Hey, youse black fellow party boys (oh, get ready)
Hey, all youse black fellows come together
All together for the Black fellow party (oh yeah).
Under the tree, squatting on the lawn
Passing the bottle, marking the time
Getting the spark, don’t sit this one out
Have a drink, pass the bottle (sparking, sparking now)
Hey, hey for this black fellow party
Hey, hey for this Black fellow party (oh yeah)
A guitar plays, strummed by one of our kin
No one’s dancing, all waiting for the other to shine
Oh the black fellow party blues (oh yeah)
The glad old black fellow party blues (oh yeah).
Now we’s up and now’s we’s grooving
Sweat sweet mellow country music moving
Dancing cheek to cheek without a care
But she’s taken and you’ll be decked, oh yeah
For dancing cheek to cheek, for dancing cheek to cheek
‘Cause it’s the mean old black fellow blues (oh sad)
Hey, it’s those mean old black fellow blues (be glad)
While you’re dancing cheek to cheek,
Yeah, dancing the Black Fellow party blues away.
Under a spreading tree of some European name that kept the men safely in the shadows Balga carefully not to crease his gear squatted beside an old bloke with a shock of white hair and a black face lost in the darkness so that he could only now and again see the gleam of what he imagined were false teeth. The oldie had gestured him down beside him as he came up and then introduced himself as Laurie Moffat, the last Koorie full blood of Victoria. Balga accepted him at his word just as he accepted the sweet bottle of port that was doing the rounds of a circle of men that were waiting for the dance to begin. He heard Revel talking, but didn’t get to him as the old bloke began yarning to him in a soft voice that hesitated and rambled on like a soft Victoria brook. ‘Plenty of water in Victoria,’ Balga thought as he listened.
‘Yes, William Berak, Baruk, long gone now, yeah, long gone, he wrote a book, naw told a book, all our culture to that white bloke, anthropologist William Howitt everything he knew. It was his book.’
He stopped, took a slug of the wine and passed the bottle to Balga. He felt the warm glow of the liquor hit the right spot and he smiled and said: ‘Willam Baruk.’
‘Yeah, you look in the library for those books. They all about us Koorie people and spot on ‘cause that old black fellow, he passed on our history and ways to him,’ Laurie told the lad and went on to say that there was a statue of him in a town called Healesville where there had been an Aboriginal settlement, Corenderrk, or some name like that. Old Laurie didn’t have many teeth left or his falsies were loose. He slurred his words so that Balga missed out on a lot of what he said.
‘Healesville?’ he queried, to get at least the name of the town right and then took a swig on the bottle and passed it on to the old fellow.
‘William Baruk, the artist,’ a voice cut in and Revel plonked himself down between them. He took the bottle and finished it off.
‘You know, him, you know him,’ the oldie slurred.
‘Artist, just like me, Bud, checked out some of his work. Good with the figures, likes a lot of movement, doesn’t do the bush much at all.’
‘Naw, yes, what you mean, he sketched everything he want to. Us blokes dancing and things like that. He was a culture man and did what he could.’
‘Yeah,’ Revel grunted and turned to me: ‘Didn’t catch up with you this last week, Bud. We have to keep together, only Noongars in this city. Yeah, get out and do yourself a turn. There’s a pub where the artists go, called Tatts just down from the Museum art school. I’m there most times in the late afternoon until 6 o’clock closing. Come and we’ll sink a few jugs, eh, just kidding, but you gotta come. Hey, miss you, bud and we Noongars have to stick together,’ Revel stuck out his hand and they solemnly clasped wrists and then shook hands.
‘Gotta keep together,’ Balga intoned, ‘sure do miss the old state, but too busy to notice except at night when the loneliness comes creeping like, like well, like a black cat.’
And with his simile Balga felt the urge to get into this city that flowed all about him rich with promise. ‘Yeah, yeah, and now the dance beckons him to his feet. Do you think they’ll have a rocking band?’ the lad asked.
Old Laurie Moffat came to with a start and exclaimed: ‘Music, the dance is starting. We have to get in there and join the ladies.’
He began to push himself up to his feet and Balga extended down a hand to help him to his feet.
‘Yeah.but it doesn’t sound like rock,’ he said somewhat sadly.
‘A kin of mine is playing country, sweet sweet country, can’t stand that noise,’ the Oldie exclaimed
‘I’ll join you later,’ Revel said, ‘it’s nice here and well it’ll take awhile for the folks to get moving.’
‘And maybe never grooving,’ Balga said, feeling the Bodgie flaring up in him. ‘Catch you later,’ and he escorted the Oldie to the hall.
The function was a fund raising event for the funeral fund the League had started for Koori people. A group Harry Williams and the Country Outcasts were laying down a country groove to unresponsive men and women. Only a few couples were up shuffling about the floor. When the number came to an end Harry spat into the microphone and declared a talent quest. A few men and women were summoned up with much urging from Harry who knew everyone to sing their way through sentimental old country songs until Balga had had enough. He decided to give them a song. He got to his feet and went to the foot of the low stage and waited for the last singer to strum to an end.
Harry looked at Balga and said; ‘Don’t know you, cuz, but are you ready to give it a go.’
‘Yeah, but I can’t strum that thing to save my soul.’
‘Well, just hold it so you don’t get nervous. What’s your name and where you from?’
‘Balga Jackson and I guess I’m from Perth, West Aussie.
‘Hey, brothers and sisters, we have Balga Jackson a Sandgroper who’s about to finish off our contest with... with ...?’
‘Well, I’d like to sing,’ (and with a rush) ‘My West Aussie Home.’
‘Never heard it, how does it go, what key is it in?’
‘Oh man, make it low, make it sad, find the tune and I’ll be on top of it.’
Harry Williams winked around the hall, grinned and hit a low note, the drums came in and a slow low tune began.
Balga shrugged, took a stance, cleared this throat and let the words come out. He sang:
I come from the plains of my home
Where no fences keep me bound
I’m a Noongar without surrounds
No fences can keep me bound
No fences can keep me bound.
Now I’m lost in the streets of the city
Faces grey and white make me cry
Oh ain’t it a pity, oh ain’t it a pity
I miss the sunny plains of my home
Oh the plains of my Noongar home.
I came to have a look around
I come to make some sort of stand
Now I feel that I lack a plan
Man, oh yeah, I have no plan
To make it back to my Noongar home
Oh yeah, sadness for my West Aussie home.
Someone loudly clapped as Balga finished. Revel. ‘Sing it again, Bud,’ he called, ‘sing it again.’
And Balga did as best he could and after he finished, Harry Williams shook his hand and presented him with a footie sweater. ‘Fitzroy, the Lions,’ he held it up and everyone cheered.
After this everyone loosened up and the floor was filled by couples dancing and enjoying themselves. Balga managed a few sedate dances and then went to get a cup of tea with his last partner.
This was Margaret Briggs a largish woman, with deep brown eyes, a light olive skin and a brusque manner. Balga sat with her over a cuppa and listened as she got to talking about her family. They belonged to the Melbourne area thus had a claim on the League. She even told him that the Briggs’ family were descended from Trugerninni and thus belonged to the Aborigines of Tasmania as well as the Koories of Victoria. Trugerninni had been styled the last of her people, but the Briggs (the name came from a sailor that frequented Bass Strait between the mainland and Tasmania in the 19th century) were directly descended from Trugerninni’s daughter who came to the mainland from her island home with her mother in the 1830s. Balga nodded to this as he wondered why no one had really worked out his own pedigree.
As they were talking Revel came up to him and said: ‘Hey Bud, you made your mark. I paint and you sing. Too much, right,’ and he wandered off. He was not to be found when the function finished and Balga went looking for him.
Instead he met, Alec one of those short bustling men that seemed to populate Melbourne. He took him to a house close by for some tucker and tea. It was the inner circle of Koories that kept the league going. They all sat in a circle in the lounge room and took turns dancing. This wasn’t a part of traditional Koorie culture Margaret informed him. She said that during the second war the government had evacuated the people of Thursday Island from up north in Torres Strait between New Guinea and Australia to Melbourne where they mixed with the city Kooris who learnt some of their culture. This included a canoe dance which she decided to demonstrate with him. Balga felt awkward in his Bodgie threads, but got up with the rest. They formed a line of paddlers and began singing a song.
Balga began enjoying himself, but it was time for the last bus. He hurried to catch it with ‘goodbyes’ ringing in his ears.