salvation and the beat goes on

2 chpts of beatnik casbah

CHP-11-1 "salvation"

Rain poured down for three days and my cheap crepe soled desert boots were soaked. As a result the soles of my feet had withered from being perpetually damp. It was like walking on rotting sponge .They were pasty white and a little sore to walk on. I stuffed paper towels in my shoes but that just made the dampness linger longer.

The day before I had found an old battered guitar case and began carrying it so cops would think I was a folk singer instead of a vagrant. That same night, while seeking shelter from the storm, I stumbled upon a great new sleeping place. It was in the front seat of a van parked in the backyard of a TV repair joint. I was careful to get out as soon as I awoke because the TV man might open the shop early.

Eating breakfast at the 7-30 Kent St. soup kitchen I planned to hurry and catch the 8am at St Vincent de Paul as well, but changed my mind as I didn’t want to waste time sitting with old bums for a 2

 

 

nd meal I didn't really need.. The night before had been cold but the day warmed up and I felt great.

 

 

After bumming second hand shoes and socks from the Salvation Army near Chinatown I had enough coin to score a coffee at a Circular Quay greasy spoon.

Sitting in one of the old style booths that cafes still had in ‘64, I sipped coffee and studied a Lobsang Rampa paperback "The Third Eye". He was considered a bit of a con artist and a pseudo-holy man by the critics but he sure taught me a good way to levitate.

. Every few months I'd been having a nightmare in which the devil had me in a neck lock and was trying to f**k me. He wanted to take my soul. In last night's dream, I'd almost delivered an elbow smash to his face and that had woke me up.. That nightmare was (to me) a symbol of my quest for enlightenment. I thought I must be evolving spiritually because every time I dreamed it, I fought better than the time before.

 

Another recurring dream was one in which I'd be trying to find a certain flat in Paddington. Whenever I'd get near to where I remembered it, I'd find myself back in Kings Cross thinking I should go back to Adelaide. Sometimes I'd dream I was in Adelaide where I'd dream of finding my way to a Melbourne flat where I'd be welcomed by two beatnik girls. After waking up, I'd wonder if I should head back to Melbourne. This dream came every month, but I felt Sydney was the place I’d find happiness.

In Lobsang’s book I’d just read the words "to receive you must first give" when I noticed the café owner looked worried I’d be there all day so I gathered my things and got ready to pay. A cowboy looking guy (aged about 25, carrying a guitar case) strode in to the café, looked around the empty room then sat right opposite me.

 

Ch 11-2 "the beat goes on" --1963

He asked,

"Can you spare a cigarette man?" and called to the waiter,

"Large pot of tea please with 2 cups"

He called me "man!" This guy knew the secret language of hip so I handed him a Viscount from my packet of 10. We lit up.

"Thanks man. I'm John Foggerty -you can share my pot of tea if you want. I've seen you around. What guitar you got?"

 

After having searched the Universe for so long it was great to have (by appearances) a real (potential) beatnik to talk to. I machine-gunned him with all the verbal jazz I'd been keeping inside.

"It's not got a guitar in it. It's got couple of shirts and some cold pies from the soup kitchen. I carry it so the fuzz don’t think I'm a vagrant and bust me like they usually do. I've done 2 laggings for Vagrancy in 2 years and I'm bugged about it. How dare they arrest a cat just for having no bread!"

Like Perry Mason I sat back and. rested my case. Foggerty asked,

"You got anywhere to stay?"

I told him about my 3 TV repair vans.

"Trouble is they are full of television gear and I gotta climb a big fence to get in so if I get caught in there the cops will sure as hell think I’m stealing TV parts. It‘s a bloody dangerous place for a cat to sleep but it's so warm and comfortable." We laughed.

He picked up my copy of Lobsang Rampa’s "The Third Eye" and made a joke about him being Lobsang Rampage. We discussed Eastern religion. I was excited at meeting (for the first time) someone familiar with the subject. An hour later, as we left the café, Foggerty said,

"I'll take you to Old Mick's place."

 

Two cool cats with guitar cases walked through Woolloomooloo to Brougham Street where John knocked at the door of a terrace house. The front door and window was covered in garish art. Later I learned it was by Martin Sharpe. The door opened an inch and an eye peered out. Someone yelled,

"It's Foggerty and some cat I dunno."

The door slammed shut.

John smiled at me and said, "It's cool."

The door opened again and a smiling Old Mick stood beckoning us in. He was about 65, thin and small, long lank grey hair, olive corduroy pants and a grey cardigan. He led us down a dark cluttered passageway into a room that held second-hand lounge chairs and 4 teenage boys, 2 dressed like beatniks and 2 like rockers. The 4 kids knew John and signaled me to relax and sit down. Mick asked John, "How you been man? You still at Paddington?"

Foggerty answered,

"No. I'm living with English Paul, Ula and Jesus Adam. We just got back from Darwin. There's a cool scene developing up there. It’s like the new frontier with a saloon on every corner and no pigs. We found a dog on the road. It's costing us a fortune to feed. We found out it was a dingo and the neighbors don’t like it."

They discussed the merits of dingoes. Mick said,

"if they complain to the council and send an inspector you can leave it with us for the day." John smiled,

"Thanks man: I am greatly relieved."

I listened enthralled to be among free thinking bohemians like I'd read about in Kerouac. In the untidy kitchen an easel was set up and a kid dabbed at it. He had a goatee and a polo necked jumper just like a real artist but I acted nonchalant as if I'd been among such anarchy all my life. I needed this mob to think me cool. I wanted so damn much to belong to their sub-culture and I could tell from their small talk there were many pads like this one in this existential society.

 

Although I used the word "existential", I didn't really know what it meant. It just described my vision of the willingness to live a wild life.

Mick was a joyous man. He glowed with laid back humour, a self-depreciating smile never far from his face.

Peering over the top of his reading glasses he asked.

"Do you take drugs, Casper?"

I told him,

"No. I didn't think drugs are good for the body or the soul. I'll never take any."

The rocker kids smirked knowingly but Mick was pleased by my answer. He went to the kitchen and bought some cakes to the table,

"Have some of this cake Casper. Would you like to crash here until you get on the dole? You can use this as a postal address so they can send your cheques."

 

Overjoyed yet outwardly showing no emotion (as usual) I accepted the invitation. Mick gestured to a tiny alcove under the stairs.

"You can sleep in this little spot. It's clean and warm and there are no rats. There's a mattress and a light to read by and if you pull this curtain across you'll have your own little cubby house. When your cheque comes you can pay a few quid toward rent and tucker. Do you play your guitar a lot? Ali plays guitar. He's at work now. He used to live in there. He's a good fella."

I clued Mick in,

"My name ain't Casper."

Using the word "ain't" was an affectation I'd picked up from American western movies. I hated Australia's ''square'' method of speech and did everything I could to sound like that new singer, the very individual Bob Dylan. These days I've learnt my lesson and treasure the Aussie accent. I hope we keep our laconic laid-back lingo.

"My name is Casbah. Back in high school I said to girls 'come wiz me to zee Kasbah'. I thought they'd dig a Hollywood quote."

Mick introduced me to everyone and I moved in.

The next two weeks I met exciting people and got the dole money I'd not been able to receive without a permanent address. I'd finally connected with "the scene", the Holy Grail my heart had been seeking for 4 years. It was a memorable day.

 

Mick loved the "zen" way I washed dishes and helped around the house. I was still shy but I hid it by pretending I was a monk in a Zen monastery and everyone was my equal.

Inquisitive neighbors may have thought Mick a serial pedophile with a house full of kids but nothing was farther from the truth. As far as I could tell he was not interested in sex or romance but enjoyed being surrounded by the unconventional young who gravitated to the freedom of the 'Cross. He helped them in whatever way he could.

 

 

Mick and I would sit on the bench outside the (only) Kings Cross TAB in a group of shops called ''The Village", and study the racing form. We’d investing the minimum amount,( two shillings and six pence) on every race. People would stop to talk and the Village became a meeting place for the new (but growing) hippie culture. I think the squares thought we were selling pot but we had no connection to anything like that.

A few members of rock groups (Purple Hearts, Missing Links and the Aztecs) would drop by and rave about records, music and "what was happening"..

 

Years later, I realized I should have learned to play guitar. I was a very good singer but was too busy making sure I looked "hip" to learn music or try and get into the business. Trying too hard to accomplish anything seemed uncool around Mick’s place. I found out where the hip coffee shops and the folk and jazz joints were but I was still reticent to enter them without money.

One day I gathered my courage and sought out the place I’d heard was the centre of bohemian culture, the Royal George Hotel.

---------------------------insert " my first time at the George"----------------------------------- 

 

It was a strange twist of fate that two months before (after those Kirribilli blokes had raped me) one of them said,

"You should try the Royal George hotel. You’ll find plenty beatniks there."

I'd been too angry to listen but it's ironic that although the trauma of that night faded, "The George" now became my operating base.

  

 

Now I could hear discussions of important issues with people I respected. The ‘George was the drinking spot of the "Sydney Push" and ,looking wise and saying little, I drank in the conversations about life, art ,politics and heard gossip about who was sleeping with whom and who had gone mad recently.

 

There were famous literary and artistic people among the "old push" but I was a newcomer and had no idea who they were. Everyone seemed wild and enjoyable and I felt I had to earn their respect. It was 1964 and the "new push" was evolving. Some "old" members were worried we new hippie types would bring too much attention and even taint the intellectual flavour of the group. They were right. Months later, when I’d become a well loved part of the ‘George, I still only knew people by their first (or nick) names.

The parties we created would develop into orgies of sexuality or laid-back beatific "be-ins"--sometimes both at once. At the orgies you needed to have your own chick or at least be able to attract one on the spot. I didn’t yet and still felt like a novice monk who must prove worthy. To feel more confident I used my "magic invention." (I’d draw a straight line on any footpath. With mind as blank as possible I'd step across that line. The instant I passed over I became a revered beat Zen hobo person. Any past fear or inhibition was left behind.)

 

 

The 'Cross and The George Push were as far out as I'd imagined, both hedonistic and spiritual.

In some ways the "scene" was like the American Wild West. Fights would break out instigated by jealous squares losing girlfriends to "f****t hippies". The Push had its own values and unwritten laws. We rejected the materialism of the fifties, but at the same time enjoyed material things, especially if they belonged to others. Freedoms society now takes for granted were worked for and developed by these bohemians. Self indulgent willful eccentricity blossomed in fertile hothouse pads. As long as people were entertaining or quirky, leaned to the left politically and had some individuality we accepted them, no matter their faults and past life.

This was now my home.

Dylan's song "When the Ship Comes In" became our anthem. It summed up the exciting expectancy of how our values would soon blossom and spread.

 

Every few months when the land agent heard reports of sex orgies and pot parties from our neighbors, we had to pack up like gypsies, dress real square, collect money and attempt to rent a new house. It was hard work to convince land agents we were normal. Koori-aboriginals had the same hassle except they faced worse prejudice.

"The squares have been short changed by their own fear and inhibitions, "said English Paul.

 

(NOTE-_for Push history (on the web) search for "Sydney Libertarianism and The Push" by A.J.Baker----and other articles (by Ear-ring Paul) at

http://theroyalgeorge.blogspot.com/) 

---------end of chpt-------------