Omar Musa - Here Come the Dogs

single file down the club stairs like

mercenaries,

stamps drying on their wrists.

The show is about to start.

Sin One at first seems more phantom than flesh.

He emerges from the darkness at the back of the stage,

slowly.

He is wearing an oversized hoodie, face full of shadows.

Then we see the jagged nose and cheekbones lit red by gelled spotlights.

He moves towards centrestage

like a latter-day monk or prophet.

Jimmy nudges me,

and his teeth glow neon in the blacklights.

DJ Exit is spinning now, an industrial beat.

Dirty, bassy.

His face is rendered masklike by the lights

but his eyes are feral,

dancing from the decks to Sin One to the crowd

then back to Sin One,

who posits himself at the front of the stage

and stands rock still.

He is enormous.

He pauses,

then raises his left arm.

The room is only half full,

but responds

with a terrifying, guttural roar like a

beast in a bear pit.

The bassline is a deep drone

but DJ Exit is scratching on top of it now,

rapier precise.

Aleks leans over and whispers to Jimmy,

who nods and takes something from him at thigh level,

slips it into his mouth with a jerky movement

then takes a swig of vodka, lime and soda.

Aleks smiles at him and nods,

his lips pursed almost flirtatiously.

Jimmy whispers to me

but I shake my head.

Jimmy has a look of absolute concentration

on his face,

that could be excitement or terror.

DJ Exit’s eyes are closed,

in a trance.

Sin One has been perfectly still,

but then his right arm lifts to his face,

creating a ninety-degree angle.

At first his flow is a whisper.

People crane and stretch to hear him.

Then he begins to snarl and yelp into the mic –

fast, complex, wordy.

Despite his speed,

the crowd is yelling every word.

He is their god.

They are moving up and down

with their arms around each other’s shoulders,

like a bedsheet billowing.

There is something in his performance

that seems significant,

like all the anger and futility and tenderness

within in him are rising and capsizing in his sea of words,

bobbing between him and his audience.

The maimed captain of a shipwrecked generation,

roaring against certain death.

His words are respite from the pain,

futile,

but respite nonetheless.

Scarlett turns to the crowd,

with all their parched lips

and upturned faces.

Some people are laughing,

some are intently focused,

some are shaking their heads in wonder.

I must look disturbed,

because Scarlett asks, ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing. This is dope. He’s different to what I remember. He

looks. old.’

‘Well, it does happen, Solomon. Even to you, baby.’

I grimace.

Sin One

I approach him and he’s arguing

with the promoter.

‘Bro, I didn’t see a single poster around town.’

‘There were heaps. And we did online promo.’

Sin One turns and gives me a tired smile.

‘Bro, I’m a massive fan.

Any chance you can sign this?’

I say, holding out my ticket.

‘Sure. Actually, I’ll do one better than that.’

He fumbles in his pocket

and pulls out a crumbled piece of paper.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Solomon.’

He scribbles on the page and passes it to me.

It is his set list.

At the bottom,

in surprisingly neat handwriting –

‘Solomon. Thanks and peace. Sin One.’

The paper is damp with sweat.

I look at him and know

that I’ll never see this man again.

The end

The clubbers emerge in a daze

not wholly induced by drugs and drink.

The dawn sky is black –

the rising sun is lipstick red.

‘I’d forgotten about the fire!’

says Scarlett.

Her arm is linked with mine

and we look up at the firefighting helicopters

sniggering overhead.

Jimmy is laughing, head far back,

and we smile at him.

The strange look he had is gone

and replaced with something

jubilant.

Aleks’ eyes are dull with drink –

a piece of pizza in each hand,

head moving from one to the other.

We walk past the late-night

watering holes and bloodhouses

that haemorrhage noise and people.

Scarlett is watching me.

I catch her eye

and I can see the end.

We smile at each other regardless,

broad and pure.

We kiss.

This will end soon, my darling.

This beautiful, dumb love —

this will end.

My Scarlett.

I look beyond her shoulder

and begin laughing and pointing,

eyes full of wonder.

‘What’s so funny?’

Soon she is the same, though,

our eyes upwards –

pointing and laughing

like farmers seeing the first rain

in years.

But it is not rain.

It is ash,

the finest black powder

falling onto our collars and shoulders,

drifting around us, falling down

like soot from the grate of heaven.

In memory of Andrew McMillan, Hunter MC, Ollie MC, Auntie Marj and Grandma.

Above all, I must thank my mother, Helen, for everything.

Thanks to my father, Musa bin Masran, and my family in Malaysia. Special thanks to my editors Ben Ball, Caro Cooper and Michael Nolan for their insight, patience and sharpness. Extra special thanks to Sophie Cunningham, who lit a fire under me to write this thing in the first place. Thanks to the brilliant Penguin team of Anyez Lindop, Rebecca Bauert, Alex Ross, Adam Laszczuk, Laura Thomas, Andre Sawenko, Rhian Davies, Clementine Edwards, Cate Blake, Nicola Redhouse and Heidi McCourt. Thanks to The New Press team, including Maury Botton, Julie McCarroll, Michelle Blankenship, Ben Woodward and Carl Bromley. Thanks to Fatima Bhutto. Thanks to my agent Tara Wynne at Curtis Brown. Thanks to Cole Bennetts, Kadi Hughes, Simon Cobbold, Sof Ridwan, Karolina Kilian, Kilifoti Eteuati, Sisilia Eteuati, Will Small, David Celeski, Aleksandar Celeski, James Rush, Tristan Gaven, Antony Loewenstein, Joshua King, Bibi Jol, Leanne Pattison, John Mazur, Lamaroc, Tornts, Brad Strut, The Tongue, The Australia Council, Hau Latukefu, Daniel Merriweather, Horrorshow, Mantra, Tom Thum, Newsense, Mohsin Hamid, Christos Tsiolkas, Nam Le, Sarah Tooth, Stephen Atkinson, Luka Lesson, L-Fresh the Lion, Rob Lancaster, Daniel Guinness, Mighty Joe, Sean M Whelan, Raph Dixon, Marksman Lloyd, Big Village, Gary Dryza, Joelistics, Thundamentals, Maxine Beneba Clarke, Emilie Zoey Baker, Polly Hemming, Kate Shelton at Benedict House, and Ali Cobby Eckermann at the Aboriginal Writers Centre: all great advisors, readers and friends.

Finally, much love and many thanks to you, the reader.

Omar Musa, Queanbeyan, 2015

Lyrics from ‘Life is. ’ by David Dallas (2011), Dirty Records, Dawn Raid Entertainment and Duck Down Records. Courtesy of the artist.

Lyrics from ‘Listen Close’ by Horrorshow (2013), Elefant Traks. Courtesy of the artist.

Lyrics from ‘Animal Kingdom’ by Trem (2011), Unkut Recordings. Courtesy of the artist.

Lyrics from ‘Face the Fire’ by Jimblah (2011), Elefant Traks. Courtesy of the artist.

Lyrics from ‘Poison’ by Tornts (2013), Broken Tooth Entertainment. Courtesy of the artist.

On page 325, the line ‘Now a dog screams from the scrub, his fire fiercer.

It is coming indeed’ is an interpolation of a line from the bushfire scene in Tree of Man, Patrick White (1955).