Barry and Cara McGloin 2001
Cara, someday perhaps thirty years on you may see a
house in which you lived thirty years back and say to yourself "I wonder
who lives there now, I wonder whether it has changed much inside?" And if
you are in a fairly euphoric state because you have been frolicking with fellow
frolickers for a number of hours at a fiftieth birthday bash, you may feel
inclined to venture up those stairs where you used to walk so often thirty or
thirty five years ago and you may feel inclined to softly knock on the door.
Last weekend your mother and I drove up to
I must admit that I was a little reticent to attend
a birthday celebration where the bonhomie could overspill to animosity or where
the conversation walked on tiptoe. Your mum had no reservation of course, being
the big hearted person she is, thinking of her old friend. As matters
eventuated, we all had a great time, however my concerns had some foundation,
although not in the manner I'd expected.
We found Gill's street in
Kathy and Max, Gill, Denise and I walked cross
country as it were through
Leichhardt Forum is an attractive mixture of old
Roma and cosmopolitan
Gill suggested two serves of antipasto, which we
all agreed with, and like the other dishes looked good on the menu. There was
goat cheese which was soft white - couldn't taste the goat which I like to do,
mushrooms in tomato cups, Italian bread - aged I thought, a fish concoction
similar to the Greek taramasalata which was nice, a small quiche which was good,
small fish (sardine I think), prosciutto - all in all good industrial Italian
fare, tasty and undeniably Italian, but sadly not inspired. Main courses were
much the same, my six prawns were as good as prawns are, in a bed of finely
chopped tomato and onion. The prices were quite inspired, my prawns being
approximately $5 each, and corkage was $3 per person. Thankfully not per bottle
and Max reckoned he should have brought more bottles to make it worthwhile. But
I guess you pay for the ambience.
We certainly enjoyed our afternoon,
sitting and chatting while Leichhardt bustled and bubbled about us. The
breakdown of Nicole and Tom's marriage was a subject which arose, and one which
Denise and I had sadly overlooked in our thirst for contemporary doings of the
high flyer. I must admit to being a bit "Tom who?" but finally worked
out our subject matter through elimination…. Now Gill, who manages one of the
marinas in
Kathy showed the photographs of a prime piece of
land on the
Max and I were at the coffee and brandy stage. A
plain brandy however was not on the drinks list, they were all inspired prices
of $17 upwards for cognac, not that you would waste a cognac in a coffee. At
Tilleys one can obtain a reasonably priced short black and separate combat style
brandy for a comparative pittance, six or seven buckaroonies. The ladies
finished their coffees and were boisterously game for any venue, which is the
time when a proper decent lady, for the sake of seemliness and propriety, heads
for the sanctuary of the home and possibly the hearth.
So, on my suggestion these wayward and whirling dames and Max decide to
decamp for the Elswick Hotel at the top of Taverners Hill, Leichhardt where, in
the early 1800s, the troopers used to hang opportunistic convicts and where my
cousin Chris McGloin and I played music of sorts for 18 months in the early
1970s, and for which we probably should have been dealt a similar fate.
We crossed
The Elswick Hotel thirty years on is populated as
the sun goes down this afternoon by a busy and bustling group of twenty to
thirty year old punters. The bookies and pokies are making a killing here and
the old drinkers and characters are gone now, the bones of some echoes, dead and
clacking almost mute, their conversation and laughter seeped into the mortar,
painted over. The sport channel TVs and pokies determine the winners and losers,
the income and entertainment. Downstairs where Chris and I played in a cosy
tavern bar basement with it's wide open fireplace, small confidential tables and
subdued lights, the intimate atmosphere is now blasted wide open by The Bistro.
The chrome servery is where the old brick bar used to be; the small bar where I
used to sit after work chatting about last night's happenings or doing the
crossword with Greg Keegan, the owner's son.
The fireplace remains. The stage gone.
Myself and Chris at the Taverners
Somehow tonight the ghosts remain. There's Max
McGrath singing Alice's Restaurant, while on the run from the Naval police,
AWOL, holed up with us around the corner in Excelsior Street, incognito in his
long dark coat, collar turned up. There's The Witch, dressed in black, replete
with cackle and weed from her haunted house in Dulwich Hill. There will be a
party at her place afterwards. There's Bob Hudson playing the Newcastle Song
before it became a hit, and Doug Ashdown working on Winter In America, another
later hit. Marion Henderson, a folk singer a la Joan Baez, and John Francis
belting out the blues in an almighty voice. There's Chris and I in full frontal
musical assault, a massacre of blues, folk and music hall, in any combination.
Chris McGloin was always an entertainer by whatever
means, having been known to do the Full Monty to gain the audience attention. He
inflicted his scatological irreverent humour on any classics -
"The answer my chum, is tattooed on your
bum" was what should have been done to deflate Dylan by someone perhaps
with taste, Chris was replete with the lack of it. In fact he revelled in gauche
bawdiness, which knew few bounds. Most audiences loved him. Then he was a sort
of Jamie Oliver of the blues. He was young, loud and even talented at times. He
had a good ear for melody when he wasn't boozed to the cockneys, and wrote some
damned fine lines:
"so let's watch the organ grinder, please play
it one more time
and we'll look at the dancing monkey, oh he dance
so fine
for I am the monkey and I never spill my wine
so it's dance monkey dance, it's nearly supper
time".
Down there with my memories flowing I remembered my previous visit here in 1988 when my good friend LJ Hetherington and I met for the folk night with Harry Allbut, fellow band member in Irish band, Squillions. You might remember Cara, that when you were young Squillions often practised in our lounge room. We had six players and more instruments than you could poke a stick at, more opinions than Johnny Gobshite, and more directions than Gregorys. We practised twice weekly building the repertoire for an occasional gig at a folk club or dry wedding or a hospital, for charity. This, our culmination of artistic endeavour, where reputation among Irish folk aficionados was put on the line. Commitment said Harry, is the key. A bum note would catch confidential smirks behind the lines. Harry was good at this, a raised eyebrow, a cutting wit. He had confidence in his own ability, a refined trade, no flash, no art. Dependable was Harry. Where practice and dedication forge the artisan. In the folk tradition. Real music, Irish music, not this bloody fol de rol bloody poncy Morris dancer crap.
Our flute player, Max who doubled on tin whistle, bodhran, spoons, pipes, bones and jewsharp was appalled when he overheard someone refer to us as "quaint". He had a crisis. "What's quaint? Quaint means you aren't relevant, hey? Means you're an artifact? Don't they know this was written in 1783 by the greatest Irish musician who ever walked the planet? By the jewel of Ireland?" Harry said it was indicative of yer common cretin, "pearls before swine Max, you can lead a donkey to water....... You can play him Beethoven's fuckin' fifth but at the end of the fourth movement he's still a fuckin' donkey".
Yeah, Harry Allbut was in fine form that night at
the folk club, he still had most of his North English
accent, interspersed with Irish phrases, his metamorphosis into Barney McKenna was underway but incomplete. The
seating on the folk evening was arranged in rows like church pews and the folk
congregation as always were appropriately reverent and chatter during the
performance was regarded as sacrilege. The Allbut whose mood was irreverent at
the best of times particularly when someone else was playing, was attracting the attention of a sharp faced hammer dulcimer
player who was shooting daggers at yer man's impudent sconce.
"Big bloody bull dyke that one, put a bull out
t'shit she would", said Harry loudly from his derisory height on the
stool. He had doubts about her sexual preference it seemed but when pressed
further it emerged that he had been chewing on an incident when he had lent her
a battery for 'er bloody 'ammer bloody dulcimer, and what did she do later but
sent it back to him through the post, with her card attached, on which was a
sketch of a woman playing a hammer dulcimer. The Allbut was incensed with the
memory of the perceived slight, splurting Guinness in his spiky denouncement.
Perhaps she had meant well I suggested. This was rapidly dumped upon by the now
venomous Lancastrian who reverted to dialect to boot verbal crutch,
"Ah knaw what she were saying, she were saying ah want nothing t'do
wi' you, ah owe you nowt". I
suggested that he seemed more than a trifle peeved by someone who he didn't have
a high regard for in the first place. He reverted to his original stance.
"Big bloody bull dyke, stands up t' piss". I gathered that his
professional standing as a mover and shaker in the Irish music hierarchy had
been overlooked….. There must be respect y'unnerstand, to be sure, to be sure.
We were fortunate that night to be treated to an
amusing sequel to the Mysterious Case of Insult Caused by The Returned Battery.
The Allbut had bought tickets in the folk club raffle and had won the bottle of
port. "Ah can't stand port," said your man who, although renowned for
a prodigious thirst, had nurtured a no frills palate.
So he was presented with an alternate prize which turned out to
be...........you guessed it, a tape of the afore slagged BBD hammering away on
her dulcimer. For once, he was lost for words.
Ah yes it was an amusing night that night, in fact
the last time I saw Harry. I remember he had an Irish mate there, Seamus
Liam Mac Og O'Flynn - can't recall his real name - anyway an amazing storyteller
when he was steamed, told one about playing a gig in a remote country pub in
County Mayo, and on his way there walking along one of those narrow country
lanes he was taken by this terrible urge to rid himself of an almighty itch on
the posterioral portion of his person, and with an Irish sense of propriety, not
wishing to disturb the bovines on the one side o' de road, jumped the little
rocky wall on de udder side, pulled down de accoutrements bald arse to de
elements and scratched his wayward orifice to unholy relief, heard a giggle and
a laugh, turned his head and spotted a pair of faces before they ducked off
behind a hedge. Anyway, that night on opening his set he noticed that there was
barely an audience, just a pair of faces in the front row, which, having seen
the bugle end of the performer, were now being entertained by the other. An all
round entertainer was Seamus.
Back to the story. Anyway there I stood in what
used to be the Taverners Bar of the Elswick hotel, now The Bistro, enveloped in
a lot of memories and possibly a touch of beery euphoria while the ladies and
Max chatted endlessly upstairs. The pub used to be a barracks for troopers back
in the 1800s and the outer wall of the Bistro is now opened to what used to be
the old stables.
As I stood there I wondered how my old flat just
around the corner in
Back then, before Chris and I had played at the
Taverners my circumstances and fortune were at an almighty low ebb. I was lodged
at a flat in Hay Street Leichhardt with my brother Stuart and his girlfriend,
Helga or Erika, can't remember her name. Stuart had decided that he wanted to
live alone with his chosen one and had told me that I must find my own place.
So, that night I walked up
Rolf Harris and Sammy Davis aka Trev Kanaar and Tony Reasha 1969
Tony and Trev were mates together from
Well the world is full of ironies and
contradictions Cara, made from the unique and the unexpected. Both Tony and Trev
had been brought up and educated in Nowra, which was at that time a pretty, run
of the mill Aussie country coastal town. When I arrived there in 1963 it seemed
very
Tony and girlfriend, a study in sophistication. Trev and girlfriend Debbie, a study in evolution.
Back to the story, I stood outside the old
residence looking up at the flat and on impulse lifted the latch and walked up
those stairs and along the upstairs verandah. There was an Australian flag
hanging outside the door which on another day might have deterred me. I knocked
softly and a young lady in her mid twenties I would say answered the door with a
pretty child close behind. "Sorry to intrude on your evening", I
explained "but I use to live here about thirty years ago, and I was walking
past and was intrigued that the building had hardly changed, in fact five of us
used to live here, we were country boys from Nowra, can't remember the name of
the lady who owned it, but she was an Italian woman I think and owned a number
of flats, was building a little empire ". "She wasn't ..........?"
" No that name doesn't ring a bell, but this is amazing, to stand
here after all this time, I'm quite thrilled."
It was a full stop at this point and events may
have quickly snuffed, but the young lady must have read my euphoric bonhomie as
being no threat and invited me inside where my foot had not stepped for at least
thirty years past. She showed me along the hallway between the bedrooms and
kitchen where so long ago two or three had slept at times, refugees from Nowra,
in fact those who escaped the confines of their country life and restrictive
family obligations, those youths who were relative, friend or acquaintance came
to this citadel. Then the little girl was eager to show me her bedroom, the
first bedroom where all three Judds had occupied now and again, whose family
operated the Berry post office, Mad Dan and Jeff, both with heroin habits later
and good ole Public Address Paul, loud and clumsy, who had more bingles in his
car and on his bike than we thought possible. Also from time to time Colin
Toomey, Jeff's mate Jim the Grace Brothers' window dresser, Wal and his
girlfriend (who had run away from home), also the aforementioned AWOL the
elusive Max McGrath, Chris Cravino who had just returned from 'Nam, brother
Stuart whose romance had quickly fizzled, Max Travis and others. Then the second
bedroom where Tony, Trev and I slept, which has now been
nicely fitted out with dark patterned drapes.
Paul Judd,
as he travelled O/S, and as he appeared at my Nanna's front door in Deal, Kent,
explaining that he was looking for "Bazza". Nanna was somewhat taken
aback by this rare sighting of the white Australian buzzard in full plumage.
"Next
door, I said, pointing to the room at the left of the front door " there
was another little flat where a couple and two kids lived". "You're
joking. " she replied, "So there was a bathroom?" "Yes, I
guess there must have been, they lived
there......" I thought about it afterwards and perhaps they used an outside
loo and shower, anyway it was now a separate room or study, back then I wouldn't
have noticed - we all lived in a shoe.
Earl
and Vonnie and their two kids lived in this particular shoe, about 5m by 2m, and
to use the modern euphemism they were doing it tougher than most, because of
course, as the saying implies, they eschewed a five bedroom home overlooking
Palm Beach with the double garage and sweeping lawns for this particular one
bedroom can of anchovies in Excelsior Street. Earl was a truckie when he worked
who had a marvellous facility for vanishing, and Vonnie was always there and 12
months pregnant. The kids were four and three, with more teeth than their
parents who, as Uncle John would say, were very plain people, in fact they
didn't come much plainer. They came straight out of Dickens, a prison hulk
perhaps, or up from below hold on The Sirius. I can see Vonnie on the verandah
now, manoeuvring her bulk with miserable kids hanging off her, looking up and
down the street and yelling "EARL, EARLLLL, WHERE ARE YA, YA
BASTARD???" There was a cocky
in a cage half a block away which used to echo her,
"EARL, EARL!"
Earl
was a randy roaming dog, always on the sniff, "Just going for some smokes
Von" he'd say "I'll bring ya some chocolates". Three days later,
and the street going deaf with an earful of Vonnie's curses, Earl would return.
He'd met a bloke who gave him a job trucking to
Earl,
Vonnie and kids in the shoebox, and a study in black and white of Earl at the
dunny door. I'm unsure what the expression is supposed to convey, however it
would doubtless make a passer by speed up.
I
said goodbye to the young lady, thanking her copiously, she'd made my night I
said, adding that I'd spent some time that afternoon celebrating a fiftieth
birthday, so that she would appreciate I had my standards and that I was not in
the habit of knocking on strangers' doors smiling like an affable idiot with an
undeniable boozy aura about me, oh no, I was a trustworthy respectable gent
uncharacteristically moved by the nostalgic passion of the moment. On reflection
later, I was amazed that the young lady had invited me inside, I must have made
a good impression. She did however, from memory, give one the impression of an
astute assessor of character....... It is quite heartening to find such immediate
acceptance and trust in this city where dwellers tend to insulate themselves
against the vagaries of human contact.
Back
at the Elswick the ladies and Max had stopped chatting enough to notice my
absence and Kathy told me that Denise was about to go to the gendarmes, but had
demolished another glass of inspiration in order to figure how best to deal with
the conundrum. And then miraculously I'd reappeared, so perhaps this is reason
for further celebration. The afternoon seemed to be progressing along, steady as
she goes. Denise would have told me herself but she was too busy smiling, in
fact she could have embarked on a guided tour of my old establishment. We could
have both turned up grinning like idiots, it's the McGloins, the grinning idiots
from
A
couple of games of pool with Max while the ladies embarked on another round of
chat. It takes a game of pool to focus one's fortitude on the evening's
destinies. The Bald Faced Stag just down the road was one such destiny. It was
my suggestion, as I proceeded toward a murky pink nostalgic glow. In 1971 I had
been evicted from The Stag after coming from a Christmas party. In fact I was
with yer Uncle Vern who had emigrated from
This
evening as we opened the door to The Stag I noticed that they appear to have
relaxed their rules. Our fellow bon vivants are obviously a fair way down the
road to newtness and numbness, in fact one suspect piece of human flotsam
immediately salaciously licked his lips at the sight of the ladies, and then
proceeded with a number of cute tongue movements, which seemed to me to suggest
a speech impediment, however after ten minutes of this he dropped into a
profound coma. The Stag bar staff welcomed me back, after Gill had kindly let
them know why we were there. The place unfortunately has not improved and much
the same clientele remain. Some of these
We
head due East Nor East, Kathy and Max in a huddle having a deep and meaningful,
while Denise Gill and I soldier on, momentarily breaking into song, as you do
when the cars roar past on Parramatta Road:
"Ahhh,
Tim Finnegan lived in
A
gentlemen Irish mighty odd
He
had a brogue both rich and sweet
And
to rise in the world he carried a hod
Ah
but Tim was fond of the tipplin' way
With
a love of the whiskey he was born
And
to send him on his way each day
He'd
a drop of Craythers every morn
Whack
for me da will you dance to yer partners
Round
the walls the bottles shake
Isn't
it the truth I told you
Lots
of fun at Finnegan's wake."
The
The
bar manager, a young man with more than acute observation, had noticed that Gill
had rolled in and was about to do the Full Monty while breaking into a rugby
version of The Stripper, in fact she had enjoined a table of the clientele in
convivial conversation merely seconds after entry, and the lady with her, the
one with the smile fixed firmly on her affable face had mentioned she might have
a glass of water. And so, these two suspects were refused refreshment.
"Those two women are showing signs of intoxication" the manager
accusingly said, pointing them out to me as I ordered drinks.
"You're joking" said
I, astounded at his perception.
Gill
was also astounded, and as we sipped our drinks (Gill and Denise on water) and
discussed this unwholesome dip in events, she became ruffled that her reputation
as a sober respectable member of the local community had been compromised by
such a young upstart. In fact she was going to write to the owners in protest.
"Oh, so you can't be jovial when you walk in, they should have a sign out
the front, no jovial people allowed, all who enter herein must grimace, if
you're jovial you're out, it's ridiculous, is this a pub or a mortuary, it's
taking things too far, ridiculous". Max
wholeheartedly agreed and was in table thumping mood, while Denise and I were
pointing out that the young bar staff were under a lot of legal wallop to
maintain industry standards (which were not apparent at The Stag), and Kathy,
God bless her, was trying to remember that it was a birthday celebration and was
attempting to maintain a balance.
And
so, we refused to put another coin across their discriminatory bar and with
suitable dignity departed that joyless establishment downhill to the quiet
sanctuary of Gill's homely house where things levelled out for a while. As a
conversation leveller the subject of Australian icons arose. I have always been
fascinated by Aussie icons. Other countries have great artists, composers,
authors, painters, humanitarians, politicians, conquerors, people with huge
vision and ideals. Here in Oz (and I count myself as an Australian, having had
the Pommyectomy), we quite rightly bypass anyone who might
evoke partisan passion and go for the popular approach.
The
Don Bradman, I suggested, is an untouchable icon. Never heard a disparaging
word, an almighty legend who furthered the Aussie cause in International
circles. Beat the shit out of the Poms, didn't know what hit 'em. The Don's a
lege for sure. We discussed the Don and interestingly Denise had heard that the
Don was anti Catholic, which surprised me. You can always count on the missus to
floor you with an obscurity. Then we went onto the Phar Lap. Now what could you
say? We was robbed in the
But
somehow we'd drifted and hulled onto the Dawn Fraser. Max and Kathy's John
Williamson CD kept sticking at that point, and I had plans of replacing it with
Brendan's band, Denied An Alibi, to see whether diplomacy would be applied to a
punk onslaught, and getting into Ned but here we were with Dawn Fraser and a
sticking John Williamson. The needle had stuck on the evening, an omen for sure.
Max and Gill both had strong opinions about this swimming lege.
"Dawn
Fraser, I can't stand her, she wouldn't give you the time of day" exclaimed
Gill.
"Dawn
Fraser is one of the country's greatest sportswomen" responded Max
"Hey
true blue...........is it me or you?"
"I
saw her often at the airport near Denny [Deniliquin] and parents would point her
out to their kids and they would go up to her for autographs and she'd ignore
them".
"That
woman fought her way through the bureaucracy of the swimming association and
despite all that she came through for her country."
"Is
it your mum, or your dad, is it me or you, you, you?"
"Phar
Lap you know, he used to smile when he'd won a race. Truly he did".
Kathy interjected in an effort to divert the oncoming train. He smiled
too much for the Yanks I thought. When you go overseas to compete, or to The
Victoria, don't smile.
"I
said hello to her once and she walked straight past"
"She
has a right to privacy like anyone. Yeah, and I suppose you reckon she's a
bloody lesbian?"
"Your
mum, or dad, is it me or you, you?"
At
this point the conversation seemed to have tacked to an argument, the
"bloody lesbian" comment serving to polarise differences in opinion,
Max now loudly thrusting his argument at Gill in order to denounce those
detractors which she represented, those unAustralian unappreciating unbloody
worthy heretics and her red wine glass lifted and flicked by the gust of emotion
spattering all of its contents over Max's shirt and he looked at it in shocked
disbelief for some deathly moments and then muttered in resignation
"Well.........no-one's done that to me before....."
"Is
it your mum, your dad, is it me, or you?"
The
following morning Max and Kathy arrived for breakfast as arranged earlier on the
previous night, although not quite with the festivity that had been enthused
about at the time. In fact Max shook my hand and said that he was shooting
through. To Gill he said if she thought one night would erase the memory she had
another think coming. Kathy was concerned after he'd gone that he thought she
was taking sides. She was optimistic though, and said that he didn't bear a
grudge for long. Gill for her part was quietly distraught - she didn't know what
came over her, she'd never done that sort of thing before -
and said that she would write to him ( that's two letters she would
hammering away on). For our part we were quite concerned that this good
relationship should suffer. But I guess that relationships take a bit of push
and pull, kneading and rolling along the way to be appreciated for what they
are. We drove out through
Leichhardt, past Rick Damelian's Empire, through the myriad traffic lights which
control traffic behaviour, towards the cleansing chill of the high country. A
top weekend.
PS.
Some further information:
Max
and Gill are now, two months later, on speaking terms. Gill normally sees them on weekends and has
been over there a couple of times. Matters are healing it seems.
Harry Allbut married an Irish girl in
the early 90s and they settled on her family's farm back in
Andy, Chris,
Keith (Andy's son) and Christine (all McGloin) . New Year's Eve, Mile End,
Adelaide 2001
Chris
McGloin moved to
I spoke with Trev Kanaar a few weeks back, the
first time in at least ten years. He works in Nowra as an electrical contractor
and lives at the back of
Max and Jenny, Denise and I - approx. 1977 - Campsie
Max
McGrath negotiated a discharge from the Navy with a fine. He married Jenny,
relocated to the
Paul
Judd and I communicate through Christmas card updates each year. Denise and I
attended his marriage in 1977 to Gloria, who is from the
Chris
Cravino, the ex
Earl
I met by chance at a service station on the
Coincidentally when we arrived home Denise read in the weekend SMH that Dawn Fraser in her biography had admitted relationships with women, but had distanced herself from the "gay culture", as you might expect.
Also
coincidentally the Elswick Hotel was robbed a couple of weeks after our visit.
The manager was shot and killed.
.
.