Editorials

A NIGHT TO REMEMBER

06/04/17 15:51 Filed in: Personal
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 Chelsea Brown

Park Hyatt, Canberra. We used to bring the last Ansett Boeing 727 in, have a day off, then fly out early the next day. One night, during the mid nineties, became the most exciting of my life.

The bar closed and we decided to move to the lounge and order room service.

I started playing the magnificent grand piano. More drinks arrived. After midnight a group of people arrived and joined us. They were actors and crew from a stage show; their star was the stunning Chelsea Brown. She asked if she could sing with me.

The next hour or so became the most memorable performance of my life as we ripped through all the standards: Georgia, What are you doing for the rest of my life, Misty, Moon river, Can’t get started, Can’t help lovin’ dat man, Someone to watch over me, everything I knew, she knew.

Amazingly, her key was my key, (I couldn’t have transposed to save my life), as she floated up and down the scale to match me. Effortlessly, with each imperceptible nod she coached me into becoming a world class accompanist. During the solos my usual fat-finger, stumbling became classy. I never crushed a note.

The alcohol flowed, the aircrew and the stage crew bonded while the poor bastards in the real world slept. Our audience was the hotel staff, the room service guys were flat out.

I left my favourite song til last. My Funny Valentine. It may not have been her favourite, but she sung it like it was. I have never played so well, before or since. All my practice, all those years, was for that night. When we finished we knew what Hillary and Tenzing felt like.

I was terrified. How to get back down?

She came and whispered to me:
“I have to stop now … I don’t know any more!”

Neither did I, but I didn’t let her know that.

I finished a few minutes later with the song that I always finish with: Terry Clark’s version of Waltzing Matilda … well, my version of Terry’s version, (that is: without the clever bits).

A few minutes later the next morning’s outgoing crew started wandering through the lobby bar on their way to checkout —you may have been one of them— astounded that last night’s 727 crew still hadn’t been to bed, and noting the detritus of used glasses, and cold french fries, littering the area.

I have always felt guilty for letting Chelsea think that I had more to give. When she declared that she had run out of songs, I should have said: “Me too.”

Instead, she went to her grave yesterday thinking that I was cleverer than I am. Which was a lie.

She made me clever that night, she found a junior 727 first officer tinkering on a piano, and took him to the top of the world.

A world that is poorer today, for her passing.


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6th April 2017



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