AT 29 (48 page)

The Today Tonight segment, broadcast live across Australia on Friday night, gave him a national boost. Jim Buckman,
Button's Back and Blue
and most of all,
Peg
, became
all the rage. The album flew out of record stores. In every city he found himself doing radio interviews, urged on by Miles who telephoned frequently to relate the sales figures and to make sure his star was still off the bottle. From Broome, where he needed security to keep fans from storming his dressing room, he traveled to a similar greeting in Darwin then to venues in Cairns, Brisbane and Sydney followed by a last minute gig back up the Gold Coast in a Miami Beach-like enclave called Surfers Paradise. There the reality of his Australian stardom hit home. In New Jersey, Miles was having trouble keeping up. His biggest decision each day, how many more copies of
Button's Back and Blue
to press.

Preston Enterprises owned the Orchid Resort, recently constructed on Queensland's Gold Coast. Reservations had been slow to build. The luxurious property was mortgaged to the hilt and the bondholders were getting edgy. Booking Jim Buckman might be the answer since Blossom Records over in the U.S. charged next to nothing for its singer's services. The Today Tonight broadcast that charmed a national audience with its portrayal of the singer could only be good for ticket sales. Lots of cars winding their way down to the waterfront compound that bore the giant Orchid sign was just the attention the resort needed. An outdoor concert at dusk with the opening keys sounding out across the bay, that's what Preston's marketers envisioned. That's exactly how it went, and the full moon added a nice touch to the party atmosphere.

Tickets went on sale several days before Jimmy and his back-ups arrived. The grassy plateau, just beyond the resort's Olympic sized pool, could hold a thousand people. Australians love the outdoors and they love a party. Apart from the annual motor race, Orchid's management wanted this gig to be the biggest party Surfer's Paradise had ever seen. The first arrivers spread blankets on the grass and opened picnic baskets. Some brought young children that the resort admitted free. After all, it was the family vacation that brought in the most revenue. Two night stays were halved to be sure every room was booked, but that only ensured that the resort would hum with daytime activity. The real goal was to create a moonlit happening so big that Orchid Resort would become synonymous with the notion of fun. Plant the seed in the minds of prospective vacationers and The Orchid would be a prime destination for years to come.

Jimmy took it all in from the small balcony of his room. He continued to be astonished by the numbers who came out wherever he appeared.
Peg
was an established Australian hit. That, too, surprised him, not because the song was written quickly in a room in Vermont, but because its personal appeal seemed to strike a chord. He was taken by the way people joined in the chorus so spontaneously wherever he went.

Jimmy turned his eyes from the gathering to look at his makeshift band, also watching the scene below. As well as the other gigs had been received, he knew this venue was bigger, the audience expectation higher. He searched their faces for signs of nervousness. No matter what happened when their time together was done, he realized that each of their ambitions would be changed. The taste of fame was intoxicating. Performers sought nothing more than the all-consuming high that an adoring audience delivered. Once received, it was fixed. To be chased forever.

The full moon came up just as the opening set began. The party atmosphere called for a big sound so Jimmy led the band in a louder than normal rendition of
Lulu
. He held the opening chords so that Travis was forced to bang a solo beat on the drums, driving anticipation for the guitars. Still, he kept the crowd waiting for the words they wanted to hear. Jimmy stepped to the microphone, lifted his finger and summoned a long note from the keyboardist. Then his voice filled the air. It was a breathtaking prelude that brought most of the thousand fans to their feet.

Music filled the distance from the waterfront out to the street and into the main thoroughfares. Cars were still winding their way into the parking lots. Regardless of the full house, Orchid's managers decided to keep the ticket booths open. If the grass in front
of the stage was filled to capacity, if every balcony was jammed full with onlookers, even if the parking lots filled, they intended to let the people in. There was standing room.

Boats began to arrive, dropping anchor in the bay behind the stage just up from the water's edge. Their running lights added an assortment of colors; red, blue, green and white beneath the moonlight. Another five hundred people took their places in every empty spot that could be found, careful not to tread upon those already positioned on the grass. More boats filled the bay and soon the cars that had been awaiting entrance to the parking lots, were abandoned in-place, their occupants hustling down the path, too impatient to miss another song. Everyone was cordial, but they were excited and they let their enthusiasm rise up to the kind of level that an outdoor venue permitted, appreciative, happy and clamoring for more.

Energy palpitated from the stage where the five men plied their instruments. Jim Buckman was at his charismatic best, finding every opportunity to commune with the cheering voices that met his verses. A groove was struck from the very beginning, even summoning something extra that none of the musicians had planned or practiced. Long jams became a part of every play. The guitars exchanged challenges with one another and then with the keyboard and the drums.
Choral Guns
exploded into the night with more power than ever, driving a frenzied response. At its end, a crescendo of horns rose up from the boats, joining the cheering acclaim, some fifty boats of all sizes, signaling involvement with what was happening on land. Everyone was having fun.

The first set echoed through the air a half hour longer than planned because of the extra jams. Speakers and amplifiers had been meticulously tuned to let every note bound off the buildings. The music came back into the ears of its players clear and true, adding extra exhilaration as they coaxed ever more sound from their instruments. Jimmy pranced the stage like always, but with a new spring in his step because he felt one with his listeners.

As the set wound down the audience sensed that the last two songs would signal an end to the gyrating they had come to see and join. Instead of continuing to stand and sway, the onlookers began to dance, spreading out ever so slightly to allow space for their arms to swing with the rhythm. Nearest the stage, young children assembled, urged on by their parents to shake and jive in their own way. Their faces shown with happiness because, as with children everywhere, when their parents were having fun, they were, too. Jimmy angled toward them. He waited for the last song to reach a low beat so he could swing the guitar over his back and stoop down. As the drum beat on, he reached out to the children, slapping hands and laughing with genuine pleasure when they entreated him for more. Then, gradually, the tempo picked up. He stood, shaking his head with a ‘gotta get back to work' look on his face. As the children pressed against the stage, he whipped the guitar into his arms and launched into the climactic final verse with every ounce of breath in his lungs.

The crowd responded. Long before the last word sprang from his lips, the clapping and cheering drowned it out. Cries for more came up from all over the complex. Jimmy waved and smiled. Then he approached the microphone.

“
Back and Blue
up next. Don't leave.”

Thirty minutes can be long or short depending upon the mood of those who must endure its length. The band retreated to a small alcove beneath the stage. Though tired and thirsty they watched the minutes tick by far more slowly than they wished. Weeks of
playing the same songs, night after night, from city to city did not prepare them for the special blend that captured their instruments under the moonlight in Surfers Paradise. Maybe it was the huge crowd that seemed to know every note and every word. It might be the picture of Jimmy Button painted by the Today Tonight broadcast, a different view of the man that caused his backups to re-assess his music. Jimmy felt it was his sobriety, enabling him to recapture his old self. Together, the five kicked back in their chairs, talking about the jams. There were chides about this or that riff, a sour note, or a missed uptake, but each of them knew something better had risen from the stage. They stole furtive looks at the clock, keen to return for the second set so they could absorb more energy from the fans now cramming every inch of space.

“I've never felt like this before,” said the oldest member of the group, the forty-year-old lead guitarist, bent over his knees, staring at the ground between his feet. “It's loud, the people are yelling, but it's peaceful at the same time. I feel like I've been waiting for this all my life.” The others nodded. Jimmy wanted to respond, but he didn't know what to say. The young drummer chimed in.

“Bet it's like this in the States every time, right?”

Jimmy shook his head, scanning his memory. Cities scrolled by; New York, Boston, Indianapolis, Fresno, Syracuse and Montreal. None made the cut. Only that first performance at Saint Virgil's College with Kevin's reassuring drumbeat touched the same keystone.

“Doesn't happen often,” he managed to answer.

The forty year old spoke again, “I've been doing sessions all my life. Now, I know there's more.” He looked up at the clock. “I want to go back out there, but I'm afraid it won't be the same.”

The keyboardist stood to retrieve a beer from a nearby table. “Sure it will, mate. They love us. We can't go wrong.”

Jimmy watched the clock, too. The plain truth was the band was hot. The second set,
Button's Back and Blue
, would be entirely different. The heavy blues-rock, so well played and well received, would be replaced by the gentle acoustics of his hit album. Could the same high be reached? Can the rapport between band and audience be captured again? It would have been better if they never took these thirty minutes, agonizingly dragging on second by second. He didn't want to wait.

“Let's go,” he said, rising from his chair.

Clapping, chants and whistling greeted their reappearance.
Peg
was shouted above the applause, but the band would hold Jimmy's signature song for last, just like on the album so, when all was done, the satisfaction of a memorable night would linger.

“
Back and Blue
, ladies and gentleman!” It's all he needed to say as he mounted the stool and strummed the opening chords of
‘Been There'
, the album's first song.

In the moment, Jimmy reminded himself as the second set began, as good as we can be, as good as I can be. His hastily assembled team of backups had never reached this level and it was uncertain they would reach it again. The anticipation on the faces of the crowd was mirrored in the faces of the band as well. He saw it when he turned to look at them. The next and last concert would be in a smaller Melbourne venue. Tonight was the highpoint, here at this moment in front of their largest Australian audience. He wanted to reach the zenith.

On impulse, he slid from the stool and nudged it to the side. Then he stepped back until he was positioned with the other four who were barely visible in the low-lit semi-darkness. The technicians had no choice, but to raise the spotlights so all five players could be seen equally. It was a small gesture, marking only a slight change from how
Button's Back and Blue
had been performed in the other cities, but the four knew what it meant. Their leader was acknowledging them as equals, inviting them to share the glory that had so far been reserved for him alone.

With the lights shining on the whole group, their play took on a special quality, brilliantly beautiful beyond any of the past performances.
Been There
wafted through the speakers led by Jimmy's voice and guitar, but not apart from the other instruments supporting it. A unique oneness emanated from the band. The sophisticated listener could distinguish among the guitars, keyboard and drums, but it required effort. No one in the audience wanted to make that effort because the whole was better than any of its parts. This was not like the first set or other concerts they had done.

Each song was better than the one before. Once again, the audience was compelled to stand, this time not to dance, but to concentrate every eye and ear on the stage. The people in the bay stood on their boats, craning their heads to hear. No horns blared out. The balconies became still while families and couples leaned against the railings. The lights of their rooms were darkened so no glare could interfere. If the thousand plus fans knew something special was meeting their ears, they were powerless to show it. All they could do was look and listen. The applause between each song was muted and short, not because they appreciated the performance less, but because it was appreciated more. No one wanted to miss a single pluck on the strings or a single word.

Jimmy no longer thought about where he was. He burrowed deep inside his music, gradually losing awareness of the crowd, the moonlight or the others playing at his side. His mind was carried away while his voice and fingers did their work automatically, mystically. The time between songs, heralded with clapping, seemed distant, part of a dream. The music was all that mattered, controlling the night.

As if hypnotized, colors flashed before his eyes, leaf greens, sun yellows, sky blues and sea grays each invoking its own emotion. He found himself carried off to scenes of the ocean beneath cliffs where swirling waters pressed against falling rocks and sand. Trees appeared, bordering fields of grain, swaying in the breeze. He saw ships at sea, not modern liners, but wooden vessels like the whaler in his dream, with tall spires and men clambering among the rigging. A village appeared for just an instant, then a dusty path leading to a white cottage. Finally, a girl's face flashed before his eyes, fading quickly into a woman's with flowing red hair, but the same person, filling his heart with contentment. He opened his eyes and turned them to the balconies, searching among the silhouetted figures. Something or someone was calling him home. Through it all he played the Gibson and sang his songs, adrift on a cloud of euphoria.