Great Southern Star

It's all over. I am left in the wake of the Symphony, elated, exhausted, a little lost.

It really was a wonderful evening. No, wonderful is the wrong word. It was an epoch in my performing life. It didn't feel like an epoch, but I know it was. It felt like just another gig, albeit with a better cast than I've worked with in some time.

Tuesday the 27th November was a grey, steamy day. The air was so thick you raised a sweat just getting out of the car. Mum and I went down early and parked at the Garrison, then walked around the unpleasantly fragrant harbour to the Opera House. The Stage Door was packed with catering staff, -neatly ironed penguins waiting to be led into the culinary bowels of the Opera House. They were there to create tempting delicacies for VIP's and sponsors and to serve them quietly and efficiently. Little penguin ghosts carrying champagne and canapes. I wanted to be one of them. There is some comfort in total anonymity.
Up the stairs we went to the blue Green Room. I ordered Chips and Gravy and enjoyed their absolute averageness in peace. Members of the Australian Ballet flitted to and fro amongst tables like butterflies with impossibly erect postures and well turned-out hips. ballet dancers don't run, they prance and frolic from one place to the next. I was an impostor in their world.
My bottle of Mead was promptly stashed in a locker. Mead is necessary to coat the cords with pleasant viscous warmth before concert performing. It's brown paper bag was suitably crumpled and seedy. Music? -check. Posters?,-check. Pen?,-check. T-Shirt?,-check. Time to adopt an erect turned-out posture and check for Choristers arriving.
In a matter of minutes the Green Room is a sea of white t-shirts. The sea has endless questions for me. At some point I have to find the 'stars' of the evening and take annoying back-stage photos of them for my brother's archives. I hate this job.
Through the endless intestinal corridors of the concert hall I amble, camera in hand. No sign of my brother. He is chauffering the amazon to and from another gig. I worry. He will be stressed. When he is stressed the ripples spread wide and fast.
Garret, Humble and Mardar are congregated around a steinway in a dressing-room with a view. I take an awful photo of the three and attempt wit. Garret gives an on-camera interview about my brother. It is odd to hear someone else speaking with authority about my brother and his work. I stand in the background amusing myself with alternative answers to the questions. Everyone laughs at his observations. Famous people are always witty.
No sign of the Nightingale or the Horse though. My plans of a photo of the lead cast are fast coming unstuck.
A brief visit to the holding pen and I get welcome cuddles and kisses from my favourite people. Time is slipping away fast and the choir needs to be warmed up, given notes to, and inspired.
I pop outside for a quick cigarette with Garrett. We discuss the TV series, Bjork, Superstar and repertory theatre. Again I am surprised by how much I like this guy. He promises to procure me a soundtrack I have been craving for some time.
Back upstairs the amazon and my brother have finally arrived. She looks like Titania, only more beautiful, he is surprisingly calm and wanders amongst the sea of white, meeting, greeting and laughing with his choir. The Camera follows him. I am reminded that success in the music industry is something I do not crave. Unfortunately there were no mall-babies for him to kiss.
It is time. I yell instructions. Waves of white wash past in excited whispers. The orchestra are all dressed up this time. Emperor penguins. they have the status and they know it.
The hall is full. Faces and colours shift and murmur like grass in the breeze. Lights go down. All eyes are glued stage right. Out strides our master and commander. I am struck by the sheer grace and presence of this man. His place in our strange world is well-deserved. I hope my voice responds appropriately to the graceful arc and sweep of his baton.
I hear the music. It washes through, in and out, round about. My eyes are fixed on our gallant leader. I could watch him for days. I wish I could just slouch in this seat, pour a glass of champagne and gaze.
40 minutes goes. I can't believe it. We are done. I have pulled the best out of my protesting throat. I am definately developing a version of my fiancee's cold. I have needed to cough every time the orchestra is quiet. I completely forgot to have any of the mead I so thoughtfully brought. It is still in its locker.
The entire audience is standing, cheering, yelling, clapping. In the distance my brother and his luminous colleaugues are being presented with Chandon and Roses. I grin like a fool and am surprised by tears welling in my treacherous eyes. I am so proud of him. I am so proud that the ditty that was given birth in my lounge-room has moved 2000 people. I feel very small, very happy, very sad,very overlooked, very proud, very ashamed. I leave the stage very quickly and head for that bastion of sanity,-the ladies bathroom.

I leave the Opera House with possibly indecent haste. I want to get away from all of it. It is too much. I smile and laugh and accept congratulations on my brother's behalf. I can't pass them on because he is with the VIP's and penguins somewhere lofty. Incidentals are not invited. I put on my festive face and make a rather large hoo-hah about procuring a margharita. It is expensive and average. Pan and tinks buy it for me. We, the unimportant sit at the Opera bar and try to dispel insignificance with bright laughter. I am surrounded by my dearest friends and loved ones, but I am not happy.

I steal a look at the programme. My name is there on the back cover. That's something I guess. There is proof that I was there.

The evening steams and sweats as we disperse. Home. bed.