Beer Drinking Woman

“May I petition you for a beer?”

It wasn’t the first time a stranger had asked me that, but it was the first time a Jedi with a handbag at a Burrito stand had asked me that.

It was a breezy Sunday night on King Street and I was catching up with our editor and a photographer. We’d seen a total of six bands over eight hours, but no one had any photos or lucid memories to show for it (read: we had no story). So, when we were propositioned by a robed Jedi, asking us to buy him a beer – we swiftly finished our burritos and walked with him to the Marlborough for another round.

The Jedi was an interesting creature, with a sharp face and intelligent voice… but I couldn’t take my eyes off of his robe (which he consistently corrected was a “cloak”) and I listened intently as he spoke about medieval metal bands from Norway and the inner workings of Vladimir Nabokov and Tom Waits… he was definitely a brilliant conversationalist.

Then, as we finished our round, the Jedi cast curious eyes at each of us and asked “so… who’s getting the next round?” At this point, it became obvious that our Jedi was a pro. A witty, interesting, freeloading booze-hustler. A penniless, scumbag drunk, who swaps stories and smiles for drinks. I know this type of dirt-bag all too well, because that is exactly what I was trying to do that evening.

Anyway, things got awkward, so we made an awful set of excuses and frittered off, down King Street (in the opposite direction to the Jedi). This unusual altercation left us desperately needing another drink, so we decided our only option was to pop in to the Vanguard for a night cap.

We arrived at the Vanguard in high spirits, having skipped hand-in-hand down King Street (which also left me out of breath and dry-mouthed) and the marquee by the door had three words plastered on it: “Beer Drinking Woman.”

It seemed like an odd thing to advertise, a solitary, alcoholic woman… but we were three, beer drinking men and it felt reassuring to know that our kind of people were inside and on stage.

Tripping through the doors, we were greeted by the wry smile of the ticketress and informed that we had made it in time for intermission. We were still unsure exactly what we had missed half of, but bargained the her down to half price tickets and took three seats by the bar and ordered three matching drinks.

A good looking crowd lined the walls of the Vanguard, seemingly a mixture of mid-thirties set-designers with incredible jackets and aging audio engineers with immaculate beards. Everything about the place was making me feel incredible and we cuddled up to the old-timey bar like needy children.

By this stage we were all comfortably drunk, apart from our editor, who seemed to be slipping into disorderliness, getting louder and louder as he did his best to better the crowd’s building rabble.

But the hubbub was swiftly silenced, as a foxy, looming red-head took to the stage in an orange satin cocktail dress. She muttered a few words in cabaret characters and with a drink in hand (and more by her side) she slid right into an incredible cover of Tom Waits’ boozy croon ‘The Piano Has Been Drinking.’

It was an amazing version of the song, and I found myself frozen in enjoyment, unable to make a murmur or cough for fear of missing a note. I remained that way until the end of the song, when I began to carry on like a trained seal, clapping and yipping uncontrollably.

We discovered from the ticketress that the musical Mata Hari behind the microphone was Christa Hughes (AKA: KK Juggy from Machine Gun Fellatio) and the pianist’s name was Leonie Cohen. We were told more, but the next song began and I swiftly trailed off in a doe-eyed daze once again.

To say that Christa is talented is unfair, as it would suggest she could be placed in the same category as 12 year old violinists… but take my word for it, if you haven’t seen her perform you should do so immediately. Christa’s hold on the crowd is incredible and her sleazy, honest charm is instantly addictive.

However, while Christa crooned her way through the booze-soaked stories of her life, from fat creeps and bad shags to a speed-ball overdose on a bathroom floor (where else?), our dear editor was getting more and more rowdy… eventually getting himself disallowed from the bar.

A blatant frown draped across his walrus cheeks and he sipped on the water given to him like a misbehaving child. He looked mad and glared at the water, only breaking his stare to shoot similar eyes at the bubbly bartender.

Once he’d done enough glaring, he shot up and stormed towards the stage with his empty glass in hand, marching with the cocky confidence of a fighter pilot. Christa had left a cask of wine on the edge of the stage to encourage audience inebriation, and our dear editor stormed up mid-song and topped up his empty cup with some ghastly goon. Christa loved it and the audience followed close behind.

The evening continued at this rate, and from melancholic boozey tune, to triumphant boozey tune, the entire audience watched on with wistful eyes as Christa sauntered through each song with her aggressive, offensive forte – right up to the bogan barn dance finale of Cold Chisel’s ‘Cheap Wine.’

All in all, Christa sings like a demon, the crowd loves her and she’s fucking gorgeous.
Once she becomes rich and famous, I’ll have every reason in the world to hate her.

She’ll be playing the Vanguard every Sunday for the rest of October.
Catch her before she hits the entertainment centre.

James Bloodworth