Tana Douglas - Loud

Alain le Garsmeur

This book is dedicated to every young girl
who has ever dared to dream of MORE!

And to all those road crew who took that leap of faith
when they were told one day: Come on, itll be FUN!

CONTENTS

A STRANGE FEELING HAS come over me. Its six in the morning as I pause to take it all in. Behind me things are already loud, hectic, even chaotic to the untrained eye. Theres a row of massive semitrailers spewing their loads out onto the backstage area. Itll be okay for me to take just a moment while I wait on the rigger to unload his boxes. I usually let this feeling pass as Im not here to look, Im here to work.

This time feels special: its a turning point in my career. How did I end up here, on the most revered stage of the worlds touring circuit? Beyond lies a vast, empty cavern shaking off the last tentacles of the nights mist. In a few short hours, eighty thousand punters will be here, paying homage to their musical heroes while being transported to rocknroll heaven, as only a great live show can do.

In this time of dramatic change in the music industry, finally the road crew are coming into their own and being recognised for their skill sets. This crew here today are considered among the best. And here I stand, the only woman in that crew. When you can sell out Londons Wembley Stadium, youve made it! When you work for the band that accomplishes that feat, youve also made it! Not bad for a girl who started out as a fifteen-year-old runaway in Brisbane, Australia.

Its August 1979 and Ive been in London three years. Im lucky enough to have worked for two of the four bands on the bill. Today Im working for The Who but there was a time not so long ago that I worked for AC/DC. Way back in the beginning, in Australia, when we were all just getting started.

Its going to be a long, hard day, but I already know it will all be worth it when The Who and Friends roar in. Plus, I get to reminisce with my old friends in AC/DC. These are the kinds of things that keep us, the crew, coming back: the bonds we build among ourselves, and the bands we work for. Theres only one thing a band member relies upon as much as their bandmates, and thats their roadies. We are there 24/7 for them, and they know it. Lifelong friendships are made in this Industry of Music. If it doesnt kill you, its one hell of a way to make a living!

YOU MIGHT BE WONDERING, What on earth would cause a young girl to run away from home and choose a life of rocknroll? It was as if Id been training for it all along. Running away was what I knew from an early age.

When I was four, I was taken from the only home Id known in Brisbane in the middle of the night. My mother abruptly awoke me and my half-sister. Here, put these on and dont make any noise, she told us urgently. We sat side by side holding each other, wide-eyed but silent, hurriedly dressing as directed, while our mother grabbed handfuls of clothing and shoved them into bags. She whispered, Do not wake up your father. We are leaving, we can never be happy here. As children, wed thought we were happy.

No further explanation was given. We were just gone, leaving my father asleep in bed.

This would become our new normal. We would turn up in a town, stay a while, then pack up and leave in the middle of the night. If youve ever worked for a travelling production/concert tour, that is pretty much how its done. As young children, we played along with it being an adventure, but we soon realised something was wrong and begged to be able to stay put it was scary to be always leaving. There is no childhood memory of home.

Living with my mother was like holding your breath too long. She couldnt bear to be alone, so she constantly collected people and lovers. Anything so long as she didnt have to be quiet the quiet scared her. Her impromptu company would keep the dark at bay, until it didnt. Then she would slide into fits of depression. She sought alcohol as an answer.

I remember late one night, several towns away from Brisbane, sitting up alone watching a movie on TV, deliberately scaring myself as small children do. The Three Faces of Eve was on. That was my mothers name, Eve, and the bad woman in the movie was acting a lot like my mother did. Just as it ended, Mum came crashing through the front door. Dishevelled, still pretty, but overshadowed by a sadness. Thankfully, she was alone; neither my sister nor I wanted any more uncles. It could be my bedtime now I knew she was safe.

After several more towns we ended up in Melbourne, about as far from our starting point as we could get. This was where my sister, now in her mid-teens, plotted her escape from growing, unwanted attention from our mothers boyfriends. Within a year she was free.

Being left behind brought about changes I couldnt even have started to imagine. I was resentfully thrust into my sisters position in the household and expected to act accordingly. In my mothers eyes I was a wilful child, and it was my fault Amber had left. Look what youve done! Youve chased your sister away! Now youll do her chores as well. These were the words thrown at me by an enraged mother whod seen her second household income disappear. A mother unaware that, together, my sister and I had scrimped and saved enough for my sister to leave, all the while keeping her secret safe.

I was now eleven years old, and this was when the physical abuse escalated. My mother was out of control, and neither of us could continue to pretend things were okay. After one particularly severe session with a belt buckle, Id got myself to school, but I was in a bad way. Id locked myself in the outside toilets. The teacher was insisting that I join the class. Tana Douglas! You march yourself into that classroom right NOW and take your seat! Due to the severity of the beating, every movement of my loose summer dress felt like fire rushing across my back. I couldnt sit and was embarrassed by the thought of my plight being made public. I was yelling through the toilet-stall door, NO, I wont! I wont... I cant... then I just started sobbing. Id tried so hard not to, but Id had enough. My yelling enraged the teacher at first, but when I broke down she finally figured out what was going on and sent me to the nurse. I could see in her eyes that she now understood why a child who showed such promise had just shut down and no longer participated in class. The school contacted child services.

Enter my father. I knew instinctively that the decisions being made about me, without me, but in front of me would put an end to my mothers reign. Since the incident at school, Id been spending my nights cloistered in a facility for endangered children. Each day I watched a battle play out over me. Or was it really about them? From my corner position, I looked across that cold, sad room. There she was: stoic, unmoving, plotting ways to save herself. Her hair and make-up were perfect as she sat poised with her hands in her lap, knees together and ankles crossed off to one side, as if in a photo shoot. She didnt see me; she didnt care to. Id betrayed her. She asked quietly for a cup of tea. I knew what she really wanted was a glass of whisky.

I looked to the other side of the room at my father. His appearance was different, heavier in build and sadder around the eyes. This was his chance. He finally had her cornered; she wouldnt slip away into the night this time. He was a large man in an immaculately tailored three-piece suit, similar in appearance to a well-known American comic of the time, Jackie Gleason. Unlike my mother, he would make eye contact with me, with a hint of reassurance, but mostly with the look of someone who may have just bitten off more than they could chew.