ‘Why can't this stupid group–‘

  ‘Hey!’ Deb’s voice resonated across the room and made the men shudder.

  ‘–perform here at the Town Hall?’ continued Bob more sedately.

  ‘I told you,’ said Sean. ‘It's too small here. They'll have to play outside somewhere.’

  ‘But why not here?’ Arnold sluggishly stretched out one of his flabby arms. ‘We hold everything in the hall. Cake stalls. Funerals. Emergency surgery.’

  With his camera, Sean panned from wall to wall while speaking. ‘And where would the band sleep? There's no caravans in the caravan park. Or any bella vista for that matter.’

  As Dave continued to scowl at Sean, Arnold pointed to a corner of the hall not being dusted by Deb or used as a shrine to the dead Beatle. ‘The band can sleep over there. We'll move chairs around, shift the pool table, unplug the jukebox. We had forty-five people sleep here during The Floods of '75.’

  ‘And what about food for the band?’ asked Sean with justifiable trepidation.

  ‘Toasted sandwiches?’

  ‘Can you add tomato, Madge?’

  ‘I suppose so, Jack.’

  Sean zoomed into Madge. ‘And they'll need drinks. They are a rock band.’

  ‘We have never run out of beer, young man.’ Madge smiled smugly.

  ‘Except during The Pub Strike of '74.’

  Madge turned brusquely towards Bob. ‘How would you know? You weren't living here then.’

  Sean coughed discreetly. ‘But the band may need something stronger, like gin or vodka. And wine for their groupies.’

  ‘OK, I'll make a list.’ Madge grumbled as she ambled towards the counter.

  Deb strutted to Sean’s table and leant over menacingly. ‘And wine for their what?’

  Sean gulped. ‘The, um, band probably has some young, um, you know, ladies traveling with, um–‘

  ‘Not here they won't!’ Deb crossed her arms defiantly. ‘No groupies in this town!’

  Arnold languidly swivelled towards Deb. ‘You may be proprietor of the grocery, bakery and record shop, and currently the town mayor, but I am still RSL President–‘

  ‘And only member,’ added Deb sourly.

  ‘–so I outrank you in this building. And I say we allow groupies.’

  ‘We'll see about that!’ Deb stormed back to the corner and angrily snatched at a duster.

  Dave stopped scowling at Sean and began beaming at Jack. ‘Yeah, groupies. What do you reckon?’

  From the corner, Jack shrugged. ‘I'm not bothered.’