Williamstown Swimming  & Life Saving Club, Victoria. June 2023.

At a thousand Australian weddings, B&S balls, conference dinners, birthday parties, twenty-firsts over the past forty years, the distinctive opening chords of a driving 12 bar blues meant it was the signal to put down your drink and do one thing. You grabbed your grannie, collared your boss, pulled your drunk girlfriend away from a husband (not hers), pulled your husband away from a drunk work colleague, and hustled everyone onto the dance floor.

Chank chank chank chank

You got in line to the choppy electric guitar punching the beat. Shuffled up to let more people in. “Come on Aunty, join us!”  Wait for it, wait for it, here comes the brass … And then, Tina’s distinctive raspy rock goddess voice belting out as only she could:

A church house, gin house
A school house, outhouse

Off you go … kick kick.

It was late May 2023 when we heard the sad news that Tina Turner had died. A group of us in our local U3A (University of the Third Age) decided that we needed a fitting celebration of the life and music of this amazing woman who never let age define her. We had all retired from work but certainly had not retired from life and still knew how to have a good time. “Let’s have a Tina Turner memorial,” we said – a suitable send off for our role model.

On Highway Number Nineteen
The people keep the city clean

On a chilly June evening with a lively cold wind coming off the sea, a group of women (and a couple of reluctant husbands) gathered in the historic Life Saving Club House on Williamstown beach. I’d like to say, in tribute to our muse, we were wearing something sparkly and minimal – the sort of thing she adored, with beads and fringes that moved in counterpoint to her bumping hips and legendary legs. But the truth was, we sported more layered jumpers and sensible thick leggings than thigh-high minis. Less stilettos – more Sketchers with orthotic inserts.

The heating was minimal so we got warm as best we could. With a couple of drinks and the old audio system turned up as loud as it would go, we put Nutbush on rotation and hit the timeworn wooden floorboards, which got us and the old building thawed out nicely.

They call it Nutbush city limits

Twenty-five was the speed limit

Motorcycle not allowed in it

Life-saving trophies proudly displayed on shelves were given a good shake. The black and white photos of past club presidents looked down, possibly askance, on 50, 60 and 70 year olds kicking and jumping like youngsters. Because in our minds we were.

A couple of dripping young swimmers who’d braved the icy waters came in shivering, saw what was happening and skittered through quick smart to the changing rooms. The horror was obvious on their faces that it could be an aunt or worse still a grandmother on the dance floor, joyfully uncoordinated but still having a great time. We didn’t care. If Tina could strut her stuff at our age in stilettos and a handful of sequins, then nothing was going to hold us back.

You go to the store on Fridays

You go to church on Sundays

This was the dance that went with the story of our lives over the past forty years. We’d danced it at weddings, divorces, birthdays – anywhere we got together with friends and music to celebrate, commemorate or commiserate. We danced it when we were younger and dammit we’d dance it now we were older.

So what if it wasn’t perfectly choreographed, that some of us turned right instead of left? And the jump and turn for those with stiff joints was more of a shuffle around? That night, dicky knees and dodgy ankles were forgotten. Tina was nearly 70 at her final performance but she could still tear up the stage, shake her booty and dance on elastic legs. So for one glorious night we channelled Tina, her energy and her drive. It may have looked like uncoordinated mayhem (turn left, left I said. Not right!) but we laughed a lot as we celebrated not only Tina, but love, life and most importantly, friendship.

Kudos to a woman who made it to 83 years old; who survived an abusive marriage; made one of pop music’s greatest comebacks; forged a successful solo career; and had the energy and the vocal pipes to get the whole of Australia up out of its chairs on a thousand nights at a thousand venues to do a fun little dance to a tight funky backbeat.

They call it Nutbush
Oh, Nutbush
They call it Nutbush city limits

Here’s to you Tina!

Stereo Story 851

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Ann Banham retired from the corporate world where she wrote corporate-type material (website content, brochures, newsletters etc). She found her tribe in U3A Williamstown and enrolled in a creative writing class. She is now happily exploring the creative side of her brain with short stories, non-fiction pieces and the occasional stab at poetry.