Read Online Flesh Guitar by Geoff Nicholson - Free Book Online Page B

and see what it was all about. They’d have food and water, maybe even petrol. At the very least they could tell us where we were.’
    It sounded like an idiotic plan to Jenny but she couldn’t think of anything better so she agreed to it. They unloaded the necessary equipment from the Land Cruiser and set it up at the roadside. Billy siphoned the petrol, brought the generator to life and Jenny was ready to play. It was hard to know what was the right repertoire for such a venue and such a gig, but she started to improvise a long, searing, high-pitched solo and she hoped that somebody, somewhere could hear it.
    It was getting dark now and as her notes spread out over the emptiness, the enterprise seemed increasingly absurd. She felt they were wasting precious energy that they might need later for survival. The darkness gathered,night thickened, and the sound of Jenny’s guitar became ever more lonesome, ever more forlorn. It seemed an utterly futile activity.
    Suddenly, as she was thinking of giving up, out of the darkness a boy appeared. He was a young, shaggy-haired Aboriginal, perhaps twelve years old, in shorts and bare feet. The moment Jenny saw him she stopped playing and they stood looking at each other in wary silence. She was going to speak when the boy turned his back and began to walk away. She called after him but he didn’t stop or reply so she struck a loud power chord and he turned and beckoned for her to follow him. She unhooked her guitar and was about to put it down, but he gestured again and indicated that he wanted her to bring the guitar with him. He further indicated that Billy Nation should bring the amplifier. Billy protested for a moment but the boy was having none of it. If they wanted his help he’d have to bring the amp. Above all else Billy did not want to be left alone in the outback, so he picked up the big amp and speaker cabinet and the three of them proceeded through the bush in a curious little procession.
    They hadn’t travelled far before they came to a large tin shed built on the bank of a dried-out river bed. There was a row of lights along the edge of the roof and the sound of a jukebox coming from within. The boy held open the split wooden door and Jenny went inside, closely followed by Billy Nation in his new role as roadie.
    There were perhaps thirty people inside the hut, mostly young and mostly Aboriginal, though not exclusively either. A bar made out of beer crates ran along one sideof the room, and the walls were painted an insistent canary yellow. There was a drum kit set up in one corner, along with a microphone and a beautiful, battered old piano with sconces and fretwork.
    The crowd looked at Jenny with curiosity, but with a strange lack of surprise, as though guest guitarists were always dropping in. There was no doubt that she was expected to play, that she was expected to impress, and the matter of where they were or where they might obtain petrol, food and water would have to wait.
    Fuming, Billy Nation set down the amp and Jenny plugged in. She continued to play in the same style as she had been in the desert. She was trying to pick up on the spirit of the place, on the stark emptiness, and it seemed to require something both beautiful and desolate. However, after playing for five minutes or so she could see that the audience in the but was losing interest. She carried on, trying that much harder, but they just weren’t keen on what she was doing. Jenny stopped playing, hoping for inspiration. She turned towards Billy Nation but his face was blank and inscrutable. He was as much a stranger here as she was. He was going to be no help at all. Then the boy who’d brought them edged towards Jenny, put his mouth close to her ear and said, ‘Generally what goes down best is some pretty basic rock and roll.’
    Jenny could take a hint. She immediately changed tack and started to play a variety of rock and roll favourites: ‘Johnny B.