EVERYBODY LOVES A LOVER by DORIS DAY. Story by Smokie Dawson.

The Glenelg to Adelaide tram, 1992

The tram from Glenelg into central Adelaide was only minutes from departing, and from the confines of the phone-box I could see my mates giving me the hurry-up. But although I had not lived at home for some years, whenever I was away from Melbourne I made a point of checking in with my parents at least every couple of days.

On this particular Saturday night, the call to my mother had found her in good spirits. “Pauline is here visiting us,” she said. Pauline and Mum had been best friends since they attended primary school together in the 1950s. In fact, Pauline was my godmother. I hung up the phone and dashed for the tram, and smiled at the thought of what the night held in store for Mum and her old friend. Generally, it would involve a few drinks and plenty of music, and inevitably conclude with a few Doris Day tunes.

Mum’s favourite Doris Day song is Everybody Loves A Lover. When I was living at home, I had often returned after a night out to see her and Pauline sitting in the lounge singing it together. The song’s oddity is that the third verse consists of the first verse being dubbed over the second verse, with Doris singing what is known as a counterpoint duet. I lost count of the number of times I had watched Pauline and Mum attempting to sing this verse, but getting bamboozled by each other’s voice and inevitably dissolving into mirth, laughing wickedly like the schoolfriends they were so many years before.

Many of the passengers had seen me race for the tram, and there was a muted round of applause as I squeezed aboard just as the driver signalled its departure for the CBD. The tram was packed with both interstate and overseas visitors, all in town for the Formula 1 Grand Prix. My mates and I were standing at the front, near the driver’s seat, facing back into the carriage. “Here he is, the human jukebox,” announced one of the boys. He was alluding to my singing performance in the mini-van on the drive over from Melbourne the previous day. With ten of us crammed in like sardines, someone had to provide the entertainment. One of the others announced, “He takes requests, you know.”

Two young American girls seated near us immediately took up the challenge, cheekily asking “Do you know the American national anthem?” I shrugged, took a deep breath, and commenced:

“O say can you see, by the dawn’s early light,
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight’s last gleaming…”

But after the opening two lines, I told them that I was not there to sing national anthems! “We are all here to party. How about something a little more interesting?” A man in his 20s, sitting a few rows behind them, stood up and suggested The Red Hot Chilli Peppers’ Under The Bridge. This was more like it! With vocal cords having been lubricated at a couple of Glenelg pubs, I launched into the first verse and then sought assistance from my mates as we belted out the chorus:

“I don’t ever wanna feel, Like I did that day
Take me to the place I love, Take me all the way
I don’t ever wanna feel, Like I did that day
Take me to the place I love, Take me all the way
Yeah, yeah, yeah…”

This time there was solid applause and good-natured cheering, as the tram continued clattering toward the city, not stopping for any more passengers as there was simply no room on board. “Those people are not merely missing a tram, they are missing out on the performance of a lifetime,” I said to hoots of laughter. I was now on a roll. A group of Australians requested Men At Work’s Down Under and then Daddy Cool’s Eagle Rock, but it was only the locals who were fully appreciative of those tunes.

An older Italian man wearing a Benneton tee-shirt demanded that I sing something that everyone would know. “For instance, how about some Neil Diamond?” He had barely finished speaking when I began warbling Sweet Caroline:

“Where it began, I can’t begin to know when
But then I know it’s growin’ strong
Was in the spring, And spring became the summer
Who’d have believed you’d come along?”    

By now practically the entire tram was clapping and singing along. I really had them eating out of the palm of my hand. But we had reached the outskirts of the city and were now rolling down King William Street, so both the journey and the show were drawing to a close. There was an elderly Canadian man standing in the aisle, who had not participated at all in the goings-on. He had been glowering at me since we left Glenelg. “Well, Mr Jukebox,” he said. “How about I offer you a request?” The other passengers, my mates, me, all turned toward him in anticipation, wondering what a man easily into his mid-80s might ask for. This could be tricky, I thought.

He took a deep breath. “I bet you don’t know anything by Doris Day!”

Stereo Story#783

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