The pub was called The Whistling Duck, which was fitting, because everything inside it sounded like it was on its last breath — the air conditioner, the taps, even the band. Especially the band.
I was the band.
There was a time when I’d have corrected anyone who said that. “We’re a trio,” I’d say, chest puffed up like a prize rooster. But that was before Jeff sold his bass to pay for dental work and before Marty disappeared to Thailand, allegedly to “find God” — which, judging by his Instagram, was mostly just finding cocktails and women named Gem.
So now it’s just me, my beat-up Yamaha, and a drum loop I downloaded illegally in 2009. Together, we are The James Linton Experience. The name always gets a snicker from the crowd. They think I’m trying to sound impressive. The truth is, I forgot to change it after my old manager set up the Facebook page and I couldn’t remember the password.
I strummed through the last chords of “Dock of the Bay,” half-heartedly whistling the outro while watching a man in a blue singlet fall asleep into his schnitzel. The crowd, if you could call six people and a bored bartender a crowd, gave a polite clap that sounded like rain on a tin roof.
“Thank you,” I said into the mic. “You’ve been beautiful. Don’t drive home angry.”
That got a few chuckles. I was still funny — in the same way a clown at a children’s party is funny after spilling his drink on the birthday cake. I started packing up my gear before anyone could request Khe Sanh again.
When I turned fifty-five, I told myself I was done with pubs. I wanted to play small theatres, writer’s festivals, places where people sat in chairs that didn’t smell like beer. But the universe, with its sick sense of humor, sent me straight back to where it all began — sticky floors, flickering lights, and the distant hope that someone out there was actually listening.
As I coiled the microphone cable, the bartender — a tall, tattooed girl who looked about nineteen — said, “Hey, you were actually good.”
“Actually?” I said. “That’s dangerously close to a compliment.”
She smiled. “You got any originals?”
“Plenty,” I said, “but none that people want to hear when they’re trying to forget their mortgage.”
She laughed and handed me a beer. “On the house. For effort.”
I didn’t tell her that effort had been the problem my whole life. I always had just enough of it to get by, but never enough to get out.
I live in a caravan now. Not one of those shiny, influencer caravans with fairy lights and a composting toilet. Mine’s from the seventies — faded orange stripes, curtains that smell faintly of mouse urine. I park it on the edge of a caravan park just outside of town, near the fence where the gum trees lean like tired drunks.
I tell people I like the quiet, but the truth is, I can’t afford rent. The royalties from my one semi-successful album still trickle in every few months, but “trickle” is the operative word. Once I worked out it covered about two cappuccinos and a packet of strings, I stopped checking.
Every morning, I sit on the step with instant coffee and watch the old blokes walk their dogs. They nod at me like we’re in some secret club — men who used to be someone. Retired shearers, ex-cops, blokes who once ran pubs that are now Woolworths car parks. We all wear the same expression: faint amusement at how the world went and got itself a lot younger without asking permission.
Sometimes I think about calling my daughter, Grace. She’s thirty now. Works in HR, which I assume means she fires people politely. The last time we spoke, she said, “Dad, you can’t live your whole life chasing the next song.”
I told her that’s exactly what life is — a series of songs, and if you’re lucky, one of them sticks. She didn’t laugh. I guess it’s hard to find the romance in failure when it’s your father’s career.
It’s funny — the older I get, the more music feels like an old girlfriend. You know the one: gorgeous, unpredictable, and occasionally cruel. She keeps you up all night whispering promises she never keeps, and when you think you’re finally over her, she shows up at your gig, smiling like nothing happened.
That’s what it felt like that night at The Whistling Duck — like she was in the room again, sitting at the back table, waiting to see if I’d still play for her.
I did.
The next morning, I got a call from a number I didn’t recognize. Normally I’d ignore it, but something about the time — 7:42 a.m. — made it feel urgent.
“James Linton?” said a man’s voice, clipped, professional. “This is Bill Rogers. You probably don’t remember me.”
“Should I?” I said.
“I used to manage The Hollows. You played there in 2003. Opened for Leon Russell.”
I blinked. “Bloody hell, that was a lifetime ago.”
“Well, Leon’s dead, but the venue’s still alive. We’re reopening it — same name, new owners. We’re doing a tribute night, bringing back some of the old acts. Thought of you.”
I laughed. “You want nostalgia, mate, not nightmares.”
“People remember you,” he said. “You were raw. Real. That’s what’s missing these days — everyone’s too polished. You still playing?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Mostly for beer and sympathy.”
He chuckled. “That’s the spirit. Look, we can’t pay much, but there’ll be press. Might be good for you.”
I hesitated. I’d spent years trying not to think about that night. The place where I’d played my best set — and lost everything after. The gig where my wife walked out, my band imploded, and my life started circling the drain.
“Send me the details,” I said. “I’ll think about it.”
That night I couldn’t sleep. I poured a glass of cheap red and pulled out the old notebook from the drawer. It was swollen from years of damp — pages curling like old skin. Lyrics, half-formed ideas, names of towns where I’d played and promptly been forgotten.
Halfway through, I found a page that stopped me cold. In my own handwriting:
If you ever go back, make sure you’re ready to leave again.
I laughed, a dry, cracked sound. “Well, old man,” I said to myself, “looks like we’re about to find out.”
I strummed a few chords on the Yamaha. The sound was thin, like it knew better than to hope. Still, I sang — softly at first, then louder — until the dog in the next caravan started barking.
Somewhere in the middle of it, I felt it again. That small, dangerous thing that had kept me alive all these years — the idea that maybe the next song could save me.
Maybe paradise isn’t the place you find. Maybe it’s the place you crawl back to when you’ve got nowhere left to run.
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