IT BEGAN WITH SOME tequila-shot confidence. We were at a sweaty gig in a club in Sydney. ‘We could do this,’ the four of us said to each other, nodding towards the band on stage with raised eyebrows. ‘Don’t you think? All of these dudes do it, it’s such a boys’ club. We should start our own band.’
We were about twenty years old, still clomping around university campuses and volunteering at community radio. I was presenting my shows, and Samantha was still tapping out her signature weekly emails about the gigs and parties we should be attending so we didn’t miss the ‘next big thing’. But it wasn’t enough to love the music anymore. It wasn’t enough to talk about music on community radio. We wanted to make it. We were grossly unskilled but we had passion and we were organised. That was essentially all we needed to make it work at the start. We assigned each other instruments based on instinct, stumbling around in the musical dark. ‘Miska, you once learned piano chords, you do keys. Soph, your mum has a guitar, you could probably play too. Sammi, you’ve got a nice singing voice, you should do that.’
I’d always gravitated towards basslines and beats so I was assigned to the rhythm section. I was thrilled. I trotted myself into an instrument store and purchased my first bass guitar. Playing bass elicited a similar sort of giddiness to how I felt when I was poring over new records and learning how to present radio. It was pure and playful. I was escaping into something bigger than me, bigger than our day-to-day lives. The girls all chipped in and bought me a tiny 1980s drum machine which we lovingly named ‘Corey’, after Corey Haim and Corey Feldman. I stayed up late fiddling with Corey’s buttons until I landed on a drum loop I was satisfied with, and then I started playing basslines over the top. With no language for the theory and no guidance, I happily sat hunched over in the living room, the bass guitar resting on my thighs as Corey’s incessant lo-fi beats played out. The satisfaction from making something out of nothing, creating sounds out of silence, was addictive.
We booked rehearsal rooms so we could learn to play our instruments together, and, gradually, we did. We went from utter shit to less shit, and fuck we enjoyed ourselves. There was a collective energy in those tiny, carpeted rehearsal rooms where everything was by feel and ear. There were no consequences, no fear and no rules, no approval or pressure. No one to please but us.
Within a couple of years, we were playing gigs and recording songs. We chose a name at random from an article in a magazine—teenagersintokyo—pointing at the words and joking ‘Just put that on the fucking poster’ because we couldn’t decide on anything else. We’d started DJing too, and we used the extra cash to fund rehearsals and guitar pedals. We all graduated university and brought a new drummer on board; a tall boy with a huge grin named Rudy. The five of us started writing songs together in our very own studio space: an empty office that Sophie’s parents owned. We constantly listened for inspiration in acts like Fleetwood Mac and Phoenix, Daft Punk and Joy Division, Destiny’s Child and Bush Tetras, Yeah Yeah Yeahs and The Cure, Prince and Justice, Madonna and Gang of Four—the list was infinite.
A buzz seemed to be radiating from one place in particular at that time: London. We’d had press and radio play surrounding our debut release, and people started reaching out. We’d done everything ourselves up to that point, so it was a cool, strange shift when the calls started. I was ecstatic whenever I saw my phone light up with a UK mobile number. Family dinners would be cut short so I could chat to a record label executive who had seen our interview in Dazed magazine and wanted to ‘get in touch’.
Life began to feel very full. I had recently been offered a daily radio show on a national station that I adored. I was officially a full-time radio presenter! It was a surreal reality to be able to present radio during the day and then jam during the evenings with the band. But these two dream roles were like parallel trains of creative productivity, simultaneously inspiring and sucking the life out of me each day. I started turning up to work tired from late nights with the band. My role presenting a drivetime show relied on anecdotes, witty banter and sharp interviews—skills that require an agile brain one hundred per cent of the time.
In the mornings, I would arrive at my desk dreading the conversation that was about to unfold. My co-host would look up from reading the newspaper. ‘Got any stories?’ he would ask pointedly, which in radio speak translates to, ‘Do you have any ideas for content that we can use on the show, things from your personal life or any good news stories for us to cover?’ And then my brain would add, ‘Or are you just a sack of shit with no ideas?’
‘Err, not just yet,’ I would mumble, before hurrying to open news websites so I could plunder them for ideas for that afternoon’s show.
I was also beginning to turn up to evening band rehearsals feeling exhausted from the radio show. I’d get to the studio later than everyone else, after they’d already set up, snacked and divulged the day’s gossip. One evening I stood against the wall, blinking and almost nodding off despite the fact I was still holding my heavy bass guitar and Rudy’s drumming was at a dangerous decibel level. I couldn’t leave quickly enough when we were done for the night, already feeling the dread of arriving to work idea-less the next day. I was barely scraping through the radio show, fake laughing at anecdotes and pretending I didn’t notice my co-host’s passive aggressive jabs in my direction.
In June, about a year and a half after starting full-time radio presenting, the band was offered a slot playing at a big festival in the European summer. ‘This is fucking magical!’ we exclaimed to each other when the email arrived. It was a bucket list festival gig, especially for a band starting out, and we couldn’t believe our good fortune. I was riding high as I submitted my leave application to the radio station.
My manager broke the bad news to me the next day—it was during ratings season, so my request had been denied. I apologised profusely to the girls and Rudy; there was no noise for a minute after I told them except for the low hum of our guitar amps. No one snapped or pushed me to ask my manager again, despite how clearly disappointed they were. How disappointed I was. I knew I had let them down. I started to feel that old stomach-aching anxiety because I wasn’t doing well enough at either of my dream careers. But I forced the pain down as far as I could, because the show always had to go on.
I had been working full time for almost two years when the band was offered a chance to move to London. We had a freshly signed record deal, a manager and a booking agent. I couldn’t just paddle along anymore. I needed to make a decision. I sat with my stomach in knots at my work desk. Everyone I worked with assumed I would never give up a great job for a pipedream with an indie band. There was no security in a band, and there was longevity and respect as a radio presenter in this little industry bubble. Quitting my job sounded irrational and irresponsible. But as torn as I was between the two, I knew deep down what I wanted. I needed to quit. I had a chance to live overseas with my favourite people. A chance like that wouldn’t come around again. It was everything the band had been working towards, and as I sat squirming at my desk, I knew I’d prefer to let a few managers down rather than my best friends.
My manager’s office was in a corner. You had to take care where your eyeline landed so you didn’t get stabbed with blinding sunlight. There were four of us in there: my two managers, my co-host and me. It was a general meeting about planning for the following year, and we sat on couches facing each other. After ‘hellos’ and ‘what’s on the show today’ questions from the managers, I spoke up with a mixed tone of rehearsed stoicism and legitimate I’m-shitting-myself nervousness.
‘I want to talk about next year,’ I said. ‘I’ve decided to leave.’
After a moment of shocked silence, the managers launched into a series of calm rebuttals: my position in the band was replaceable, my friends could easily find another bass player, or I could find another band, but my position at the radio station was the real once-in-a-lifetime dream. I burst out crying. I grabbed at a handful of tissues from the box on the coffee table, failing dismally at remaining professional.
‘We started the band before I started working here, and—’ long pause ‘—I need to see it through. No matter how it turns out, I have to do it.’
The head manager, whose office we were in, stood up and moved towards their desk. They rifled through a drawer and pulled out a small card, then handed it to me. It was a business card for a psychologist. They told me that I was obviously not thinking clearly, that I must need professional help for whatever I was going through. The decision to quit was just wrong. I shook my head, barely able to respond. Finally, I said, ‘Every day I go on air talking about how we champion young artists and encourage new bands to follow their dreams. I know it sounds so stupid, but I’m in one of those new bands. So it’s like that, you know? I love this station so much, but I need to do this.’
I looked up at my co-host, hoping he might get it. He knew how much I cared about both my career paths; that I wouldn’t have made this decision lightly. But he was shaking his head in disbelief.
When the manager who handed me the business card spoke again, their voice was matter-of-fact. ‘If you leave now, you won’t be working in radio or at this organisation again.’
‘I know.’ I kept crying, looking at the carpet. I didn’t want to leave on bad terms, and it was hurting me that they seemed so disappointed that I’d even consider something like this. It sounded like they thought I was crazy. Maybe I was, I thought to myself. Maybe I am wrong to reject a job that people would give their left kidney to have. I didn’t want to give up radio forever, but that was the ultimatum they had placed before me. I set the psychologist’s business card softly on the coffee table. I had known this conversation would be hard, but I hadn’t expected this level of opposition.
The manager was still talking. ‘And, Linda, when you’re serving me at a cafe in a year’s time, don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
I apologised a few more times, spluttering through my tears. The meeting was over. My co-host and I left the manager’s office and walked down the long hallway straight towards the on-air studio. We passed colleagues on our left and right in the open-plan space, but I kept my head down to hide that I had been crying. I felt foolish for quitting, ashamed that people would soon be laughing at me behind my back for making such a dumb decision. We pushed open the heavy studio doors and two videographers greeted us. They’d set up cameras to film an interview for TV and the well-known band we were chatting to were already waiting. I stuffed my soggy tissues into my pocket and held out my hand to greet the band. They greeted us with charmingly crooked teeth and English accents. I was sure my eyes were still red and puffy, but I smiled the widest fake smile I could muster. I wanted to crawl beneath my desk and go to sleep; to forget that that afternoon had ever happened. Within a few seconds, however, the red on-air light was on and away we fucking went.
The first year we lived in London we were piled into a white suburban two-storey palace in the northern suburb of Hendon. It was a quiet neighbourhood for five bright-eyed Australians wearing loud clothes and buying cider from the off-licence every other night. Our new record label executives and manager welcomed us to the city and our new home, our manager Sulinna taking us on a trek to Ikea to buy beds and side tables, and our label guiding us into every industry party under the East London moon. I was dazzled by how big the music scene there seemed compared to back home. How could there be that many people, all so amazingly dressed, spilling in and out of parties and pubs every weeknight? My eyes couldn’t keep up with the different textures of people, outfits and sounds. Everywhere I looked there seemed to be grit and ambition, an artistic lust for life that was so different from my upbringing of sticking close to the family, of remembering your duty.
The band and I were glued at the hips, and we spent most of our days songwriting. We needed to deliver an album so we could sell it and tour it. We couldn’t believe that this was our actual job now! We bought shitty snacks at supermarkets to get us through the days, and then holed ourselves up in tiny rehearsal rooms. We would pile almost on top of each other with our cumbersome instruments, then make a racket for hours on end. The rooms were in a large rehearsal complex, with different cafes and multiple spaces for hire. It was inspiring to feel part of a bigger scene, sharing walls with other bands and artists. I’d walk out to do a wee and hear a famous pop singer’s backing choir practising their harmonies in the hallways, or catch a glimpse of a recognisable floppy-haired head. We had regular meetings with the record label, who were guiding us on the journey to nailing our album tracks. ‘You’re the new cash cow,’ they would tell us jokingly. We laughed it off with naive confidence, but we took every ounce of advice they gave us to heart. I wanted to impress them; they had invested time and money into us, so I was eager to ensure that investment paid dividends. ‘We’re waiting for you to write your equivalent of Coldplay’s “Yellow”,’ the label execs said to us on numerous occasions. But we didn’t sound anything like Coldplay. The closest we ever got to Coldplay was spotting Chris Martin strolling down the main street in Primrose Hill.
‘It’s a little bit of pressure, isn’t it?’ I said to Sophie one afternoon after they’d left.
‘It’s what they want, all we can do is give it a go,’ she retorted, fiddling with a guitar pedal at her feet.
Our record label was run by a group of suave men who were much older than us and much more knowledgeable about what kind of music ‘worked’. We often still felt like a group of misfits sitting on the floor of Samantha’s lounge room assigning each other instruments for the first time. But we did our best to appease our new label. We learned more chords; we learned the rules and structures of songwriting. I thought deeply about the songs I used to play on the radio, the ones that made it to the big time. I wasn’t going by pure feel anymore.
According to our label, there was a reason formulas worked. Knowledge and expertise were what we needed. I was glad when they started coming to our songwriting sessions; I was relieved to have someone give me a set of rules to obey. I wanted the head of our record label to believe in us, to like us.
We were introduced to David, the producer who would help us write and record the album. David was credible and successful in the indie world, and he had a horrifically sinister sense of humour so naturally we got along terrifically. Rudy loaded up our hire van with all our instruments and our warmest clothes, and we drove a few hours across the country to Wales. We arrived at a secluded cottage attached to a recording studio and unloaded our gear as night fell. Our shoes crushed pebbles on the driveway under the weight of guitar cases and tom drums being lugged out. For the next few weeks, this was home.
We worked in the studio during the day, taking a break in the late afternoon to trek through the idyllic Welsh countryside. It was cold and quaint, with rolling mountains surrounding our modest cottage as far as we could see. We trekked in knee-high boots in the tall grass and then, when the breeze became too crisp, we retreated home to make massive cauldrons of pasta for dinner. Some nights, we’d hit the studio again.
The songs on the album had begun to fit the mood of this serene yet eerie Welsh environment, and we leaned into it. I loved goth and pop music, and we were trying to marry the two. It was thrilling to hear our songs start to take shape. But had we written hits, or even followed the right formulas for our label? Maybe not. Although it was surprisingly nice to be away from our label’s constant feedback about what we ‘should’ be making. We’d kept a few songs that were designed to impress them—transparent attempts at bigger, straighter rock songs. I didn’t especially like those songs, but they sounded like what the label had been asking for and the execs had to approve our recordings before we were allowed to release them.
‘You need to do more. And I’m still waiting for that single.’We’d just sat down outside a pub back in London, but Gary, the head executive from the label, didn’t bother with niceties. He’d heard the recordings we’d made in Wales and he was clear about needing the ‘cash cow single’, as we were calling it behind his back.
‘I need rock from you,’ Gary said unapologetically, spreading his hands before him. He cited Kings Of Leon’s ‘Sex On Fire’ as a reference point, talking about the explosive chorus and the guitar chords while looking pointedly in Sophie’s direction. We glanced at each other but didn’t interrupt. We didn’t want to sound like that, nor could we. We were inspired by different artists, our style of playing was different, our skills were different. Our singer was a girl who loved Blondie and Beyonce, not the wailings of a Nashville frontman. Sophie looked down at her beer. Miska looked like she wanted to snap back at Gary. Samantha ran a finger over her bottom lip, a movement she pulled whenever she was drifting to a faraway thought, unsure of herself. Rudy and I forced pleasant smiles and said we would try again. ‘Good idea, Gary, we get it. We’ll get back to work.’
We collectively decided that Gary’s direction was the way forward, for now, and I threw myself into the process. While we attempted to write more rock songs to tack onto the album, we were also re-thinking our image as a band. More advice came. More references we absorbed and didn’t question. We did new photoshoots, glamorous and styled within an inch of our lives. When the photo edits came back, I resembled an overly made-up Bratz doll in a mini-skirt that was much too tight and heels that made me topple over. Everything about the images was serious. Everything lacked the ease and appeal of our candid selves.
Our new personas were translating into our live shows and music videos too. We started rehearsing in the biggest room available; the label hired us a space set up with a full stage, wall mirrors and lighting to emulate live shows. We were told it was crucial that we rehearsed in front of a mirror and practised the way we looked on stage. It made sense to me, after years of dancing in front of a wall-length studio mirror. The label also hired a music director for our shows. He was enthusiastic in showing us just how much we could milk our live performance and he told us impressive stories about how big artists needed him to massage their live shows into spectacular, charismatic events. ‘You could be huge!’ he said. ‘If you can get this just right.’
We wrestled with the weirdness of staging our every movement, but ultimately we wanted to do good by the people who were still investing in us. We wanted to be successful, and this was apparently the way to do that. It may have felt forced, but wasn’t that just us growing the fuck up and getting ready to hit the big time?
The music director and our record label executives would come by our rehearsals and sit back from the pretend stage, scrutinising us. The lights were bright, and we could see Gary’s face gazing up at us. His feedback was intended to be helpful, but it was unrelenting. The emphasis became less on how we sounded on stage, and how tightly we were playing, and more on how we looked. The record label was driving the sound of the record, and now the look of our band, too.
The five of us rode the bus home afterwards, and the others laughed as I performed an impression of Gary watching us, his whole face screwed up and wincing, not unlike the face my mother had pulled at my dancing concerts. Perhaps the laughter we shared in those moments was our way of dealing with the slow breakdown of our confidence. The positive force we had felt when we started the band was dwindling. I was much more self-conscious, so eager to please these older, wiser men who I respected. When they shot us down with criticism, it made me want to try harder to impress them. I was hungry for their praise, and we were constantly fed mere scraps.
In the end, we got through it together. I was uncomfortable with being told how to look and act and play, but because I was still doing it with my best friends, I was able to ignore this dark gut feeling and tell myself it would all be worth it.
I noticed Miska was worse at faking it than me. She began to retreat into a passive and introverted version of herself. Normally she was passionate and fiery, unafraid to speak her mind. But now in meetings with our label or in rehearsal rooms, she remained silent. Maybe things would have turned out differently if one of us had had the courage to speak up in that uncomfortable space. Instead, we harnessed that mixed mountain of energy into the studio to write one final crowd-pleasing song for the album.
It was late at night and we were buzzing with the thrill of creating something new. We had spent several days in a London studio with David. It took a while to shake off the ugly pressure of being told to write a big song, but through enough YouTube holes and deep conversations on the worn couch behind the mixing desk, we started to land on something good. We’d been so green when we first started writing songs, but we had learned a lot in the last year of living abroad, living and breathing music. Instinct, which had been pushed away while we were worrying about what we ‘should’ sound like, finally wormed its way back into the room.
We recorded a new song that was, in our opinion, more authentically us than anything we’d recorded previously for the album. It had the core energy of our earliest demos, but it had the advantage of some new songwriting knowledge and much better playing skills. We were aiming to encapsulate a melancholic nineties moodiness of Massive Attack drums paired with a fierce but feminine Madonna-style vocal. I played a crunchy funk bassline and was elated by how it sounded over the drums. We whooped each other on through the thick glass walls every time someone went into the recording booth to lay down a new part. Sam’s singing was confident and intentional. Miska’s synth, reminiscent of Tears for Fears, echoed Sam’s chorus melody.
We beamed and shrieked when we heard it back over the speakers. Even David was excited.
‘THIS! This is the sweet spot! This is what the whole album should sound like, should feel like!’
We didn’t know if it was a hit, but we knew it sounded like us. It was the best we could do. When we invited Gary to come and listen to it, he walked into the studio and David hit play.
I was behind Gary, half-sitting on a fat arm of the studio couch, with my band members squished along the rest of it. I was proud of what we’d done, and nervous and excited for him to hear it. Gary was silent, and when we reached the chorus he slowly lowered himself to sit on the small step that led down to the mixing desk. He put his head in his hands as the remainder of the song played out. Was he frustrated or just listening intently? I couldn’t tell. But his stillness did not feel right. My heart started to sink a little. David had his back to us all, happily nodding in time to the beat, looking at the colourful multi-track file as it played on the wide computer screen. He was tapping his feet.
The last note of the song rang out and a dreadful quiet filled the room. My bandmates and I looked at each other, but no one spoke. We waited for Gary.
He still had his head in his hands, gazing at the floor between his white sneakers. When he started moving, he was shaking his head.
‘I said Kings Of Leon,’ he said softly, then raised his voice. ‘I said big, good bands, I said guitars, and Coldplay, not this. Not this at all. Change it. Change the whole thing.’
He was angry, almost repulsed. The six of us, including David, were gutted. I’d never worked so hard on something to have it fall so flat. Even though I didn’t want to be those big rock bands Gary kept mentioning, I felt like I’d failed.
After Gary and David left, the five of us walked out to the bus stop on the side of the highway. It would take another ninety minutes to get home. We stood cramped under the bus shelter, trying to keep out of the harsh midnight wind. When we arrived home, we retreated to our bedrooms with barely a word.
The next day, we returned to the studio. I still felt defeated, but I didn’t even consider pushing back on Gary’s directions for how to ‘fix’ the song. None of us did. We sat on the couch watching as David erased the beat, my bassline, the synths, and most of the guitar. Then we started again. At every stage, one of us would ask, ‘Is this how he’d want it?’ We weren’t excited or dancing along anymore, we were meek robots trying to get it right.
When night fell, Gary returned to the studio to hear the revamped version of the song. I sat on the same spot of the couch as the night before, fiddling with its cracking leather. My stomach ached and ballooned against the tight waistband of my jeans, filled with nervous anxiety. I was sure we weren’t going to be good enough for him again. The song played out. I had no objective juice left in me to know if I liked it or if I hated it completely. It barely had the bones of us in it anymore. It wasn’t how any of us had imagined our single sounding. But perhaps this was how every band felt? We were still shit wannabes, weren’t we?
The new version of the song ended. A small pause. I held my breath.
‘Much better!’ Gary exclaimed. He turned and smiled widely, the silver streaks in his unshaved beard moving around his dimples.
The album was done.
We had shows booked almost every weekend once the album was finished. When it was finally released, we had more extensive European stints locked in. I found pockets of fun on stage and enjoyed staying at picturesque hotels in Amsterdam and Hamburg, but I was also unhappy with the way so much of the album was in a style that had been forced upon us, and reliving it every night only drove this home harder. I think all five of us felt the same way, but we were too afraid to say it out loud. Sulinna checked in on us regularly, and to her, we put on a collective smile.
Our contracted advance provided each of us with a weekly wage—a modest amount to pay for rent and cheap groceries but too measly to live it up in a vibrant artistic city. My family had taught me to never eat into my savings accounts, and so I applied for a slew of catering jobs to fit among our live shows. At university I’d worked at a cafe on weekends and I had always enjoyed the smooth methodical nature of serving people. After growing up as an obedient member of the dish-washing line at Nonna’s, it felt like a role I was born to perform.
I was accepted into two different catering companies and began hopping between them, picking and choosing which shifts I’d work week to week. It was ironic that my previous manager at the radio station had thrown in the insult about me serving people after quitting my job. Here I was doing just that, and I enjoyed it; I liked scurrying around clearing tables or people-watching as I held a tray of champagne.
One night, about a month into my double catering degree, I was summoned by a small woman standing in the corner of a huge function room. Even though she was young, probably the same age as me, she stood with an air of snobby authority as she watched the servers. Her heavy eye makeup lent a gothic renaissance twang to her otherwise conservative blazer and pencil skirt. Her voice was shrill, cutting sharply through the crowded dining room.
‘Carmelinda? May I have a word? One of the others will cover for you.’
I scooted over to her. Her name was Birgul, she told me as she ushered me into the service hallway.
‘You’ve made a strong impression on the management here. I’m in the catering business too, but I run a different, tighter ship. And I’d like to offer you a job.’
Her English accent was so posh it sounded put on. Birgul explained that she worked for an elite silver service catering company, and she offered me similar work for double the money, with the same flexibilities as my current companies. From then on, whenever I wasn’t with the band, I worked exclusively for Birgul’s company. She was correct about it being a tighter ship—they catered for prestigious businesses and high-end clients. No more random conferences for bank firms, or giant dinners for corporations. No more sleazy businessmen telling me they were the modern-day equivalent of Don Draper.
‘Take out your phone and take my number,’ they’d say, not bothering to lower their voices.
‘No, thank you,’ I’d reply swiftly, holding my tray of canapés between us.
‘Take it, and if your boss sees you, just say I’m an old school friend of your brother’s and you’re taking my number to pass on to him.’
They’d wink. Inside I’d gag, kick them in the dick and throw my tray of cod roe canapés all over them. On the outside, I’d shake my head and walk away, only to later see them doing it to the other women serving them.
But Birgul’s company was different. They looked after twelve historical venues throughout the city, and held events for a very small, very wealthy, and generally very old, sector of society. The rooms we served in were fucking breathtaking. I had never seen spaces of such ornate opulence that weren’t in a European cathedral or a special exhibit at the Tate Britain. In the year or so that I worked for Birgul, I would look up and marvel at Georgian chandeliers. Walls gave way to dazzling stained-glass windows. As I cleared tables I would brush past endless rows of pewter artefacts, a million metallic curves set against sixteenth-century oak wood panelling. The rooms filled with knights’ armour and painted portraits of Britain’s elite were beautiful, despite also being quite creepy. I would loiter as I walked past them at the end of an event, carrying an armful of soiled tablecloths.
I was now in a team of twelve. We were young women who followed strict grooming guidelines for the job and obviously ticked some archaic eye-candy box. Most of the girls were dancers, but there were a couple of actor slash singers who spent the rest of their time auditioning for musicals and plays. They would rehearse songs as we sat polishing wineglasses in the stairwells. And then we would serve Britain’s elite.
It was fascinating to watch people of such elderly esteem up close. The men (and it was only ever men) who attended these events looked like wildly illustrated book characters. There were toads with big bellies that pressed on the inside of their shirt buttons. There were stick figures with bony knuckles and sharpened elbows. Their jackets often displayed medallions but I never wanted to lean in close enough to read the fine print of their virtues. Even from a safe distance, I could see that they all had bright red skin, with giant cauliflower noses. Their noses were so large I was sure they could suck my entire body up in one go. Their wine-riddled breath as they leaned in to ask you for another top-up was enough to make you hold your breath and avert your eyes. Mostly they ignored us, but every so often they would stare grossly at our bodies or say things like, ‘Well, aren’t you pretty?’ or even, ‘Well, aren’t you exotic?’ pronouncing ‘exotic’ with a firm gust of English-accented breath: ‘exHOtic’.
Birgul would stand off to the side, observing us as we served the same bloated gentlemen night after night. She pulled the same judgemental face as my mother, my nonna and Gary. I could spot it from across the darkened dining hall. Her smoky eyes narrowed behind the glasses resting on the end of her nose. We would get compliments for how well-timed our ‘fan service’ was—I found it ridiculous that these clogged-pore cretins would care that we all fanned the plates out in perfect choreography. But like I had in my anxious teens, I enjoyed putting on a performance of being the most exquisite server.
At the end of each shift, us servers were allowed to eat whatever we desired from the extra portions plated up in the massive industrial kitchens. After spending hours smelling the food, I was ravenous. I’d go from perfect polite server to beast, wolfing down luxurious multiple-course meals in a matter of minutes. The chefs stood by and watched us with a mix of disgust and awe.
When I got home I’d tumble into my bed with aching feet and blisters. Too frugal to buy new shoes, I’d take the thick gaffer tape we used for band equipment and seal the massive holes in the soles of my ballet flats. But in the few minutes before I fell into a deep sleep, I’d enjoy a certain satisfaction from my throbbing feet. It was a physical reminder of a job well done. I’d pleased the fussy, foul men who came to eat, and I’d pleased hawk-eyed Birgul, who would otherwise be calling out pedantic instructions like a shrill drill.
One afternoon, however, my perspective shifted. I was the sole server for an intimate lunch at one of my favourite halls in the city. I set the table calmly and quietly; it was a Zen-like task that took nothing but time and a touch of care and precision. There was no manager present, and so I was alone in the room, every so often looking upwards at the most striking feature: the ornamental jade green and regal gold ceiling.
Soon enough, the guests arrived. There were only eleven men; five of them were seated either side of a single long table, with one at the head. They were cauliflower nose bros, the usual suspects. I served their entrees and poured white wine. I cleared the entree plates, then offered them red wine to pair with the main course. I had been instructed to remain in the room while they were eating in case they should want anything. I stood in the corner polishing a tray of heavy ornate cutlery, admiring the antique floral designs on each handle and taking care not to leave any smudge marks on the long dinner knives. I was absentmindedly listening to them talk, keeping half an eye out in case they called out for more wine, when I heard one of them pipe up above the rest.
‘Now look at this one.’
I kept polishing a heavy-arse fork, my eyes down.
‘Which one?’ I heard another one ask.
‘This one, right here. With us.’
Out of the corner of my eye I could see a man at the table gesturing with a slight movement of his hand towards my body. I dared not look up properly, but my ears homed in to listen to whatever he was about to say. His voice was louder now, and more excited.
‘Now, where she has come from, she would never, ever have had the opportunities that we now offer her.’
My face burned up. I turned my body, angling myself away from them so they couldn’t see my face. I could feel them all looking at me. I pretended I was completely absorbed by the cutlery as the man went on.
‘We have given her a good job. She has learned how to fit in, how to do a good job, she speaks VERY good English too. And now, she has opportunities here that she would never have had back where she’s come from, and that is because she knows how to follow,’ he paused here, ‘instructions. And she has learned discipline. These things are crucial.’
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I wasn’t even sure of the point he was trying to make. Did he not realise I had a bloody Australian accent when I spoke my ‘very good English’ to all of them? Is this what they thought of women of colour, like me? Of our ‘exHOtic-ism’, as they so often called it? Should I go up and kiss his swollen, gnarly feet to say thank you? What the fuck had I eavesdropped into? I held back snorts of laughter at the absurdity of his statements, but they also inflamed my abhorrence for these men. The satisfaction in his voice as he articulately spat out the word ‘discipline’. His righteousness at being sat at the table while women like me operated as mostly silent servers. Everything in its right place, you see. Something in me snapped. There was a narrow role that I jovially played each time I walked into these dining rooms in my secretly taped-up shoes, but now I wanted out.
I finished polishing the cutlery and eventually turned back around again. They were finishing their roast chicken main courses. When I cleared the table, they had moved on and were chattering away about something else as I leaned in between each man, elegantly removing their plates with my right hand and adding them to the pile in my left. I noticed them noticing me a little more than required this time. I swallowed my loathing and held my breath each time I leaned down. I imagined knocking wineglasses over, or better yet, flicking the loud talker’s bulbous nose. It would be a petite yet shocking gesture.
After they had cleared the room, I took out my phone and snuck a few photos of the ornate ceiling, then of me in my suit and tie. When I walked through the kitchen to the change room, I saw a dessert fork sitting among the scraps of cake in the bins—the dish-washer had accidentally scraped it in there. I reached down and picked it up, gave it a quick clean, and put it in my pocket. I loved those heavy little forks. After a forty-minute trudge home, I sat on my bed and watched the sunset from my bedroom window, holding the small fork in my hand. I called Birgul, and I politely quit.
Birgul was understanding. I told her that my band was doing a lot of shows across the UK and into Europe for our album tour, which was true. I omitted the details about how I felt talked down to and ogled constantly, and that I had begun to despise the part of myself that enjoyed following orders when she barked them at me. I’d been giving too much of my energy to others, whether it was serving the record label emotionally or serving these people physically at dinner tables.
I started spending my days rifling through old bookstores in Hampstead Heath with Miska, or going to parties in Hackney with the band. We had begun DJing each week at a club in Soho, so there was a smudge of extra cash coming in.
We spent days at a time in the tour bus, with Rudy driving and blasting Ariel Pink’s Haunted Graffiti as we passed through massive wind farms in the European countryside. We’d load in and out of venues, carrying an infinite amount of heavy gear, perform our show, sleep a handful of hours in cramped hotel rooms and then hit the road the following day. Despite our reservations about the sound of the album, the buzz from playing a good live show was unlike any other—a supreme and elite high—and I still adored seeing foreign landscapes.
When we returned to London before our final touring stint in Germany, we needed to film a music video for the last single on our record. Miska and I sat next to each other on the bus ride to the shoot location. Miska’s introversion had increased, but she could never hide how she was feeling from me, for better or worse. She hadn’t been saying much but over the last few months her face had looked forlorn. I had noticed it more on tour, as she stared out of our bus windows. When I asked her if she was okay, she told me she was carsick. I didn’t believe her but I didn’t want to push. Now, as we both sat facing forward on the bus to the shoot, she leaned into me and spoke softly into my ear.
‘I’m going to leave the band.’
‘Oh, Misky …’ I trailed off as she started to cry a little. ‘I knew you were unhappy, but I’m so sorry—I didn’t know it was that bad.’
I hugged her tightly, pressing my chin into her hair.
‘I’ve been trying,’ she managed, tears running down her cheeks.
‘Hey, don’t worry, it’ll be okay. You don’t have to be in the band. We’ll talk to the others. Oh, honey, we love you, it’s okay.’ I sighed, then, half smiling, I made a joke. ‘Could you possibly have picked a better time than when we’re on our way to shoot a music video with everyone around?’
I had intended to make her laugh, but it only made her cry harder and splutter her words.
‘I’m so sorry, I couldn’t hold it in anymore.’
She kept crying, and then I started too.
I realised later that we had all lost varying degrees of trust in ourselves and we hadn’t been able to articulate this loss to each other. We were all just going along with a vision that wasn’t our own. But we were still managing to sell it. Our band looked the part, we were better musicians than ever and our crowds were growing larger, especially in Europe. On paper, everything looked positive. We weren’t just breaking even anymore; we had started to make money from our shows. Not a lot, but enough for it to feel like our sacrifices may be worth it. I held on to my best friend as we trundled along to the video shoot, where we spent the day being styled and prodded into positions in front of the camera. We didn’t tell the others; I kept Miska’s secret for now.
A couple of days later, we invited the rest of the band into our cramped kitchen. We sat down around the table and when Miska announced sadly that she had decided to leave the band, Rudy also revealed that he was unhappy and wanted out.
Sophie piped up in support, always the one to spin everything with kindness and positivity. ‘Remember what we always said to each other from the start? If it ever stops being fun between us, that’s when we should stop doing it. We’re best friends above everything else.’
I sat with my elbows on that crappy, tiny table and felt relief. We’d all been biting our tongues for the longest time about how we’d really been feeling. A soft sorrow crept into the air around us. Things were about to change.
We made tea and talked it out. We didn’t want to walk away from our duties as a band so we decided to finish the rest of the European shows we’d committed to but then that would be it. We would leave with integrity. We confided in our manager, Sulinna, the next day. She told us she had sensed that things were off, but she hadn’t clocked that we had reached crisis point. Straight away, she organised a meeting with the record label. We sat at our usual cafe in Primrose Hill with big teacups, squishing a couple of the tables together. I sat on the far end, away from Gary. I didn’t want to look at him and see how let down he might be. Sulinna took charge of the conversation, explaining calmly that once the tour was over, so was the band. When Gary sighed heavily with disappointment, I worried he was about to serve us with the same ultimatum I’d received when I quit my radio job—if we wanted to make it, it was now or never. But in her sweet and diplomatic voice, Sophie answered all his bemused questions. I was surprised when he eventually accepted our decision. Maybe he was happy to be rid of us; maybe deep down he had realised we weren’t the ‘cash cow’ he thought he’d invested in. He looked weary but not angry.
Our final show was in Berlin. I felt lighter and more confident than I had in months. Knowing that you’ll desperately miss something, even though you know that saying goodbye to it was the right thing to do, is a strange but lovely emotion. Like meaningful sex after an amicable breakup.
We played hard and energetically that night. We were tightly rehearsed players by that stage, but for our final show we abandoned the choreography the musical director had laid out to us. Fuck that, I thought. Rudy and I locked into our rhythms, sweat dripping down his forehead and forearms. Samantha commanded the audience like the demon kitty she was, her platform heels and shiny black hair iridescent under the spotlights. Sophie nailed every guitar solo like a graceful punk, her arms and posture a throwback to her ballerina years but her guitar screaming from the amp behind her. And Miska. She was her original self again. She had a fury and a sensuality as a performer that I had always aspired to—an onstage presence that was pure and charismatic. During our last show, it came back. We left the stage sweat-soaked and exhilarated. We had a long collective hug backstage, Rudy’s figure towering over us.
Feelings swirled in the old chandelier above us. Freedom. Melancholy. Pride. I was proud of what we’d done together. How we’d remained friends through an experience that chipped away at the core of our self-expression and worth. Most of all, I felt relief, grateful that we no longer had to pretend to be a band we weren’t.