Aside from a shaky truce, we got absolutely nothing done that day. We did, however, manage to prove that it *is* in fact, possible for two people to disagree on just about everything.  By about six (after several heated arguments, some long sullen silences and a couple of threats) we called it a day.  We arranged to meet again the following day *promptly* at four, to try again.  This time, I instructed him to bring some CDs that would give me an idea of the sound he was thinking of.  In turn, I searched through my collection, trying to find that elusive sound that would complement both of our seemingly polar oppositional styles.

After about an hour of flicking through my collection, with little luck, I decided to call for reinforcements.

"Dan, thank god!"

Daniel wandered in, armed with CD's and his trademark grin just as my thumb was starting to get sore from pressing the "skip" button on the CD player.

"I raided Oliver's collection as well, he's a bit more 'alternative' so we've got a good cross-section."  Dan dumped the armload of CD's onto the couch and we started sorting through them.  There were a *lot* of names I didn't recognise, and a few that stirred a hazy remembrance, but I couldn't place them.  A lot of covers with angry looking, messy haired rakes dripping with attitude.

"The Stray Cats?" I had to ask.

"Oliver really pushed that one.  The lead guy, what's his name?"  Dan leaned over my shoulder and read off the CD cover, "Brian Setzer - that's it! He's like Chris's hero or something."

Suddenly very curious, I popped the CD in and selected a track at random.  And another.  And another.  I was about to give up hope when...

"He's got a thing about you
Yeah, well take it from someone who knows 
He tries to track you down 
And when he finds you girl 
He's gonna do you wrong 
He knows the way you move 
The way you smile 
He feels the way I do about you..."

It wasn't exactly pop, it was more soft rockabilly, but it was the closest any of Chris's kinda music had gotten to my kinda music.  And that was the moment when I really started to believe there was hope for this song, this mis-match of musicians and musical styles.

"Some backing tracks, softer guitar, drum machine - that could be an Affa track."  Daniel stated matter-of-factly. One word expressed my triumph.

"YES!" 

The following day, by about 6:04pm, I was feeling a little less ecstatic.  Piled beside the CD player was a mess of CD covers and CDs, so far to all of which Chris had responded with "Nup." "No way." "Too soft." or my favourite, complete silence.

I discarded U2 and tried to bolster my confidence.  I still had an ace up my sleeve.  "The Stray Cats: Let's Go Faster" lay wedged between the speaker and the amp.  I decided to play out my final hand, slipping it into the CD drawer.  I crossed my fingers behind my back as the track numbers started to tick over, Setzer's rollicking bass permeating the room.  

Chris recognised the song immediately, of course, and although he tried to hide his reaction, I saw him straighten a little, his eyes narrowing in thought.  He listened very closely to the song, as if hearing it for the first time, and I could see him making mental connections.  It was the first song we heard all the way through that day, without interruption.

After the song petered out, I sat waiting for his verdict.  When the silence stretched on, impatient for a response, I spoke up.

"So what do you think?"

"I think you cheated."  Before I had a chance to respond, he grinned. "Did some research, didja?"

"Do you blame me?"  

"Nup.  Did some of my own."  With that he reached into a battered knapsack and drew out a stack of CD's.  "Affirmation" sat on top of the stack.  Noting my questioning look, aimed at my sophomore album, he gave a non-committal shrug.  "Pure pop." Nose wrinkled a litte.  "Track four's ok, just needs some dirty guitar and a wicked solo."

I knew this is the closest he'd get to giving my music a compliment, so I took it as one.

"Thanks.  You're not so bad yourself."

"Don't speak too soon."  He challenged, pushing up off the couch and heading for the sound system.  "My turn, right?"  I nodded.  He went to open the CD drawer, then stopped suddenly, looked at the CD's in his hand, then looked at me seeming to come to a decision.

"Ya know what - fuck this.  This isn't the way you listen to my music."  He threw the CDs back in his bag.  "Get dressed, we're going out."

"Where?" I hated the way my voice peaked to squeakiness with surprise.

"You'll see.  But you're not going like that."  His eyes swept over me, invasively thorough, taking inventory of my white jeans, blue sweater and shoe-free feet.  This was coming from the guy who was wearing denim jacket yesterday?  Admittedly, his current outfit was an improvement, black cargoes, blue workshirt covered in stencilled skulls and patches over a black t-shirt advertising a local electrician.  Not to mention the ever-present dog tags, rings and earrings.

"Excuse me for not dressing to impress, I wasn't expecting to be going out."  

"Whatever, just get ya gear on."

I fought the urge to roll my eyes, bit back a bitchy remark and strode into my bedroom.  I threw open the door to a sizeable wardrobe and regarded my clothes.

"You know this'd be easier if you told me where we're going!" I directed the rather loud, sarcastic comment in his general direction.  He took that as an invitation, and was soon draped in my doorway, leaning in my room, eyes taking in the messily organised chaos that was my closet.

"Just wear something black, you'll be right." Was his verdict.  

Fighting to contain a scowl, I drew out a pair of black jeans and a long sleeved, tight fitting black shirt.  I'd already stripped off my sweater and undershirt, before I registered that Chris was still in the doorway.  I turned to face him and found his eyes on me, a strange expression on his face.

"You gonna watch?"  I challenged, voice dripping with sarcasm.  That seemed to startle him out of his coma, he dragged his eyes from my bare chest, instantly prickly.

"Piss off."  With that prime retort, he slunk back to the living room, muttering something under his breath.  I thought I heard the word "fag" but I can't be sure.  Just for that I left the door wide open while I changed.  And if I didn't know any better, I'd swear I caught him looking a couple of times.

Once dressed, I emerged from the bedroom to find him in front of the mirror in my bathroom, applying black eyeliner with practised ease.  

"And you call me a poof."  I teased, gentling the comment with a wry grin.

"Get lost, this is cool."  He capped the pencil and smudged the makeup around his eye with his little finger.  I had to admit, it did look good, in a Cure-ish, punk kind of way.

"Fine.  Hand it over."  I held out a hand for the pencil.  Chris drew back a little in surprise, the pencil staying clutched between black-nailed fingers.  "You want me to fit in, don't ya?" I pressed, enjoying his shock maybe a little more than I should.

Finally, the guitarist shrugged and handed the pencil over.  I leaned closer to the mirror and attempted to apply the kohl with shaking, unpractised hands.  Don't laugh. I mean, I've worn a lot of make up in my career, I've just never had to apply it *myself* ya know? There's always been a nice talkative lady with mascara wand and professional makeup kit there to do it for me.  And having Chris's too-intense eyes taking in my every move definitely didn't help my confidence.

"You're fucking it up."  I struggled to contain a frustrated noise.  Chris Cheney was giving me makeup tips?  It was almost laughable.

I was about to give up when he snatched the pencil off me.

"Here, give me a go."

Then I was standing as still as I could and his hands were on my face, pencil tracing a delicate line across my eyelid.  He was standing uncomforably close, filling my head with the sharp tangy scent of his aftershave, giving my eyes nowhere to look but at him.  His hands were surprisingly gentle as they smudged the black across my lids.

His fingers gently gripped my chin, turning my head this way and that, checking his handiwork.  When he titled my chin up, staring hard at me, I got the strangest feeling. I felt like he might kiss me.  The thought made my stomach flip over, my mouth suddenly dry.  It was just a stupid flash-thought, cos we were standing so close, his hand cupping my face like that, his eyes on mine, our lips a breath apart.

I wouldn't have thought anything of it if he hadn't frozen suddenly, eyes wild, and taken a quick step away, ripping his hands from my face like he'd just discovered symptoms of leprosy.

Suddenly uncomfortable, I tried valiantly to think of something to say - a blase comment, a lame joke, anything to ease the sudden and extreme tension.  I drew a complete blank.  Meeting my own apprehensive expression in the mirror, I noticed the makeup.  It was blunter, darker than I was used to, and with my fully black outfit I looked a bit goth, but I didn't mind it.  Chris was right, it was kinda cool.

"Come on, Cheney, let's go."  I finally found the strength to utter, nudging him in the shoulder.  I tried not to notice the way he flinched away from the contact.  He discarded his intense contemplation of the sink drain and finally looked at me.

"Are we driving or should I call a cab?"

Crammed in the back of a Black & White cab, Chris was still ansty and I still had no idea where we were going.  Chris's barked directions to the cab driver ("Charlotte Street, City.") didn't give me much more of a clue. I hadn't been out in Brisbane in ages.

The mystery was soon solved. We entered the grimy archway of a subterranean club, the sign above reading "Crash N Burn" in faded red letters. I'd vaguely heard of the place but I'd never set foot in it. From what I'd heard, it didn't seem my type of club. From what I could see, it still wasn't.

Chris must've caught the tail end of my less-than-impressed expression as I took stock of the place. He threw me a wry grin, enjoying my discomfort.

On the other side of the thick doors, the muffled bass of heavy punk music immediately assaulted not just my ears but my entire body, thrumming through from the soles of my feet. Chris strode confidently over to the cashier slapping hands with the doorman, a pale, black-lipped goth guy with long black hair.

"Hey Jesse!" 

Jesse punched Chris in the arm a little too hard to be affectionately and smiled.

"Well if it isn't Fitzroy's favourite son. Where the fuck have you been, Cheney?"

"UK mate. Touring and all that shit." They talked shop for a bit and I started to feel really out of place. Eventually, Jesse managed to look beyond Chris and acknowledge me. 

"Who's the poof?" 

"Fuck off, Jesse, he's with me."  I took way too much pleasure in that response.