The Concert That Wasn't

A special feature

From The Archer Review, Issue 9: The Birthday Edition (Mon 30 Mar 1998)

Mariah's last Australian concert for her recent Butterfly tour was scheduled for 8pm on a cold and rainy Melbourne Monday. The Archer was there, and submitted the following report.

I board my flight in Devonport, direct to Melbourne. Due to the prevailing weather, which I had learned on the Today show to be decidedly bad, I learn that my 9:30 flight has been delayed for an hour. Sitting in the kiosk, I gulp down some Classic Chocolate milk, and overhear some American businessman discussing something on his mobile.

The small turboprop lifts off the ground and begins to cut its way through the clouds to Melbourne, hovering above the vast turbulent oceanic divide between Tasmania and mainland Australia- Bass Strait.

I had decided to carry my thick blue coat on as hand luggage, but it was very bulky, and proved difficult to stow under the seat. The muffin and orange juice went down well, although as the plane began to be buffeted by air pockets, I did wonder how the OJ and milk were churning around in my stomach...

I touch down at Tullamarine airport. It's dry enough as I get off the plane, but the clouds look ominous. Anyway, I ride the rolling walkways, find a toilet and negotiate my way to find an exit. Travelling light, I have no luggage to pick up. It's just me, my coat and my Holden Dealer Team bag.

I board the airport to city bus, take my seat behind the driver, and watch the hustle and bustle as taxis whizz past, and the size of the airport begins to sink in. I mean, I didn't get lost, but you could see there was a lot more to it that just the concourse I had been in.

I had reflected a bit on the plane, but Melbourne had seen so distant then. Now I had actually arrived, and had some time to sit and reflect on the bus, I began to feel a little excited. Although the poor weather had dampened my spirits, I felt closer to the idea that this whole concert thing might actually happen. But something in me prevented me from actually believing it. The words "too good to be true" spring to mind.

The bus finally leaves. The driver calls base to tell them that he's running, like, really late. Soon we are on the freeway, which has all been rerouted this way and that and dug up here and filled in there. So there actually seems to be more space allocated to inactive road construction vehicles than the actual busy commuters.

I see my first tram, as we turn into the regular rectangular network of streets that is Melbourne city. Eventually the bus pulls up inside the transit centre, and not being able to think of a better place to set down in Melbourne, I decide to get off. Anyway, I negotiate my way past a young woman who sits beside me, who is very apologetic about all her loose hand luggage and bulky clothing, and make my way onto the street.

As I promised Derek, my first stop was Maccas. A familar island in a sea of foreign places. The girl behind the counter takes my order, and despite being careful to speak clearly, she still manages to get my order wrong. A Big Mac instead of a Quarter Pounder indeed. Anyway, not usually the one to complain, I feel I have to make a stand in this foreign city, so I point out her mistake. She agrees, and even indicates her terminal records my order as a Quarter Pounder.

Suffice to say I'm glad I stood my ground, as it put me in a stronger frame of mind for the rest of the day. Time would show I needed all the strength I could muster. Indeed, those Fries and that Quarter Pounder would turn out to be the only thing I would eat that day.

At Macca's, I begin to make some notes about my trip so far in the black and blue striped exercise book that I found at my mother's office before she drove me to the airport, using the purple pen that I also found there.

I seemed fated to find these things, as I hadn't really thought about it before. Indeed, I was just going to remember the concert as it was, and write a review of my feelings instead of an XSX-style chronology. But somehow, as the events of the day began to unfold, I felt as if a log might be important.

After leaving Maccas at 13:16, it takes me just 31 minutes to arrive at the Southernmost landmark of the city circle, Flinders Street Station. As I walk past its grand architecture, I feel as if I am walking around on an Australian Monopoly board.

I'm way ahead of schedule, but I figured I should get as close to Melbourne Park as possible while the skies are friendly. This turns out to be another good decision, as just as I sit down at some tables outside an Asian hole-in-the-wall restaurant in the station complex, the rain begins to pour down. The area is sheltered, so I stay for a while.

Outside Flinders Street Station, starting the film

As I walked through the city, I couldn't help but notice the abundance of Maccas, so certainly destiny had no role to play in me finding one so soon after getting off my bus. Also, the smokers had been pissing me off- the way they seem to ignore the fact their smoke is blowing in your direction. Little things like that get to you when you are walking block after block in a wet and windy city that seems less than enticing.

The rain really drowns my spirits now, and as the clock strikes two, I suddenly don't feel like exploring Melbourne anymore. For months I had been planning such things- checking out record bars, buying some new shoes. But now, it is almost as if a light in my soul has been switched off. I feel hope receeding, and wonder if Mariah has cancelled already, 'cause it sure feels that way.

Obviously the Macca's Coke has gone straight through me, as I now need to water some more of the Garden State. I use a plush lavatory in the Australia On Collins building, just because I can. Just as I settle down to write some more of my log, and load Butterfly into my Discman, some "oddballs" sit down on a bench across from me, and I begin to feel uncomfortable scrawling in my book.

It's then that Melbourne seemed to grow up around me. It didn't seem so big as I walked along the wet footpaths, but then, looking up under the glass ceiling to the top of the Novotel, it seemed like a huge and foreign place with little friendliness to offer. As Mariah sang to me, I realised that I must go to Melbourne Park. That is where my faceless friends were headed, and that is the only place I could feel at home.

As the weather had cleared, and the sun had appeared from behind the clouds, it seemed as good a time as any to make the final leg in my pilgrimage to worship at the alter of Mariah. I had come this far already- my holey shoes could wait to be replaced, and my CD collection could wait to be expanded.

Hope begins to return to me as I walk along a street on the North Bank of the Yarra, bright sun reflecting off the water. But now it appears the rain is coming back, and my feet are aching and wet. My mind is filled with the image of the violet sign above the main steps of Melbourne Park, and I try to believe. Try so hard.

The shower proves to be short lived, and the sun attempts a return. But the storm has already melancholied me, and I have decided to stop playing Butterfly. Somehow the tones are painful to me, and make me think that Mariah is distant, and it is quite impossible that I, one of her most devoted fans, could possibly see her or hear her live, even from across a room. There's something about bud earphones that make artists sound so far away...

I take some photos of some people engaged in footy training on a nearby oval to where I have been sitting and brooding a while. Like the photos of the trams I had taken at Flinders Street Station, I decide, for some odd reason, that I must also take a photo at this point. Now why would I do that if my rational mind had actually believed it might be snapping Mariah in three and a half hours time?

Those white specks are the people doing footy training

That was the last time I allowed my rational mind to speak. My heart hoped as much as it could manage, but the wind blew and my feet ached. My body complained, but from then on, my mind was silent.

I walked back along the Yarra and sat on a park bench across from Melbourne Park, and set my mind to look out for Derek and John. I didn't really expect them that early, but I knew that I really needed some support. "Hey Kade, there's gonna be a concert. In a few hours you won't need support." But I didn't believe that voice with my mind, though my heart tried.

But then, my spirits buoyed. People were pulling up. And I don't really know, of course, but it seemed like they were fans. Somehow, you can feel that. So I got windburned as I watched them, and the canoes on the river. It drizzled on and off, but the wind and the sun dominated.

Something still didn't seem right, and my heart didn't rise completely. But I felt a little better, because I knew even if the worst was about to happen, I would be amongst people who understood. And that is the way it is with us. We all do understand- even if we don't know each other, we know ourselves, and that is enough.

I cross the street at the lights near the West Gate bridge. I make my way past the people gathering on the grass, not quite in the right frame of mind to approach anyone. I lean against a tree, decide to sit down, but the ground is wet. And there are ants!

Now, having made my way up the steps, sitting next to a bunch of "strangers", my watch begins beeping. But the wind carries the sound away, and I shut it off. It is time for me to meet Derek, but I still cannot find him. But somehow, I know he is here. Perhaps right beside me even, in this bunch of "strangers".

The people there didn't seem excited enough to me. Indeed, some of them seemed to be looking the same way I did. Not quite happy- expectant. Not quite sad- worried. It was kind of eerie, particularly as I hadn't introduced myself. But how do you say, "Hi- I'm the Archer," anyway?

I was introduced eventually, when someone mentioned my name and I plucked up the courage to speak for the first time since I had ordered my Big Mac replaced with a Quarter Pounder. Plus my throat was dry, which meant my voice was broken.

But that doesn't matter. What does matter is that piece of paper. I never read it. I trusted the diagnosis.

Smiles. Chuckles even. But they weren't quite right- sort of icy and without humour. This discussion actually went on for a while, though I am sure we actually did believe it the first time, at least in our rational minds.

I wanted to speak, but I couldn't. I wanted to hear, but words were lost in the wind. I was paralysed. Not upset. Just paralysed. Shock, I guess. Yes, now I know what shock feels like.

It turned out that the piece of paper was a press release. A letter from Mariah, issued in the early afternoon, probably at the same time I had suddenly decided not to go shopping, and to start my film before the concert. As if I could possibly have known...

Pieces began to fit together. Why had there been trucks pulling up for the last few minutes? They weren't setting up- Mariah had already played here. They were packing up. Taking Mariah's gear away to be freighted to Hawaii. The fans I had seen pulling up an hour ago- suddenly I noticed their tears and their stunned silences.

And I would learn on inspection that some were angry. Angry at Mariah, even. But I guess they love her, and it's their right to be angry at her for a while, even if it's not her fault.

I bought the black T-shirt and the tour book. But they meant nothing to me then. I said later, "I came for a concert. I didn't really care about meeting her, or getting an autograph. I just wanted to sit, or stand, or whatever, in her concert."

A great shot of the back of Nicole Sinclair's head, taken outside the Grand Hyatt as Trey Lorenz signs autographs

My log gets sketchy here. Shock will do that to you, I guess.We arrive at the Grand Hyatt in a cab, and join the party who is obviously hoping to catch Mariah. They are good people, but I can't help but think it is better that they shouldn't catch her in their present state of mind. I even think the same for myself, although my heart pines for her.

I should say that I am against fan stakeouts. But I was in no frame of mind to reject a Big Mac at this point. I chose to stay with my friends in our mutual hour of need. I had nowhere else to be, and it seemed right that I should stay there until the end. I resolved to do just that.

Initially there was enthusiasm, and an air of espionage about the group. All the ingredients were their- agents gathering intelligence, informants, counter-intelligence and even some misinformation. Mariah was not in the hotel, it seemed obvious to my mind. Why try to recouperate in Melbourne when you have to go to Hawaii?

But part of me believed. And part of me still believes. She was there! She had to be! "The lights are on!" But nobody is home? Yeah, right. Forty-four floors above, mere tens of metres, she was in bed, resting. Sick people take flights in the daytime- Mariah would have been flying into the cold of night.

The limo earlier was a decoy! You can't fool us! I was swept up in their sweet, sweet fantasy. And really, the tongue slips by Trey and the dancers did kind of support their way of thinking. And the vehemence with which the official line was put by the Sony suits and the concierge was just a tad suspicious...

But under the intrigue and mystery was a bunch of Mariah fans. We can yak until the oxen come home. And sing, as it turned out, provided you give that term a generous breadth of meaning.

We sang, without backing, just about every Mariah song we could think of. I joined in where I could, but you can understand my throat was very dry by then. Trey had inspired us a bit, I guess, with the friendly way he came down and talked to us, and signed our things, and let us pose with him. He sang a bit of I'll Be There for us, and that was the song we sang the most. I do believe our intention was that, the next time he came out, we would return his kindness.

During our time outside the Hyatt, we spoke of many things. Well, people spoke and I listened, for that has always been my place during such events. People spoke of disappointment, the way the whole situation could be handled, and told their stories of camping-out for tickets.

Photos were shared. Tapes were played. The people who had got so much more than Derek and I shared their experiences, and for that we will forever be grateful. Pain prevented us from participating then, but next time... Oh, there must be a next time.

Looking back from the distance of a month, I couldn't think of a better bunch of people to share my birthday with. As midnight came, so did my gift. Stretch from Elite Force walked up really casually, and spoke to us at length, happy to reveal anything.

He took one thing away, apart from his empty Macca's shake cup, and that was a message to Mariah. Mariah had to know that this concert had been the fans concert. She had to know some of the biggest die-hards in the world had been screwed because of the way the concerts had been scheduled.

I trust the message arrived. And as Stretch predicted, I am sure Mariah was furious.

Just Freda and I left now. My feet are sore, wet and aching. My throat is dry, and my brain is tired. I find myself indulging Freda's Fantasy (ODB Mix to be precise), as she chases a dancer across town in her warm bubble car in an effort to find Trey Lorenz, and get his autograph.

Everyone knows that all your typical blockbusters end with a car chase. But this story does continue. Stay tuned- more next month.