THE CROWD EASY TO PLEASE

Te Ao Hou, June 1961, Page 49

THE CROWD EASY TO PLEASE “Gee, boy,” said one chap, “look at those nice looking sheilas at the end of the front row.” I chuckled to myself, and the voice of the Stage Manager brought my thoughts to a halt. “Half a minute to go, you blokes!” “How do you feel, Jack?” I said bringing myself back to reality. “Real cool, man,” came his reply, with a glint of mischief flashing in his dark eyes. But with many others of our race, it is almost impossible at times to read their thoughts and feelings. Last night we had also played to a packed house back in Waikune, to an audience consisting mostly of the Officers and their wives, outside visitors, and those of the inmates not taking part in the show. Our common-room had been decorated with greenery, and cut-outs, and gay streamers. And a stage had been built at one end. I myself have come to the conclusion that prison audiences are the most critical of any, if not the hardest to please. But now everything was going well, the crowd easy to please, and certainly one of the most responsive I've ever heard. Stepping over wire leads and a hundred other little things and props, I walked over to where the Chief Officer sat looking pleased and amused. Rather like the “country Squire” tonight in his walking out civvies, a filter tipped cigarette in one hand, and a look that had “Jolly Good Show!” written all over it. On stage Ron and his Hawaiians were “Hollywooding it” (playing up) to the crowd. Ron's steel guitar playing was perfect, the music was simply terrific, but not one of them was smiling; they were all deadpan. “Why don't one of them smile?”, says the Chief. “Hey, Lizzard,” I call softly to the Maori guitarist of the group nearest me, and wave to attract his attention. At last he hears, and gives me a sideward look. “Smile, man, smile,” I say, and his face bursts into a happy grin. “That's more like it,” we all chorus at once. “Go out there and do a hula or something,” the Chief says to me. “Come on!” “What, and have Ron throw a warbly? (fit),” I reply. “we'll all end up in the digger.” (detention cell).