Writer of the Week: Chris Body, Year 11

---

My hair was soaked, the pouring rain filtering through my hat like lead through roots. The trainyard lay still, the cover of night hiding the graffiti plastered over the once-spotless carriages. Slowly, I passed it by, under the bridge where the cars seemed to grow in volume a thousand times.

Then I saw it... the Mayfair Theatre. Not the most prestigious of venues for the upcoming performance, but it would do. The ramshackle sign, crumbling brickwork, and the slightly sloping floor—which constantly reminded you of its presence—were a small price to pay for the opportunity to perform in such a professional environment and, of course, the chance to walk away with a not-insignificant sum of prize money. So towards the theatre, I walked, machinery humming in the background as a forklift slowly trundled out the back of Pak'nSave, the warm orange light of the incandescent street lamps reflecting off the rain-slicked windscreen.

I’d spent at least four or five hours last night practising Green Caffeine and Lazy Vertigo, our two songs for the performance. It took a while to choose which songs to play, but once we had, we completely revamped them, effectively rewriting them. Good for Rockquest, but now every time I listen to the recorded album, I can’t tolerate the old versions. Those songs were an interesting choice; even just two months ago, we had no idea which we were doing.

“Well, at least we’re not doing it like last year.”

Last year. Not a great method of preparing for the performance, but back then, things were a bit different.

“What do you mean? Last year was fine,” Leo sputtered, sarcasm dripping from his chin.

No, having no songs to play until a month before the performance, then spending two weeks on one song and leaving only a week to write another, was not the most ideal experience.

“Which two songs, though?” I interjected.

“I don’t care—whatever works.”

Jamie had an interesting attitude towards performances. He acted completely disinterested until a week before, flipping the whole lineup upside down. We already knew which two songs it would be—there was no question about it. Individually, however, everyone wanted to play different ones. This year, we were far more fortunate in terms of song choice. We had nine songs to choose from instead of none, but despite the overwhelming number of choices, the tension in the air was still palpable.

“We could do New Old,” Adam cautiously suggested.

Jamie’s eyes narrowed.

“Or not, maybe.”

Just two months ago, we had recorded our debut album. Releasing it? An entirely different matter. Regardless, we had most of the songs at a well-performable level. Even so, they could absolutely be better, and given the quality at Rockquest in previous years, everyone was slightly concerned.

“So, Green Caffeine,” Leo muttered.

Now, a little over two months later, we were ‘ready’ to perform, and as I turned around the back corner of the Mayfair, the nerves finally began to set in.

“Hey Chris,” Jamie called out.

“What’s up? You ready?”

“Yeah, I guess...” A flicker of irritation crossed his face as the rain continued to drip down. Every year, without fail, we weren’t let into the theatre until at least half an hour later than scheduled. It might have been poor organisation—maybe even malicious intent—but regardless, it was annoying as hell. The torrent of water did nothing to make the wait easier, so as soon as the others arrived, we scarpered into the mall next door.

It was odd in the mall. When we were outside, I hadn’t even realised the time, but now, seeing the shops all closed, it was instantly apparent. The lights were all off, what little illumination there was coming from the moonlight shining through the glass roof. As we walked up the escalator, its tumultuous jaws brought to a standstill, our footsteps echoed through the building. A clock slowly ticked, its quiet yet overwhelming sound reverberating throughout the mall. We weren’t supposed to be here. It reminded me of an amphitheatre, in a way—the top layer of shops overlooking a central oval area below, with a seemingly abandoned coffee shop sitting squarely in the middle.

“I wonder if any of these shops are even in business,” Leo muttered. “Who’s buying flower bracelets in a random corner of an abandoned mall?”

Suddenly, as seemed inevitable in this horror-like situation, we heard it—the unmistakable sound of a creaking door.

Not five seconds later, light flooded the building, painting us like criminals in a search beam.

“Hey, sorry guys, you’re gonna have to get out now,” the lady called. “Sorry, but I’ve got to close up the building.”

We awkwardly stumbled down the escalator, averting our eyes as we passed back out through to the back of the theatre, where now, several of the other bands had arrived. I only knew a few of the other bands personally, but most I had at least heard at the heats. Talking Furniture was there now, so we at least had someone to talk to for the last few minutes outside. After what felt like hours, the door to the theatre finally opened, and one of the backstage crew welcomed us in, taking our names as we walked through to the dressing rooms.

This year felt even more disorganised than last year—no introduction presentation, barely any info passed around, only our band name (spelt incorrectly) on a poster in the dressing room and a slightly tattered run sheet taped to the wall. Despite actually being hours this time, it seemed horrific how quickly our performance approached. Each band we heard play, then return downstairs still flooded with adrenaline, brought us closer to our turn.

The best spot was directly under the stage, nestled between the cabling for the PA upstairs. There was a TV showing the overhead camera, and the sound was far nicer than in any other spot in the endless popcorn-walled hell that was the Mayfair. Two bands left. Fifteen minutes. Crap, I should do something. Leo and Adam were off grabbing their guitars, and nearby, Jamie was practising on the table. We went off to get tuned up.

One more band. One song—probably five more minutes. Tuning done, I got my pedal working and the keyboard ready to go.

Up the stairs, side stage. The crowd was massive, black blobs of backlit silhouettes. They could probably see me already.

The band walked off stage. The crowd claps.