MY TURN TO CRY by COLD CHISEL Story by John Butler

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MY TURN TO CRY by COLD CHISEL Story by John Butler

John Butler
Western Highway, between Ballarat and Melbourne
Autumn, 1986

Well I was pretty young
She was young and pretty
I was so naïve
It was such a pity

Our would-be saviour squeezed his massive frame out of his small sports car. Silhouetted only by the car’s internal light, he was a daunting sight. Shaggy eighties perm, muscular hairy shoulders exposed by a blue tank top, a cloud of steam emanated from him as his body hit the cold night air. I recognised Cold Chisel’s Swingshift album playing at ear-bleed levels on his tape deck. The song was My Turn To Cry. I was hoping it wasn’t an omen.

J* and I had stuffed up. We’d run out of petrol returning from Mildura. Mobile phones were an invention of the future. We couldn’t even see a house light in the distance, let alone a public phone. On an increasingly chilly Saturday night we stood fruitlessly by the roadside, hoping someone would stop. This was our first bite. He’d been going so quickly it had taken him a couple of hundred metres to pull up. At least that meant he was probably keen.

He was almost certainly as high as a kite. Or mad. So I discovered, once I’d closed to within reasonable shouting distance. “Gdaymatelookslikeyouneedsomehelp”. I couldn’t really catch the rest. He was effusively friendly in a most alarming way.

Was this really a good idea? Probably not. But what were our options? A night snuggled with J in the car didn’t appeal. I had him pegged as a farter. If we were going down, we were going down together. I beckoned J and the three of us crammed into a two seater.

Chisel were rockin’. Barnsey was screaming. Steel was shipped. Astrid said goodbye. Our chauffer maintained an antic monologue, matching Barnsey for volume, if not coherency. I’d clocked the odometer to gauge the distance of our return. But I didn’t dare look at the speedo. The outside blackness hurtled past.

In what felt like both an infeasibly long and short space of time, we screeched to a halt at the Melton Roadhouse. As we tumbled out we could have kissed the ground. Our saviour tore off into the night.

The roadhouse attendant wasn’t a loquacious type. The only jerry can was on loan, or so he mumbled. I don’t think he liked the look of us.

What followed was a slapstick rummage through rubbish bins for whatever containers were available. Pickings were scarce. Try pumping gas into a Coke bottle one day and see how you go. Nevertheless, we finally reckoned we had enough.

Now we were on the other side of the highway. It was even later. Traffic was even sparser. And we needed another lift.

Despair was taking hold when a sensible looking sedan finally pulled up. Upon hearing our plight, the middle aged driver invited us aboard. I was riding shotgun. J was in the back seat. Thankful, but weary, I babbled inane pleasantries. Then I enquired of our new saviour what caused him to be out driving this late. He replied that he’d just come from hospital, where he and his family had decided there was no further option but to turn off the life support for his brother.

All these years later, I can guarantee you that remains my all-time 100 percent guaranteed conversation stopper.

In the stunned silence that ensued, I looked back at J for moral support. He was literally trying to disappear into the foot cavity between front and back seats. I was clearly going to be carrying this conversation on my own.

And so I did. Haltingly. Awkwardly. Painfully. I sought empathy but only achieved platitude.

Thankfully, our host was prepared to do most of the talking. In hindsight, this should have been blindingly obvious. Why else, on possibly the worst night of his life, would he stop to pick up a couple of dropkicks such as we? He needed to unburden.

Eventually our car was found, engine revived, and Melton revisited. We pulled in to Melbourne well after Barnsey would have been singing The Party’s Over.

Lessons to be taken from our One Long Day? Saviours may not be what you expect. Whenever you think you’re having a bad day, someone’s having a worse one. Never, ever, ignore a fuel gauge in the red. And whatever your predicament, Cold Chisel probably have a song to cover it.

 

*Names have been altered to protect the culpable.

John Butler has spent many nights treading the sticky carpet. You will usually find him down the back, or to the side.

By | 2017-11-14T16:45:36+00:00 November 18th, 2017|Ozrock, Rock|11 Comments

11 Comments

  1. Chris Phillips November 18, 2017 at 8:26 am - Reply

    Loving that story John, as a past very keen CC fan (Swingshift – double live album Chisel gold!!) & an appreciator of well placed words & turns of phrase. You made something at best highly inconvenient & daunting, & at worst deeply sad & tragic, be quite surprisingly chuckleworthy. Takes a master to do that I reckon. I’m sure CC have a song to cover all predicaments, as you say. I am working hard here to try & come up with a clever CC song title pun, but it’s not my day.

  2. John Butler November 18, 2017 at 8:55 am - Reply

    Thanks for the kind words Chris.

    It was certainly a night that has lingered in the memory.I still occasionally give Swingshift a spin, and am always instantly transported back in time.

    Cheers

  3. Rick Kane November 18, 2017 at 9:26 am - Reply

    Terrific story JB. It shouldn’t be, (in such a startingly reflective story that balances you as a young man with the older you telling the story) but my fave line is, I had picked him as a farter!

    Cold Chisel easily best Australian concerts I’ve seen.

    Cheers

  4. John Butler November 18, 2017 at 9:34 am - Reply

    Rick, when the chips are down, you have to cut straight to the essentials. :)

  5. JD November 18, 2017 at 11:59 am - Reply

    Great story superbly told JB.

  6. The Wrap November 18, 2017 at 12:36 pm - Reply

    I miss those days when you’d stop to give people a lift JB — and when people were prepared to take their chances of getting one. I’ve spent a good part of my life nursing a steering wheel throughout rural NSW & Victoria. I’ve picked up some beauties in my time. Like the German backpacker who wanted to hitchhike to Uluru about the time the kids were going back to school after their Christmas break. There were the hippies hitching back up to QLD after summering in Tassy. Their marijuana smoker’s bark would muster sheep. The most delightful converastionalists were the Aboriginals: interesting, articulate and knowledgeable. But my favourites were always the ones who asked if I minded if they didn’t talk; they just wanted to listen to the cricket.

  7. John Butler November 18, 2017 at 2:00 pm - Reply

    Ta, JD.

    Wrap, sounds like you should be writing your own piece on the subject. It’s striking how mobile phones and GPS gear has changed our attitude to travelling. In so many ways this same trip would have been much duller today. But rather less fraught.

    Cheers

  8. Luke Reynolds November 20, 2017 at 5:08 pm - Reply

    Cracking read JB.
    “I’d clocked the odometer to gauge the distance of our return. But I didn’t dare look at the speedo.” Brilliant!
    “My Turn to Cry”, great song. Reckon it harks back to the sound of their early albums more than any other on ‘East’.

  9. John Butler November 20, 2017 at 8:48 pm - Reply

    Thanks Luke.

    I think the most memorable performance of this song might have been their effort at the Countdown Awards. For those who might want to revisit that, here’s the link:

    https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kAQLkTdQHpA

  10. DBalassone November 22, 2017 at 9:18 am - Reply

    Great yarn JB. Sounds like a scene out of the Twilight Zone, or maybe even Curb Your Enthusiasm.
    Swingshift is a cracking live album – always loved those cover versions too – ‘As Long As I Can See the Light’ & ‘Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door’.
    Barnsey is an underrated songwriter. He wrote some little gems in the Chisels days: ‘My Turn To Cry’, ‘Goodbye’, ‘Rising Sun’, ‘No Sense’, ‘You Got Nothing I Want’ and (I think) set the lyrics of ‘Juliet’ to music.

  11. John Butler November 22, 2017 at 9:32 am - Reply

    Thanks Damian. The night certainly developed a surreal feel as it took its course.

    I concur re Swingshift. I reckon Barnsey sold himself short a bit with his solo career. Too focused on cracking America. Not that he’ll give a toss what I think. :)

    Cheers

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