‘Asha’ must mean something, but what? I tried looking it up on this new thing on the computer called Google, except it didn’t work so well, so I went to the library at uni instead, and there, in a name book, I found out that Asha was indeed a real name, a Swahili name, one that meant hope and life. This name belonged to something. But what? On the front cover of Sweetly Sedated I drew a picture of a boat, and named it Asha. I suspected there was more to this story, but I could never work out what.
One night after band rehearsal, I was meeting a mate around the corner for a drink so I asked Marty if I could leave my bike at his place and pick it up on the way home. Marty said sure, but he was gonna have an early night. He took his key off his keyring and handed it to me. ‘Just let yourself in,’ he said. ‘If you wanna crash, all good. Whatever works.’
I’d just broken up with a boyfriend I once referred to as a safe bet. In the end? Not so much. I’d heard he was shagging his swing-dancing partner behind my back (*eye roll*), a claim he vehemently denied, but by this stage things had deteriorated so badly it really didn’t matter either way. We were done and, as far as I was concerned, all men sucked. That’s what I told my girlfriend that night over wine, and she could not have agreed more, and on it went, wine after wine, whinge after whinge, and by the time we were through our second bottle, I was a whisper past tipsy, and more than ready for bed. It was raining that night. I fumbled my way into Marty and John’s house, soaking wet, and did a little ‘Marcel Marceau’ down the hallway to the bathroom, where I hoped I could find a clean towel. Of course, there were none. Back I went, down the hall, and as I passed Marty’s bedroom door and saw him in there snoozing, well, it’s hard to explain it now, it was awfully out of character, but I just kinda thought: Yay! Marty! Yay! I need a Marty hug! He gives the best hugs! Before my rational mind could stop me, there I was, curled up under the doona in the arms of a pleasantly surprised Marty Brown, feeling such a deep sense of pleasure in my heart that, for reasons that made no sense afterwards—because we were just friends—I had to kiss him.
And when I did, dear God, it was perfect.
Absolutely perfect. And then we fell asleep.
Naturally, in the morning, when I woke up, sober, in the arms of my friend Marty Brown, my first thought was, This is terrible!
‘Oh, Marty, I am so sorry!’ I said.
No, really, I was. I had just had my heart broken by a swing dancer. I wasn’t ready for this. I was putting on my jumper as I was talking. This could not possibly end well.
He said, ‘No need to apologise. Are you sure you don’t want to stay for breakfast?’
‘No, no, no, no, thank you very much, off I go,’ I said, and off I went, crashing my bike down the hallway, Frank loud in my head, yelling: Look what you’ve gone and done now! What did I tell you? Now you’ve gone and ruined everything!
I guess it’s a testimony to the strength of our friendship that Marty and I just resumed our usual schedule after that: rehearsals, gigs, beer, laughs. We never spoke of that night again. Just, la di dah, off we go!
Here’s the thing I knew about Marty that I had never known about any other guy I’d been with: Marty Brown did not need me, not any more than I needed him. He was one of my best friends. Every one of my relationships to date had ended terribly. I did not want to run the risk of that happening with Marty. I needed him too much. Him and John. They were my biggest champions. That kind of chariot is rare, and I knew it.
Not long after that, I met a filmmaker called Henry and fell madly in love. It was a chance meeting. I was just at a party with a friend and, lo and behold, there he was; kind, clever, curious, older, handsome as fuck, and head over heels in love with me too.
We spent years together, many of them very happy. My friends, his friends, we made a family of it—filmmakers, actors, movie producers, music producers, art critics, photographers, entrepreneurs, cafe owners, musicians, poets, painters, Buddhists. And the adventures! In our beaten-up LandCruisers, EJ Holdens, and one orange vintage Monaro, we convoyed through deserts, camped on beaches, swam in oceans, dived from yachts, shared houses, struggled to pay our rent, then later, made our first big pay cheques, lent each other money, paid it back, dressed androgynously, then glamorously, wore wigs, attended each other’s openings and launches, happenings and flash mobs, went to gigs upon gigs and all the things after gigs, danced until the sun came up, slow-cooked our meals, ate dinner at midnight and breakfast at lunch time. So many of the recipes I cook for dinner parties today were taught to me by these friends, in this precious pocket of time.
I was living at Compost by the time our second Red Raku album was being recorded, the one we called Roda Leisis May. I’ve no idea why we called it that, but it made sense on the night we named it. My day-to-day life was well established now. I was working at Bennetts Lane Jazz
