WATERFALL by HEATH KING/FLOW (and MEMPHIS by THE BADLOVES). Story by Martina Medica.

Sooki Lounge, Belgrave, June 2021 and
Ruby’s Lounge, Belgrave, mid-2000s

The name may be different, but it still feels the same in here. Close. Warm. Magic. Nostalgia is woven through the air like cigarette smoke, so thick I can’t breathe for the longing. I’m 24 again, 25 maybe. Feels like a lifetime ago.

Feels like yesterday.

Sooki Lounge, aka Ruby’s, aka the Blue Train Café. Despite not living in or particularly near Belgrave, I’ve known this institution and loved it in all three iterations. The building’s fabric is woven through my life, my loves, my memories.

Tonight, I’m here with a friend to see one of Australia’s greats, The Badloves. I’m excited, but I haven’t been here in years so I’m also a little preoccupied. It still feels magic in here, but… My eyes scan the room. There are different pictures up, different décor. The floor’s different too, my shoes don’t stick to it like they used to. It doesn’t smell like cigarettes in here anymore, either. Well, not much.

My nostalgic heart aches at the change.

But above all else, it aches at the absence. Everywhere I look, I expect to see him. Hear his big booming voice. Feel the warmth spread through the room as he laughs, or talks, or sings. If this building is woven into my life, he is woven into this building; this town; these hills.

My friend and I go to get a drink. The bar is thick with bodies, milling and gesticulating, a steady hum punctuated by shrieks and peals of laughter – and I wonder whether anybody here knows who he was. I lean over to tell my friend about him and I half expect the bartender to overhear and say, “Oh, Heath, yeah, he was in just yesterday!” But more than just the décor has changed in the last 15 years.

After a drink or two, the Badloves come out, and the crowd swarms en masse towards the stage, their hum now a roar. Michael Spiby starts off a bit slowly, but before long he’s in fine form, his voice grittier than it used to be, but still rich and soulful as they play through their classics. Soon enough, the guitar leads into a familiar bluesy intro, and the crowd hollers and whistles and stomps. It’s one of my favourites too.

Way back Friday wasn’t my day
I hung my boots on the factory door…

I sway along to the music, dreamy, drifting.

There’s a light on in Memphis
There’s a party there tonight
Someone left the light on in Memphis
Oh Elvis must be coming home tonight
Singing Elvis, won’t you come on home

Dreamy, drifting, I blink – and the Badloves disappear. Instead, on the stage, I see a ghost. Not Elvis, no. But a King nonetheless.

Heath King.

Golden notes are flowing from his mouth to my ears, his voice effortlessly shifting from honeyed to honeycomb, from smooth vibrato and soaring falsetto to gritty blues notes and Mongolian throat singing.

More ghosts. A little girl, just a toddler, twirls at the table nearest the stage, oversized headphones over her tiny ears, dancing while her daddy sings.

Around the edges of the room, stranger-friends sit and laugh, drink and smoke, dance and love. I don’t know them, and they don’t know me, but that’s the magic of Heath’s music – we’re all friends now.

On the sticky floor, me and another ghost from the past sit, legs stretched out, pinkies touching as we lean back on our hands and listen to Heath sing.

His voice is an endless source of warmth and wonder and magic and love.

And we’re all mesmerized.

*

A new, rockier song begins and Michael Spiby comes back into focus, crooning and purring and drawing me out of the past. I plant my feet and grip my glass, clutching tightly onto the present as I tune back in. The remainder of the show is just as good as the beginning, a room full of happy punters and a string of great songs, finishing with the wickedly smooth groove of Green Limousine.

But I just can’t shake these ghosts. Maybe I don’t want to.

After the gig, I drive to a familiar place nearby that once held its own magic. The velvet skies are heavy with stars and memories, and I feel their weight as I turn off the engine, close my eyes and lean back against the headrest. I hit play on my favourite of Heath’s songs, Waterfall, and I listen. And listen. And listen. That fucking voice. Blending past and present like oil paints, creating a canvas that’s vivid and messy and bright.

I keep listening.

Different car, different year, different life.

But it still feels the same in here. Close. Warm. Magic. Nostalgia is woven through the air like cigarette smoke, so thick I can’t breathe for the longing. I’m 24 again, 25 maybe. Feels like a lifetime ago.

Feels like yesterday.

Stereo Story 838