What is a Tam-Worth?

I have been telling everyone for weeks that I was going to Australia to open a new show at the Sydney Opera House.  I am here in Australia now but only saw the Sydney Opera house several miles away from a bus window as we left the city to the  hinterlands of down under.  This is the first chance that I have had to reflect on the journey so far. 

After the fifteen hour flight from Los Angeles I met up with the six memebers of the band outside of customs.  It was two days later than when I left Los Angeles, it is summer time in Australia and I was jet lagged to the max. It is very odd to see snowy pictures of Santa and his reindeer in 75 degree temperature and 60% humidity.  

A driver with a sign led us to a small van in the parking structure and we loaded in.  I was the only one who didn’t know the rest of the this group. They introduced themselves to me.  A couple of the guys started in New York before a quick layover to  board the same plane I was on to Sydney.  They were jet lagged on steroids and still nice people.  We  settled in for ride to our accommodations. No one knew much more than I did about what was happening next. The British composer for the group asked the driver where we were headed.  The driver said, Tamworth.  The next question was how long is the drive to this place called Tamworth. 

I’m not sure if it was the giggle of surprised laughter or the gasp of total shock that reverberated through the van when the driver said, “It’s about a 5 and a half or six hour drive.”   There was silence that fell over the group as we realize this was not a joke.  Some one said, “I thought they said it was an hour and a half”.  We were about to spend the next 5 hours in this van.  Evidently the local plane connections did not work with our arrival time, complicated by the two hour delay we had taking off in LA.  

As we talked about it we realized that we were technically taking the show out of town to prep and rehearse rather than spend the high end money at the Sydney Opera house to work out the details.  Tamworth was the cheapest place that was also big enough to accommodate a show as large as this one.  The ride was every bit of 5 hours, on top of the 15 hours (in some cases the 20 hours for the New York guys) on a plane.  The country side was alternately the look of a coastal California trip with pastures of horses, sheep and the occasional wallaby siting  in the growth of Eucalyptus groves. But no one knew anything about this place called Tamworth.  

Time was passed with alternate sleeping, joking and talk about the adventure of putting together this new show.  The composer had written individual theme music for all the acts and the musicians had put words to all the melodies.  They sang the Jay Johnson theme to me several times.  It was much funnier to them than it was to me, but in context to the adventure I was honored.  

As we get closer to arrival in Tamworth the roadside billboards start to give us the flavor of where we are headed.  It seems that Tamworth is the “country music capital” of Austrailia. It looked like we were headed to Pigeon Forge, or Nashville lite.  Advertised on billboards was a rodeo,  stock show,  and several Aussies in cowboy hats, glittery costumes and guitars.  Although I was having trouble remembering the name of the town it suddenly made since to me.  Tamworth.... like Fort Worth. Worth being the operative subjective noun.  

We arrive at the Best Western Motel which is our destination.  We immediately see a group of older people gathered in a circle outside their motel room smoking cigarettes and drinking beer as if it were a southern front porch.  Their pick up truck is backed into the parking place in front of the room and serves as the buffet and beer bar.  This is a typical motel you would find at any touristy destination in America, but after 20 hours of travel even the Plaza Hotel would have been a let down.  No one says anything as the van finally stops.  There is no great rush to get out and grab our stuff.  Finally the only girl in this group on the bus says, “I see a white butterfly. It is all good”.  I confirm she said “white butterfly” and she said “That is very good luck”.  It was what everyone was waiting for... some good news for the day.  

As we check in,  a lady in the lobby  who identifies herself as the company manager,  gives us per diem cash and we check in.  I am a walking zombie as the very nice girl behind the counter is very chipper and very Australian. She says in an accent that does not translate in my groggy head. “Jez sien yer name, and giv a mobi nooba, in thu squah”. I sign my name and say, “What else?”

She repeats “jez yer mobi noomba”.  I am no closer to understanding the second time.  I look at her very intently and ask again.  She looks as intently back at me, like I was her aging grandfather and repeats two more times, slowly but no more distinctly.  As if my brain was looking for information off the web with a dial up modem it finally comes to me that she is asking for my “MOBILE NUMBER’.  As if I have solved a difficult puzzle I say, “Oh my Mobile Number.” The girl smiles and says “Thatz rit” as the entire band in unison says, “Your cell number you stupid American.” Most of us have a big laugh.

 I say, “I don’t know you all very well yet,  but this is a long tour and I don’t quickly forget things like this.”  They laughed again, but the truth is- they don’t know me at all.... nor the wooden  friends I hang out with.  This is not the last laugh by any means measurable.  More later,

As you were,

Jay