I still could not imagine what to do with these songs, once they were here. I had no idea where to play them, how to really finish them, make them complete, turn them into—God forbid—an album. All I knew was that this was my part: catching the songs when they showed up as feelings, writing them down, and hoping that one day I would look back and this would all make sense.
By the time my second year of uni rolled around, I was feeling braver, less scared, more myself—a ‘myself’ I had never felt before. I was getting better and better at telling hopeful stories, better and better at telling Frank to fuck off.
Also, I was making friends. New friends. Good friends. Friendships that started over cups of tea and coffee in between lectures, and went from there. We would do assignments together, have a drink after lectures, go to each other’s art happenings. I was getting better at showing people who I was.
One fateful weekend, some uni girlfriends and I decided to go on a last-minute road trip to ConFest: a hippy festival on the banks of the mighty Murray River on the border of Victoria and New South Wales.
We were greeted at the gate by a leathery old chap who wasn’t wearing any underpants. Later someone told me his nickname—Long Schlong Silver. By looking at him, that made sense. Long Shlong Silver was pretty much ConFest in a nutshell: just a bunch of friendly naked people, greeting each other in peace. I tried very hard to keep my gaze ‘upwards’ as I asked Long Schlong if he could kindly direct us to the quietest area of the campground. We pitched our tent near some majestic old gum trees, painted our faces with swirls and dots, stuck on some bindis, and I do believe this may have been the first time in my life where I shared the sight of my naked belly-button with strangers (that was about as far as I was willing to push myself, that night). As dusk fell, my friends and I walked over to the communal chai tent, and settled in for what we assumed would be a blissful night of drumming and drinking chai.
I brought my book to the chai tent, sat on a communal cushion, tried not to worry about things like scabies, or how many crusty pairs of toes had touched these cushions before me, and was just starting to relax into the cool evening when I heard someone in the corner of the tent yell, ‘Amber? Amber?’
I looked up to see a young, handsome, dark-haired chap strutting around the tent like Elvis.
As it turns out, ‘Elvis’ and his mate were looking for an ‘Amber’, which was made clear by the fact that his friend would not stop yelling Amber’s name. Elvis spotted a communal guitar—one of several instruments that belonged to the tent. Soon, he was leading a singalong. I was a little annoyed at first—I just wanted to read my book, thank you very much—but soon realised what I was feeling wasn’t irritation so much as fear.
There was something in me that wanted to go sing with him.
There was another part of me that told me not to be an idiot—I didn’t even know that guy. I heard it then, as clear as day: the voice of Frank, of fear, trying to keep me safe, yet again, but I was stronger now, and I wasn’t having it anymore.
I watched the Elvis dude play the guitar and, it occurred to me, shit, he’s really good. And he could sing, too. He was singing songs I knew, by The Beatles, and the Rolling Stones and Creedence Clearwater Revival, and before I knew it I was sitting a little outside the circle, but singing along with him. Strangers, singing together. This felt … awesome!
Turns out, Elvis’s actual name was John. After the jam he came and introduced himself. Told me he liked my harmonies. Asked me where I’d learned to sing. I’m not sure: from my mum, I think. He asked me if played guitar, and I said not much; he asked did I write songs, and I said not much. He sure did ask a lot of questions, I thought. I was twenty-two and a half by now; it was almost eighteen months since I’d returned from London as a thin woman, and I have to admit I still was not entirely comfortable with male attention. Sometimes, being thin is weird. If they didn’t talk to me when I was fat, why were they talking to me now? But with John, things felt different—he was direct, but something about that set me at ease and, at the same time, terrified me. Or was it excitement? Hard to say. Lots of emotions. We talked and talked. To my surprise, not only did he know all of Jeff Buckley’s songs, he also knew all of Donny Hathaway’s songs and, most impressive, he knew the songs of my favourite local band, the Acapellicans. Who was this guy?
When he finally handed me the guitar, said, ‘All right, play me something,’ two-thirds of me wanted to run. But from somewhere within that third little corner of me came a voice that encouraged me to stay. To be brave. To try. What was the harm in that? I didn’t even know this guy. Would probably never see him again. Something inside me said: Go on. Try.
So, in what felt like a little nod to the woman I one day hoped to be, I said, ‘Okay.’
That was the first time I ever sang ‘Empty Pockets’—the Joffa song—to anyone. I closed my eyes as I did it, just like I had when I was in Oxford playing the open mic night at the Catweazle Club. I couldn’t stand the thought of seeing John’s face, just in case it said something I didn’t want to hear, such as ‘You suck!’ But afterwards, when I opened my eyes, John looked
