Cows with Guns in our spare bedroom

Banana republic

From late May until mid September, I don’t expect to see most of my Darwin friends. That is, I don’t expect to see them for a proper catch up, a dinner party or even a coffee. We’ll see each other from a distance, or maybe exchange brief hellos at Parap Markets, but we’re all otherwise occupied. Mainly playing tour guide to a party of Down South visitors wearing khaki zip on trousers and hats with drawstrings. They’re easy to spot in a crowd, usually gripping a drink bottle in one hand and a pump pack of RID in the other.

This is the Dry Season, also known as Season of the House Guest. The Southerners get tired of clutching at space heaters and remember they have a friend up in Darwin, or an acquaintance, or their daughter has a friend, or their cat’s former owner has a friend of a friend. Why not give them a call, have a holiday and enjoy some Northern Bed and Breakfast hospitality?

Some Darwinites roll their eyes and close up shop, or start counting the days until the Build Up. But I love it. I’ve been cold calling strangers and turning up on their various doorsteps around the globe for years, so it’s the least I can do. In my first year in Darwin, I even rented a two-bedroom flat just to cope with projected visitor numbers. I had over 40 people come through my door that year, probably because no one expected me to be here for more than 18 months, so carpe diem!

Eight years on and still here, I reflect that we probably could have staggered those visits a little more, but no matter.

This year, we’re going back to back with guests: my sister, Mr Tea’s father, my good friend Ange and her fella, my Broome besties Ryan, Beth and their 18 month old Jasper, then Mr Tea’s sister, her husband and their two little ones – both under the age of three. Then it will be mid September and I will have a long nap.

It’s the same every Dry. But last year, Season of the House Guest got a little more interesting when Mr Tea and I opened the flat to our first ever one hit wonder.

Dana Lyons: American musician, environmentalist and author of the heartily embraced song, Cows with Guns.

To call Dana a one hit wonder feels a little cheap, because he has written catalogues of funny and moving songs beyond his anthem for bovine freedom. But it’s a moniker he owns proudly, so I will too. Dana plays the song for fans every set, usually twice. And unlike other musos who roll their eyes when they are asked about the inspiration for their hit song in interviews, Dana still enthusiastically tells the story about his cat waking him up from a vivid dream about the cattle liberation army, and the ensuing fantasy he concocted with a friend in a hot tub about chickens with helicopters (and, possibly, AK-47s) who come to help. He is still grateful that this little ditty enabled him to buy a house in his home state of Washington, to continue travelling the world (usually Kazakhstan, Vladivostok and Cairns rather than Tokyo and London) and playing music almost two decades on.

When I told Mr Tea that Dana Lyons was coming to stay with us, he shrugged his shoulders and said sure. Mr Tea isn’t too big on popular culture. If you talk about Brad and Angelina and name every single one of their biological and adopted children, he literally, not figuratively, thinks you are speaking in another language. Once I was watching the Gruen Transfer and Wil Anderson made a crack about how people who didn’t know that Ricky Martin was gay must be living under a rock under a rock. Mr Tea walked through the living room at that moment holding a drill and some unidentifiable pieces of metal and plastic.

“Is Ricky Martin gay?” he asked.

But we got on YouTube and even Mr Tea knew the song Cows with Guns, and he got the most fluttery I’ve ever seen him.

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Dana and I became friendly acquaintances on a trip he made to Australia a few years back when he came in for a radio interview. We stayed in touch and when he made a return trip, I hooked him up with a bunch of environmentalists in the Kimberley (including the KTB – Kimberley Toad Busters) and radio stations through Northern Australia. We agreed to have a drink when he was in Darwin and I told him to ring me if he needed a place to crash.

In that great show that is Australian hospitality, my offer was very enthusiastic, especially since I didn’t expect him to take me up on it.

So there I was, surfing the internet, when I get a call from Dana.

“Hey Miranda, how’s it going?”

I’m good, I tell him.

“So I was just wondering about your offer of a place to stay, but I have something to ask you first.”

Sure, I say.

“Is your house quiet or noisy?”

This is a hard question to answer. Nowhere is quiet in Darwin. We have louvres instead of windows. Even if your neigbbours are peaceful (and mostly they aren’t: they like drinking beer, listening to commercial radio and having fights or practicing their extensive expletive vocabulary), the noise of their clattering dishes and the television news still carries right into your bedroom.

And even if you are out on a block in the rural area, there is still a chorus of cicadas, a gamelan of geckoes, an orchestra of tree frogs, a mafia of cane toads and a jumble of barking, flea bitten dogs to contend with. There is also a 90% chance that you will overhear some of those dogs making love and/or catch them in the act. The geckoes screech even louder when they’re in heat.

Now there’s a tourist slogan: Come to Darwin! See and hear our wildlife hump!

Do the NT, indeed.

And we’re not even in the sticks. We live on a roundabout that is also a well known habitat for various amateur motorcycle gangs and passing hoons who like to express the power of their break pads with shrieking donuts at 2am. But it’s no New York City or Bangkok, our stretch of Rapid Creek, so I tell him it’s pretty quiet. Mostly.

“Would you mind if I came to stay?” asks Dana. “I’m staying with a good friend, but he lives right on the overpass and if I don’t get a good night’s sleep, I won’t be able to do any of these gigs.”

No oblivion of drugs and alcohol before bed for Dana Lyons, then.

No problems, I tell him. Come right over, it’d be great to have you.

I wasn’t quite sure what to expect when Dana came to stay. What does hosting an internationally renowned musician require?

What kind of hours would he keep? Would he rehearse in our spare bedroom? Would we sit around having breakfast? Would he bring home girls?

The answers to all of those questions were more boring than expected:

Pretty reasonable, actually.

No.

Yes, but he was avoiding gluten.

No, although he did have a “fan”, who seemed to turn up at all his gigs, at the pub and the local swimming pool. And also on our stairwell. At which point, Dana just laughed.

“This is so crazy! Guys, meet my friend Mary. I haven’t seen her since the coal mining protest on the East Coast, what, six months ago? And we just ran into each other again in Darwin, at the markets and then the swimming pool and now here! Unbelievable! The world is so small.”

Mr Tea and I left him to it, but I was pleased to see that at the very least Dana had a groupie, his own version of Mel from Flight of the Concords.

To say thanks for putting him up, Dana put us on the door for his gig out at Humpty Doo.

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Only Dana Lyons would have a touring itinerary that excludes Melbourne and Sydney and includes the Territory’s little hamlet that could: Humpty Doo.

And the Humpty Doo Hotel is something of a Territory icon, the kind of premises where folk sometimes just rock up to the bar on a horse and order a stubby because they feel like it. It’s nothing to look at really, just a concrete bunker that you can hose out at the end of the night (and they do). But it’s great for a dirty burger and people watching, especially if you like tattoos, singlets and a man called Blue who’s pet Brahmin Norm once held the pub’s beer drinking record.

On a previous visit, I’ve had a guy pinch me on the ass and say, “You look like you’ve had four children, girlie…”

He genuinely thought that was a pick up line.

The Humpty Doo Hotel clientele aren’t necessarily Dana’s target audience.

But they (mostly) adored Cows with Guns, and were appreciative of his newest song, Cane Toad Muster, the product of recent weeks spent with the Kimberley Toad Busters.

One woman, particularly Humpty Doo Positive, showed her appreciation by getting raucously drunk and calling Dana a “dumb cunt”.

“Learn to play your fucking instrument, fucking dumb shit”, she yelled, and then she fell off the half wall where she was sitting. Dana’s thoughtful heckler then picked herself up again and went to order another beer from the bar.

Still, it was a good night and Mary was back on deck with Dana, helping him sell merch at the end of the evening.

Having a house guest always gives you some outsider perspective on the North, a new way of seeing places and people you have come to take for granted, and our visit from Dana was no different.

As we sat around the next day, talking about Humpty Doo and the Kimberley and cane toad busting. Dana laughed.

“When I was in Kununurra, the local mayor suggested that we could give all the kids rounds of ammunition and guns to sort out the toad problem. Turn it into a competitive sport! I love this part of the world. You can have different opinions about burning off or saving trees or building mines. But the toads – well, that’s something the hippies and the rednecks can all agree on. I’m coming back, for sure. Maybe next time I’ll head out to Nhulunbuy and how do you say it, Yirrkala? I’ve got a buddy out there as well.”

The Spirit of Dana was irrepressible.

Cane Toad Muster doesn’t seem to have taken off where Cows with Guns stopped. Yet. But I’m looking forward to the next visit from our one hit wonder.

As he departs for the next obscure town on his touring itinerary, Mr Tea and I deem Dana Lyons to be a most excellent visitor. And like all good house guests, Dana leaves behind a few gifts.

A couple of books about the Kimberley that are too heavy for his touring bag; he thinks I might actually read them.

And a signed copy of his other novelty song, Ride The Lawn. Mr Tea plays it in the car ad nauseum until I hide it.

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4 thoughts on “Cows with Guns in our spare bedroom

  1. Ok ,i was at that Humpty Doo gig, and i reckon you might be looking through moist eyes shaded by rosy-coloured glasses, cos i’m pretty sure a fight almost broke out when the ‘heckler’ and her even more intense entourage got told loudly to ‘shut the fuck up’ by some other locals, and they all got a wee bit shouty (to put it mildly). However Dana Lyons just played heartily all the way through which was highly admirable and also uber cool (angry Humpty Doo is not for the faint-hearted). Which was exactly the right thing to do, cos it all blew over pretty quickly with the lone dance floor attendant Mary (‘Mel’) dancing and swinging her hips the entire time.

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