Beyond Carousel by Ritchie Brendan

Author:Ritchie, Brendan
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Fremantle Press
Published: 2016-07-31T16:00:00+00:00

23

The city had been all but abandoned.

Early in the morning I crossed the river on a bridge overrun by birds. They nested between pillars. Lined the handrail looking west at the gathering weather. Sat atop cars and busses, watching on smugly as I pedalled slowly past. At the end, Adelaide Terrace spread before me, linking the causeway with St Georges Terrace like a giant gateway to the west. I swung onto it and made my way up into the teeth of a funnelling breeze.

The city had the look and feel of a park the day after an epic summer festival. Litter of all kinds fluttered about in the icy breeze. Wrappers, ancient newspapers, pages torn from notebooks and sketchpads. There were the remnants of an electricity in the air. Like a sports arena, heaving one moment, empty the next.

The streets themselves seemed wider than normal, as if the empty buildings were shrinking back into themselves. They had the faint smell of barbeque and rotting plant matter. There was more of the street art I had seen in Victoria Park. Again on walls and buildings, but also on the streets themselves where the images ran on for block after block. I got the feeling that the city would look pretty amazing from above.

Gradually I began to see evidence of the party that had swept through. Windows were open and curtains flapping on the upper floors of ritzy hotels like the Hyatt and Duxton. Bottleshops were decimated but for scatterings of cask wines and liqueurs. The rigid, fortress-like frontage of the Perth Concert Hall had been ignored completely. Its stage and stalls too Old World for the new Artists of Perth. Instead I passed a drum kit standing defiantly, almost Tiananmen-like, in the middle of the road. There were amps and leads scattered around from a long-forgotten gig. The giant foyer of a multinational skyscraper had been broken into and transformed into a gallery, lit during openings by a generator and halogen worklights. I cycled up to the windows and peered in at some of the artwork. It was dim now without the generator on but I could see some striking portraits on the wall adjacent.

A makeshift stage had been erected in a corner of the piazza by Stirling Gardens. It held a stool and a solitary microphone stand, both blown onto their side now. There were chairs and beanbags scattered around. A space for spoken word or poetry maybe.

The Collective was meant to be a few blocks north of where I rode, but I was starting to wonder whether there would be anyone there.

I left the Terrace and cycled up through a series of smaller streets. There were places there that I remembered. A good Chinese takeaway. Music stores I used to wander through on lunchbreaks. A second-level karaoke bar I had visited with Chloe and her workmates one Friday night. She had been nervous and opted out of a bunch of shouty duets, before stunning everyone with a perfect solo rendition of ‘Somebody That I Used To Know’.

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