The New Bar
written by: Sean O’Leary
Julia sits in a bar on a little side street off Bayswater Rd, Kings Cross, Sydney. The bar opened three nights ago, and for some reason, they sent to her work (how did they know where I work?) an invitation to ‘join us for a drink.’ The ‘us’ being the establishment itself, and they threw in five free drink vouchers.
She’s on drink number three, and it’s 8.00 pm, and she’s the only person, other than one staff member and a guy on his own, and collecting his free drinks as she is. He’s sitting in the darkest corner of the bar, and he’s drinking Black Russians.
When she walked into the bar, she felt a little odd, not déjà vu. More like a shift in time, almost. Sounds stupid, but like she had been transported, like Star Trek, when they used to step into the tubes and bingo, they ended up on Planet Nine or something.
The guy drinking Black Russians works as a barman at Springfields, a bar, curiously enough, in Springfield Lane in, yeah, Kings Cross. Springfields used to be the infamous Manzel Room. The Manzel had a reputation. A kind of 1970s or 1980s heroin chic, rock ‘n roll kind of gig.
You went there to get, like Keith (you wish), elegantly wasted. If you were in Springfields, right now, in 1996, at 8.00 pm, you’d be surrounded by small and large TV screens and the one-day cricket between Australia and Sri Lanka would be on screen. So, you wouldn’t want to be there if you were out to get elegantly wasted. Times change, some of us don’t.
Julia is a receptionist at the Hyatt. The Hyatt takes pride of place along with the huge Coke sign on William St, at the top of The Cross. Julia lives on her own in a ‘studio apartment’ on Macleay St.
If a studio apartment makes you think of a groovy New York Loft pad, you’re out of your mind. It’s a smallish room, a double bed, and a sofa take up pretty much the whole room, a small bathroom—standing room only for one person, and a kitchen off the lounge with the basics, but she likes it.
No, she loves it. If she stands on her tippy toes, she can see the Sydney Harbour Bridge through the bathroom window. It’s her statement to the world. She can hack it on her own. She can bring men home or not. She pays all the bills. She doesn’t need a car. Everything is on her doorstep.
She lives in a red-light, druggy, cosmopolitan, groovy, cool area in her little studio apartment and she loves it.
How come this place only invited her? What about Vicki, Sophie, Helen, and the other guys at work, why her? No reason. She was on a list compiled by a computer.
She signed in at some drongo club in Randwick of all places, writing down where she worked, and bingo, free drinks. The other two guys she was with that night wrote down false names, and one of them said he worked at ‘Spacy’s on the Beach,’ something he made up on the spot.
The bar she is in right now, with the guy drinking Black Russians, is called The New Bar.
“I thought this was opening night,” she says to the barman, “where is everyone?”
“That was three days ago.” He says.
“So, why would you send me drinks vouchers for tonight when nothing’s happening?”
“Because tonight is special.” He says.
“Oh.” And she looks over at the guy drinking Black Russians.
The guy drinking Black Russians is Andrew. So, we have Julia and Andrew.
Some lights come on to reveal a small stage, way on the opposite side to where Andrew sits. Drum kit, guitars resting, low black lights at the front of the stage pointing to where the band should be.
“There’s going to be a band tonight.” She says to the barman.
“Yeah, ‘The Band from Heaven,’ they call themselves.”
“Wow.” Julia says, “The Band from Heaven.”
The barman’s name is Zendo (what the hell sort of name is that, she thought), he’s dressed in all black with a studded belt for show.
Andrew comes to the bar, “Last voucher,” he says to the barman, “another Black Russian.”
Julia looks at Andrew and says, “What’s in a Black Russian?”
The barman answers, “Vodka and Coke. Simple”
Julia almost says, I didn’t ask you, because he’s a bit flaky in his cool black clothes and studded belt, but she smiles at Andrew instead.
Andrew takes the drink and goes back into the darkness to sit on the soft, dark brown sofa in the corner of the bar.
Julia feels like she wants to ring someone, wants to tell them, ‘The band from Heaven’ are playing in this bar tonight, but she doesn’t.
She wants to go and talk to the Black Russian guy.
Low-wattage spotlights come on to light up a small circular dance floor in front of the stage. It’s the smallest dance floor Julia’s ever seen.
Zendo smiles at her, and she rubs her arms, and for a moment they feel like fish scales, and she gets that shift in time feeling again. Planet Nine.
Zendo turns and walks out an exit at the back of the bar, and Julia knows he’s gone for the night.
A beautiful young girl, who must be only just eighteen, walks in through the same exit and comes behind the bar.
Julia’s never seen anyone as beautiful as her in her whole life. She has long blonde hair down to her ass, in dreadlocks, unbelievably shiny clean blond hair.
Huge blue eyes and “cheekbones like geometry,” as Mr Lloyd Cole sang, still sings. Killer smile, her teeth aren’t fake white, they’re shiny clean natural white.
She is stunning beyond belief, and she tells Julia, “Hi, my name is Nina.”
Planet Nine.
And she thinks, you know, I’ve never even seen this street before. The little street The New Bar is on.
She doesn’t want to leave, though, because ‘The Band from Heaven’ will be playing, and Andrew is walking to the bar to get his next and last Black Russian unless she can talk to him.
Music starts playing in The New Bar. Music like she’d never heard before. Kind of trancy but with new wave sensibilities and maybe some Smiths influence she can detect.
Julia doesn’t know what she’s on about and laughs to herself, but the music is hypnotic cool.
“What is this music?” She asks the young and beautiful, Nina.
“The Number One Song in Heaven.”
She says, and Andrew hears her when he arrives at the bar and says to Julia and Nina, “The Number One Song in Heaven, what an unusual name, but you have to like it don’t you?”
“Is it a band or what?” Julia asks.
Nina shows her the record, yes, a record, not a CD.
The cover is all white, back and front. In very small light (Sky) blue writing is written, ‘The Number One Song in Heaven.’
“This is just unbelievable music, like a drug, I feel it moving inside me and around me like I could fly almost,” Julia says.
And Nina and Andrew don’t laugh at her because they feel the same.
Andrew gets another Black Russian, and Nina says, “It’s on the house and whatever you’d like, Julia. On the house.”
Julia didn’t tell Nina her name and Andrew is sitting beside her on a bar stool now, ‘The Number One Song in Heaven’ is coursing through his veins and he could just stay in that spot forever but the band is coming through a side door now, walking onto the stage, tuning the guitars, brushing the drums, the stage lights are still off.
‘Planet Nine,” Julia says out loud.
“You too,” Andrew says, and they both laugh.
A big, happy, friendly laugh. No giggling.
This is ‘The Number One Song in Heaven’, soon to be ‘The Band from Heaven.’
No way home.
- The New Bar - April 12, 2025
- Writing with Schiz - May 6, 2023
- Cigarettes - February 5, 2023
