Plucking the Rose

"Fuck!" Was she really going out with him? Joe Jackson's song was ringing in my ears as I watched this ape of a man bear hug, and paw, one of the most attractive, and alluring women, I had yet experienced. She was on stage singing some folky tunes of original composition; her voice, her looks, the way she moved, how she seemed to look me straight in the eye, how she made me feel like I was on the only one in the room, was stirring emotional and hormonal bubbles all through my body. I hadn't opened my guitar case yet, but I knew that the two of us could make some serious music together, and that was not the limit of my desire for this sultry songstress. As all of 21 years old, I hadn't met many songstresses, let alone any as sultry.

On this night, I happened to have been invited to an open-mic music session in this dingy basement that supposedly doubled as a live music venue in the south-coast town of Albany, WA. I doubted the venue ever held a gig and during the eighteen months of self-imposed exile, I spent at this dubious and ambiguous centre of Australian retirement luxury. In fact, on the night in question, I'd been an official "resident" for just over a year and my "exile" was imposed on me, by me, because I'd been a little too flagrant with money on a backpacker's budget. As a result, I'd prematurely run out of beer tokens whilst touring the south of the state and so was forced to seek gainful employment amongst the rustics of Albany. I had some redeeming features though: I was good with numbers (and eventually finances); I could play the guitar; I had an appealing Anglo-Australian accent and I had a knack of being able to mix with a wide variety of people from across the social strata.

Whilst repairing my fiscal position, I was staying, as a long-term resident, in this hostel that was managed by the local motorcycle chapter of "God's Garbage". Aside from the frequent use of foul language, excessive drinking and trafficking of drugs, they were generally harmless people and it was them that invited me to this open-mic night to show off my guitar moves. I had been in, and been kicked out, of my last two bands because of my "advanced" musical tastes. I was primarily interested in the acoustic medium; I played a 12-string guitar and loved classical arpeggios and picking chunky minor chords, all inspired by my mentor Ritchie Blackmore. I also had deep interest in Middle Eastern, Latin, Celtic and Eastern Europe music. Whenever I picked up and electric guitar it was to augments these influences rather than to play rock & roll (in fact my rendition of the Tetris theme during the last practice gig with my last band led to my expulsion).

Upon arriving, there were several musicians and their various hangers-on that had, or were in the process, of set out their musical stalls. After a couple of risible performances, this chunky, dark-haired beauty with a set of lungs that could smash glass (without trying) took the mic. She was stunning, in a sort of bohemian way, but with lashings of Australian bush personality. As I sat there, nervous as hell because I was next up, I was entranced by the musical melodies emanating someone who could be my muse. I was there transfixed, listening to music that struck a chord with my tastes, her eyes met mine. There was instant attraction and desire. Over two songs, she sang only to me. Her movements, emotion, vocal range, subject matter, heaving chest (ample) as she strove to reach the high notes, were musically and sexually intoxicating. She directed this energy towards me, or so I allowed myself to complacently believe. Her influences were a mix of old world folk with many Celtic and English melodies; hauntingly beautiful and musically powerful. In many ways like my own tastes.

On this night however, on a wind-swept, rain-filled evening in the depth of winter, that was about to change as I nervously ascended the stage although I had no immediate inkling. I accepted my invite (though some said order) to attend this open-mic night and brought my guitar and song book. Over the course of a few years travelling around the country as a frustrated "solo artist", I had built up a wide variety of riffs, song ideas and instrumental musical arrangements that were probably meant for no-one else but myself. I was no singer, but I frequently wrote vocal melodies, and occasionally some words, that sat on top of my songs. When I would play these songs or arrangements I would simply hum the vocal melodies. Adjusting to the glare of the stage lighting, I sat on the very same stool that my "muse" had vacated minutes earlier. The seat was noticeably warm, and I wondered whether I'd influenced the source of that heat. Back to reality. This was my first ever live sole performance to a company of strangers, and I was literally shitting myself. I wanted to give a good performance to show how I thought my music was better than everyone else's, and to impress the Muse. I strummed by first chord, an E-minor, across all 12 strings and it sounded great. I closed my eyes and lost all sense of restraint as I plunged into my "set list". Seconds later, my five minutes ended, and I received the complimentary "glove clap" from my competitors - admiring and otherwise. As the final note rang out, I opened my eyes and met those of the Muse, her reaction was all that matter and it was enthusiastic. Butterflies fluttered in my tummy.

After my set ended I re-joined my entourage, as it were, but the Muse made her way toward me. She congratulated me on my performance with a huge beaming smile. She sat so close to me that I was able to fully appreciate her appeal. She had an exquisite aquiline nose, a wide and generous mouth, flowing black straight hair. She was not thin, but well-built: big breasts and butt, narrow waist, everything to love. She liked to touch; casual laughs brought out this attribute, many times. Her perfume was inebriating, and I was drinking - heavily - but the beer seemed to have little effect. The stirrings down below must have been noticeable but if she did, and she must have, she maintained an air of nonchalance that drove me wild.

Appropriately her name was Rose and was the lead singer of the local folk band who, I shortly discovered, had a popular following in Albany. All was not well however since the band's previous guitarist, a contributor to original song writing, had upped and left. With several gigs coming up, the band was somewhat stressed. After my "set" which was really nothing more than a demo, Rose seemed to be fishing in my water for the next guitar replacement. I was all ears as can be imagined and my perception of maybe-yes, maybe-no flirtation led my hormone-fuelled mind to think I was in with a chance. The musicians that followed me barely registered in my consciousness. In fact, I was not within a "gnat's chuff" of scoring because that's when "Big Fucking Dave" (BFD) entered the scene and burst my bubble.

There had been no indication that Rose was attached. She had certainly not given any clue that there was a man in her life. I was hoping to fill that role and believed myself worthy enough, but I was about to receive a crash course in small country town parochialism in which girls with talent fall in love with complete losers because they a) want a tough protective figure; b) think they can't do any better; and c) scared of moving on or being single. Such matches appear incomprehensible to outsiders that have seen something of the world, and in my case, I felt a wave of revulsion, disappointment and incredulity. Keeping to script, BFD paid the scantest attention to Rose, a quick peck on the cheek, an insincere apology for missing her set, then straight to the bar for a JD and cola and to join his other meat-head friends (including my "benefactor") at the back of the bar. I glanced over at Rose and I could see or thought - wanted - to see a mixture of frustration and disappointment in her face.

She turned to me with an almost apologetic resignation and we resumed our chat but not without the same flirtatiousness as before. For my own part, I could sense the gaze of suspicious and hostile eyes on me from somewhere in the dark recesses of this bar. I followed Rose's cue and became more business-like in our discussion. Between polite applauses for the others that braved the stage, we agreed that I would try out for her band that next Saturday, which was at least something. The night ended when BFD decided it was over. Rose at least introduced me to him and it was hard to be civil but to be otherwise would have been a life limiting move. Just the sight of BFD pawing Rose and basically treating her like shit, depressed me but as she threw her head back and gave me a seductive glance. I was thus encouraged.

That next Saturday couldn't roll around fast enough. During the intervening days I borrowed a tape (yes tape) from the Library that had several folk songs that Rose had sang. They were easy enough to learn but without any positive directions there wasn't a great deal I could do to prepare. The band practised at the drummer's house who had a spacious double garage not far from town. I arrive fashionably early and was nervous. No sign of Rose. I duly accepted a beer from the drummer and we got chatting, talking mainly about the band and the gigs. After a short time, the rest of the band arrived with Rose leading the van. Basically, there was another guitarist (rhythm), a bass player, a keyboardist (whom I recognised as the local postmaster, another dark-haired female who also played in another contemporary band), a female violinist (a real blonde hippy - not my style), and the alluring Rose, decked out in full renaissance dress. She was friendly enough toward me but a little cool.

Further beers were cracked, as we set up our instruments and arranged ourselves in a sort of a circle. The agenda was to play a couple of songs from the current set list with me joining in. I was sat opposite Rose and as we began playing, she barely took my eyes off me and when she did it was to reach a high note or achieve some emotional pitch. I'm sure this musical flirtation was noticed but it, if it was, it was politely ignored. After a couple of songs Rose asked me to play some of my material to the rest of the band and get some feedback. This I duly did but without the same fluidity as the earlier evening and I fully expected the usual litany of complaints based upon the diversity of material. For a minute or so after I finished a few selections there was silence, only broken by the keyboardist who expressed enthusiasm in my material, and saw potential for new songs, both original and covers. From that point I was entreated, nay corralled, into the band. When I accepted, the look I copped from Rose made my heart skip a beat - there was something to hope for.

From that moment on, events seem to take on life of their own. We rehearsed several nights a week after work. I continued working on original material that I shared with the other members and Rose worked on lyrics. I learned the existing songs and covers, and suggested edits or new arrangements to spice them up (like Zeppelin and Purple used to). I 'coached' the other musicians on the stylistic changes I thought we needed and we quickly found our groove. Within the month, a setlist was coming together and we began to contemplate securing a gig. All the while, I was fantasising over Rose, imagining how filthy she might be and what sort of nasty things we might do together, even as BFD's disgusting, but scarce, presence polluted the atmosphere. Barely a rehearsal, or some other personal interaction between the two of us, left me without a straining hard-on and a quickened pulse. Her knowing glances, furtive smiles and casual touches over laughs, and tête-à-têtes over song sheets made my testosterone boil. She must have picked up on my state of head-spinning arousal and I wondered if I was having any effect on her.

We secured a gig at this venue at the top of the town, next door to a Malaysian takeaway, whose owner was a mate of BFD. Typical, but it was a window of opportunity to showcase some new music and restart the band. If Rose was off limits, unavailable or not interested in me then perhaps I might catch the eye of somebody in the audience. My level of sexual frustration, despite frequent DIY over Rose primarily but not exclusively, was becoming unbearable. I needed a release and I hoped the gig might provide it.

The weeks leading up to show were spent in preparation: perfecting out set list, costumes, stage arrangements, equipment hire, posters and hand bills. Being a folk band, I had to procure myself suitable attire that made me stand out on stage but not overly foolish. Not an easy task in a small town and I ended up with threads that when worn, had me looking like Daniel Day Lewis' character in Last of the Mohicans.

As T-0 approached, nerves heightened, and stage fright began to take hold. The keyboard player who played in other local bands was instrumental in preparing us, especially me whose experience on stage was limited. Rose's presence was also reassuring but she was spending more time with BFD than she had previously much to my jealous disgust. On the day of the gig, we hauled our equipment up to the stage and began the laborious task of setting up. We had to skirt our way around the diners out for a bite and viewing the patrons from the stage, I doubt many would stick around and watch up perform. I wondered what performing to an empty venue would feel like?

Suddenly, I heard Rose's laugh above the din of cutlery, plates, glasses and sundry white noise. My heart leapt, and I looked up in anticipation, in came Rose attached to BFD's arm with him carrying some of her equipment. I turned away, crushed. For a fleeting moment, I considered walking out, but my rational self took charge and grounded me. There are other fish in the sea, it said to my emotional self. To keep myself together, I busied myself setting up and sound checking while keeping a respectful distance from Rose. She easily picked up on my body language and probably knew the reason why, but I could feel her gaze on me through the corners of my eye.

A few minutes before we took the stage, Rose came over to me and kissed me on the mouth, "Good luck!" Yeah, you too I thought and with that surprising gesture, my pre-concert nerves eased somewhat. Due to the dimmed lighting over the stage, I doubt BFD saw that kiss even if he had been paying attention.

The opening song of our set had me playing three different instruments: a mandolin; an acoustic guitar and an electric guitar - in that order - so until the third verse of that song, the audience couldn't see me as I was nestled behind instruments that were fixed to the stage. Since that song, an original, was so different from anything the band had done previously, it announced to the audience, sparse at that point, that this band had been reborn. From the stage looking toward the audience, I was on the left, second guitar to my right, followed by Rose and the violinist. The keyboardist and drummer were behind us.

Overall, the gig went well despite a couple of hiccups along the way. Sonically, we sounded great and as the set progressed, the audience increased and were getting into our new sound with energy. My house mates were there together with some of our friends (as moral support rather than lovers of the music) and young locals together with some older, hippy-types giving us quite a cross-section of the local community.

Our set finished at midnight and was, overall, well received. We were exhausted having given our all, bathed in sweat but exhilarated nonetheless. The crowd ebbed and flowed and there were moments of genuine enthusiasm, especially the numbers where the crowd was invited to sing along. During the gig I occasionally looked out, I saw BFD and his cronies at the back of the venue talking among themselves and making phone calls on their brick phones (this was the late 1990s). If they showed any appreciation at all for the music and for Rose's performance, I didn't see it. During the gig, the band members stayed static on the stage (it was tiny) but the freeze between Rose and I thawed as we belted out the songs. Many times, we exchanged glances, cheeky looks, winks and other flirts. It fuelled us, and the band, on.

Not long after out set concluded, the band members sat on the stage and enjoyed a few drinks, coming down from our collective high before contemplating the task of dismantling our gear. I saw BFD approach Rose and pull her aside. I couldn't hear the conversation, but I could see a change in her countenance, something he said upset her dearly. Shortly after, him and his cronies beat a hasty retreat from the venue, leaving Rose to fend for herself. Other band members asked what had just happened, but she brushed them away and retreated to the bathroom. The rest of us simply looked at each other in bewilderment and shrugged our shoulders. Rose returned a short time later and it was obvious she had been crying. I couldn't understand what feelings she had for him, given his treatment of her. Perhaps she didn't know any better, but it was clear his behaviour hurt her in some way.

Gradually, the individual band members departed with their gear and it left just Rose and I to pack up. Customers in the bar were thin on the ground but provided enough of a screen to mask our conversation. My gear was already in my car, but Rose dallied with her gear. I asked her why and she sniffed replying that BFD decided to go to the town of Denmark (about 50km to the west) for a "pickup", code for a drug deal and some lingering engagement with the grower, no doubt. Despite Rose's protestations, BFD's parting words were, "Don't wait up" thereby stranding her at the venue with her gear. BFD was nothing if he wasn't being heartless.

I offered to take her gear home and she assented by sniffing into her tissue. We spent about twenty minutes loading her gear into my car (quite the struggle) before I offered her a drink at the bar. She accepted, still upset but glad for the invite and we both ordered a straight bourbon, no ice, chugged down immediately. We ordered another.

The bar was about to close and without any regard for my legal ability to drive, I offered to drop her off at her house. Her reply stunned me, "Can we go to your place? I don't feel like going home just yet."

My heart and cock leapt at those words. Was I in with a chance? Should I take advantage of her? I was conflicted, but I couldn't say no. After the gig, my housemates decamped to the local nightclub that boxed on till the wee hours and I had agreed to join them. With Rose's request however, I knew the house would be empty for a short time at least, maybe just long enough.

"Yeah ok," I replied before adding, "I've only got beer at home though."

She gave out a small snort in appreciation before wiping her eyes. "That's fine."

Ten minutes later, we were across the threshold of my share house and, as expected, no-one was home. I grabbed a couple of beers from the fridge and motioned for Rose to site on one of the stools adjacent to me at the breakfast bar. She was silent for a while but sipped enthusiastically.

"You fancy me, don't you?"

That stunned me, but it was a rhetorical question. Of course, I did, from the first moment I clapped eyes on her. Was now the right time to confess?

"I know you do, by the way you look at me."

I stared into my beer, unsure as to my response. She touched my chin, it was like a jolt of electricity passing though me, and she turned my gaze toward her. Even with her tear stained mascara and her sniffling, she was beautiful.

"You like me don't you Jason? You find me attractive, alluring and desirable?"