THE NIGHT OF THE SWINGER

by Judy Campbell

(Sheraton Mirage, Port Douglas, 1996)

Every Wednesday, management holds a cocktail party in the Daintree Bar to which they invite a selection of their good customers. This includes guests to whom management wishes to express appreciation for repeat business, perhaps guests who have occupied a particularly expensive suite, or are Important Persons; in other words, this is a marketing exercise. Mr. Swinger arrives and starts drinking free champagne at 6 p.m. It is difficult to see into which category of Important Person he might fit; his jocularity and nudging of fellow Important Persons is noticeably out of place. Perhaps he won a lottery.

Towards the end of cocktail hour a voice intrudes from around the pillar to one side of the bandstand. Mr. Swinger has arrived to liven up the music, get the place jumping, you know? Perhaps he has run out of victims in the bar. Fortunately, we’re about to take a break and only one song is butchered by his participation.

During the next set, his offstage voice floats up from Macrossans Restaurant, below our mezzanine lounge level, as he helps out with the songs he knows. He applauds after each song. At this distance he is something of an asset, providing opportunities for rapport with unseen listeners, to the amusement of the seen. It is possible his fellow diners do not share this feeling.

He later reappears up in the lounge, less steady now. He invades first my performance space, standing in front of me, and after a while, my personal space. To a smoky rendition of 'I'm in the Mood for Love', requested pleasantly by another guest, he adds 'zabadoo-wah's, loudly and badly, which to Mr Swinger seem to sound like Louis Armstrong on a good day. I sing softer and softer, trying to get musically as far as possible away from the disaster at my ear, along with flying spittle and sour odours. What on earth did he have for dinner that smells so bad?

I realise he is not going to go away and the first good idea hits me: Jobim's 'A Felicidade'. Not English, not swing, not familiar. This is reasonably successful in throwing him off balance. Until he discovers the shakers on the piano. I am playing the larger, louder one, fortunately, as he starts to shake the two smaller egg-shaped instruments. The pianist and I concentrate to maintain the feel of the Brazilian song in the face of the epileptic anti-rhythm. He stops and I am grateful, until I perceive the reason for the silence: he has inserted one of the shakers into his mouth where it is now entombed behind a bizarre, stretch-lipped grin. I make a mental note to take the shakers to the bathroom and disinfect them before the night is over. Phil suggests 'As Time Goes By'. Yes, anything without shakers.

Second good idea: I deploy the cordless microphone and start to wander around the room singing to the other dozen or so guests, as far away from the piano as possible. They enjoy this, as the whole situation has by now taken on some aspects of cabaret, with the added suspense of a duel. I know from their eye contact and facial expressions they are on my side, but they are also voyeuristically curious to see how the contest will develop. Only pissed Mr. Swinger is unaware of anything untoward. He starts to follow me around the room but finds himself stranded between silver sequins moving away in front of him and the sound from the p.a. system moving away behind him. He opts for the sound and returns to the piano, where he leans and spits over poor Phil, who tries to play in time in spite of the shakers brandished at his ear, one now coated with booze, saliva, and crépe suzette.

I am by now singing from the other side of the fountain, up the stairs, far away. Members of the audience swivel their heads to follow the continuing spectacle. En route back to the piano and between phrases I manage a stage whisper to the bar staff, who, as it turns out, are already watching with some concern. The unscheduled guest artist is clearly unsuitable in the rarified atmosphere of the five-star lounge with its bubbling fountains and elegant, slow-turning ceiling fans. They will seek the advice of the assistant manager on duty. On the next circuit of the lounge, after Phil's valiant effort at a piano solo, as I reach the second eight bars and the upper level around the fountain, the timeless gesture of the finger drawn across the throat informs me that management are happy for us to close early tonight. As I descend the final staircase, I say goodnight as if that was how we planned it all along. Mr. Swinger splutters with indignation. Everyone else is smiling. Their favourite has outmaneuvered the beast, without a shot being fired.