Shayne Carter - Dead People I Have Known

VICTORIA UNIVERSITY PRESS

Victoria University of Wellington

PO Box 600 Wellington

vup.victoria.ac.nz

Copyright Shayne Carter 2019

First published 2019

This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purpose of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced by any process without the permission of the publishers.

The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

Copyright acknowledgements on page 390 are an extension of this imprint page.

Every effort has been made to locate the copyright owners of material used in this book. In cases where this has not been possible, copyright owners are invited to contact Victoria University Press.

A catalogue record is available from the National Library of New Zealand

ISBN 9781776562213 (print)

ISBN 9781776562534 (EPUB)

ISBN 9781776562541 (Kindle)

Published with the assistance of

Ebook conversion 2019 by meBooks

for Ricci, Jimmi, and Tony

Im in the town hall with my head in a pot full of serotonin. About me is the full scent of perfume, freshly pressed jackets, fear, alcohol. I have taken a pill, a very strong pill, and the first effect of it just dropped. My bandmates all wear baffled looks that probably mirror my own.

Half an hour ago we opened the show with two of our favourite tunes, and when our last chord died, it lifted skywards and stayed in the rafters like an old-school victory banner.

Straitjacket Fits are fresh from a tour where weve regrouped for a short reunion, and its our last stop tonight. We thought we should celebrate, naughtily, a bit illicitlybut back in our seats the wisdom of this may have died.

Its the bNet New Zealand Music Awards, an evening to honour New Zealands edgiest musicians. Half of Auckland is here, turned out in their town hall gear.

Theres a roar. The Prime Minister has come out on the stage. Helen Clark is popular with loser musicians because shes the Arts Minister, and she has been for six years. She seems to genuinely care about people no one else cares about.

She starts a speech that Im too far off to hear, her voice low and buried, like a shovel. Slowly, key words wander in from the haze.

High school punk band ... Dunedin ... the Doublehappys ... Straitjacket Fits ...

It is now apparent that her speech concerns me. There is no joy in this realisation, just an immense dread, brought on by the potent E.

And the bNet Lifetime Achievement Award goes to Shayne Carter, the Prime Minister says, confirming my fears.

The audience claps and starts to stand, and I stand too, like Ive been sent to the gallows.

I set out on a lonely walk.

As I take the stairs to the podium, I risk a quick peek at the crowd and I can see that it goes back forever. People are peering down from the balcony.

The Prime Minister waits at the rostrum, clutching a statuette, and she wears a dark blue pant suit and red lipstick. She looks different in real life, but maybe thats just me.

With no real plan, I charge across the stage. Best to get this over.

Heh heh heh, the PM says as I press her into my chest.

She takes a short step backwards and hands me my award, smoothing the front of her top.

Congratulations, Shayne, she says.

Thanks, Helen, I reply, as casually as I can.

I turn to face the mob.

Thanks, I say, and my thanks slaps back.

I wasnt expecting this, so thanks, I go, repeating myself.

This is the whole of my speech.

The Prime Minister makes small chit-chat as we walk backstage, but I dont listen because Im busy plotting an escape route, any escape route, one that is as fast as possible.

Im now aware of the two men hovering around us in understated suits, both of them blending with the walls. Wires curl up from their collars and into white plastic pieces in their ears, and when I catch the eye of one of them he gives me a lift of his eyebrow as if to say, Tied one on, eh matey?

This is my cue to run. I touch the Prime Minister gently on the elbow. Im feeling a bit overwhelmed, Helen. I think Im going to have to go away and compose myself.

Without waiting for her response, I turn and stride off down the hall.

The drama with the Prime Minister set the tone for the rest of that night. I bounced around stupidly from one drama to another. I went to the foyer at the intervalI dont whywhere I was spotted by a woman who was drinking at the bar. She lurched right over. No time for pleasantries.

Did I know my girlfriend was having an affair in New York, and that shed already moved in with her new lover?

No, I knew none of that, but it was annoying now that I did.

The woman went on.

Perhaps I should give her my number, so she could pass on any more news?

I stumbled back into the hall and repeated all of this to my bandmates. They were curious and empathetic, as people on E often are.

Why would she tell you that right now? said John, which was a fair enough question.

The show resumed, but I was slumped in my chair, my new awarda piece of red plastic in the shape of a Bon the sticky floor beneath me. I heard my girlfriends name being read out through the PA for the benefit of me and all the other people here who loved her too. Shed been nominated for the Female Fox, one of those jokey bNet categories that tonight had lost any humour. Id been nominated for the Male Fox award too, not that it mattered now.

And the winner is Kirsten Morrell from Goldenhorse, the compre said, to my relief.

Id been so wrapped up in this that I barely noticed when, a few moments later, I was announced as the Male Fox. The New Zealand Herald criticised the win, blaming it on the public vote and the sally of middle-aged women whod been roused from some sexless torpor to give it to Shayne P one last timeor something like that. I snatched the award anyway, thanking my parents and genetics. I hoped news of this was winging its way to America.

The victory was brief. Afterwards I sat in my seat, stoned and bereft, torturing myself with the activities at an unknown address in New York.

Mercifully, the ceremony ended. I needed to be home now and preferably unconscious. I was standing outside in the drizzle, trying to hail a cab, when a woman of dark, fine beauty came down the path towards me. She was married, she said, by way of introduction, but shed like to have an affair with me, probably now, and what did I think of that?

I thought it was the sanest thing Id heard all day.

I gave her my address, and she was waiting by my gate when my cab pulled up, and then we kissed. Her lips were like the rain, soft and otherworldly, but the hold of them couldnt last.

Doubt crept in. I pulled back, made another excuse, but the woman didnt seem flusteredmaybe she had her own doubts too.

Thats okay, was all she said, and she seemed to evaporate as quickly as shed arrived, leaving me with her number, a trace of musk, and the soft crimson bruise of her lipstick.