Here Come the Dogs

A Novel

Omar Musa

• Publisher: The New Press
• Year: 2013
• Print ISBN:
  9781620971178
• eBook ISBN:
  9781620971192
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Literature General
• Index: Literature

A “brilliant [novel] . . . Immediate and compelling, this one deserves a place on the shelf next to Trainspotting or The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test” (Cleaver Magazine).
 
In small-town suburban Australia, three young men from three different ethnic backgrounds—one Samoan, one Macedonian, one not sure—are ready to make their mark. Solomon is all charisma, authority, and charm; a failed basketball player down for the moment but surely not out. His half-brother, Jimmy, bounces along in his wake, underestimated, waiting for his chance to announce himself. Aleks, their childhood friend, loves his mates, his family, and his homeland and would do anything for them. The question is, does he know where to draw the line?
 
Solomon, Jimmy, and Aleks are way out on the fringe of Australia, looking for a way in. Hip hop, basketball, and graffiti give them a voice. Booze, women, and violence pass the time while they wait for their chance. Under the oppressive summer sun, their town has turned tinder-dry. All it will take is a spark.
 
As the surrounding hills roar with flames, change storms in. But it’s not what they were waiting for. It never is.
 
“This stunning novel has such swaggering exuberance that it will make most other fiction you read this year seem criminally dull. You have been warned.” —Irvine Welsh, author of Trainspotting
 
“With compassion and urgency, Here Come the Dogs excavates the pain of those who struggle to remain part of a ruthless equation that has been determined by others.” —Los Angeles Times
 
“A bravado novel about survival and rebirth in a subculture that moves to its own rhythms.” —Kirkus Reviews

PART ONE

1

Where are these cunts?

Too hot, bro,

too fucken long without rain.

Two by two they troop in,

the madness of summer in the brain.

In the dying light,

the crowd looks like hundreds of bobbling balloons,

waiting to be unfastened.

Sweating tinnies and foreheads –

sadcunts and sorrowdrowners the lot of them.

I stand up,

six-foot-two and shining,

yawn,

twist side to side on my hinges

and survey the crowd.

It’s not like the boys to be late,

especially on a day like today.

Summer,

the deepest season,

throbbing with danger and promise,

every scallywag, seedthief and skatepark

wrapped up in a white hot skin.

And here come the dogs . . .

Strange, smiling creatures,

lean-flanked and

ready to race.

An old bloke turns around and grins

with opalised eyes.

‘Nothing like the ole dishlickers, eh?’

I smile and flick a fly from my knuckle.

‘Fuck noath.’

The dogs’ barks detonate across the track.

The trainers are gruff people,

but now they coo to the hounds,

straightening their racing silks,

crouching to check and bend their ankles.

(one says a prayer and kisses

his dog on its narrow head)

A dry wind scythes across

the stands and I reach up

to keep my hat on.

‘Bushfire weather, ay?’

The old timer is right.

The Town is a powderkeg,

a perfect altar for a bushfire –

the sole god of a combustible summer.

B-Boy Fresh

But I’m crisp tee fresh –

black on black, snapback,

toothbrush on sneaker,

throwback fresh.

But fark me dead,

the joints and muscles ache nowadays.

Sign of the times, ay?

I look at the old timer

and immediately touch the

muscles under my shirt

just to make sure.

I grin –

Solomon Amosa, you vain, vain bastard.

The big news

Jimmy ain’t hard to spot in a crowd.

With all the grace of jangling keys,

my half-brother lurches

through the mass of drinkers and gamblers,

sharp Adam’s apple visible even from here.

His eyes cut left to right,

paranoid and grim.

Walking behind him is Aleks,

smiling and nodding at people that he passes.

What a crew –

a Samoan, a Maco and my half-brother, a something.

The only ethnics at the dog races.

When Jimmy sits down I smack him

across the back of the head,

harder than I mean to.

‘Oi, what took you so fucken long?’ I say, taking my cap off and pass-

ing my hand over my dreds.

‘I had shit to do, bra.’

Aleks looks away and checks his bet,

already bored of the bickering.

‘Like what?’

‘I don’t fucken have to tell you everything, do I? Jesus.’

Jimmy looks like he’s gonna say something else

but instead he conjures two ciggies from behind his ear,

lights one and passes the other to me.

We smoke for a minute

and listen to the announcements.

‘Conditions are ideal tonight, ladies and gentlemen.

We have a perfect track for racing.

Good luck and good punting –

may the racing gods be in your favour.’

Jimmy ashes his durry

and then looks sidelong at me,

lips expanding into a frog-like grin.

‘Oi, guess what?’

I’m watching some lads on a stag’s night stumble along.

They’re dressed in a bright-yellow uniform, wearing wigs.

Jimmy and Aleks look at each other and grin.

They’re already wasted,

sour bourbon vapours practically hissing off them.

‘What?’

Jimmy clears his throat, then announces, ‘Sin One’s gonna do a come-

back show. With the DJ Exit on the decks.’

My eyes cut back. ‘Sin One? You serious?’

‘He’s moved back, brother,’ nods Aleks.

I blow out smoke. ‘Ohh, man. When?’

‘After Chrissie.’

Sin One is almost universally recognised

in the underground

as the greatest rapper Australia has produced –

a prophet, nah, a god.

And he comes from our Town.

Can you imagine how fucken proud we are?

Drinks

When I bring back the tinnies,

Aleks and Jimmy are embroiled in an age-old argument –

who the best Australian MC is.

I take a black marker from my pocket

and begin to draw on a five-dollar note as I listen.

Jimmy, who loves lists,

reminds us yet again of the five main criteria

you judge an MC by.

1) Flow: how do they ride, bounce off, play with, sound on a beat?

2) Lyrics: how do they play with words, use metaphors, create memorable images, tell stories?

3) Voice: were they naturally gifted with a voice that just cuts through and gives you shivers, that booms or rasps or honeys?

4) Consistency: have they produced quality work over an extended period of time?

5) Live show: can they rock the fuck out of a crowd of people, big or small?

Added to this are more nebulous criteria based on online rumours,

freestyle abilities, face-to-face encounters and gut feelings.

Jimmy and Aleks prefer grimier, old school Melbourne stuff,

samples and dusty loops.

I’m more into synths and instruments,

newer, smoother Sydney shit.

‘All right, then. Top five best MCs,’ says Jimmy, who reels off his list immediately. ‘Brad Strut, Trem, Geko, Lazy Grey, Bias B.’

Aleks, too, is ready. ‘Trem, Strut, Pegz, Delta, Vents.’

‘Hm. Fucken hard one.’ I think for a second. ‘All right, um . . . Solo, Mantra, Suffa, Tuka, Hau, Joelistics . . . That new Briggs shit is heavy, too. And that dude One Sixth from Melbourne.’

‘I said top five, bro,’ snaps Jimmy.

‘Oi, relax.’

‘Storytelling, mate, lyrics, that’s what it’s about,’ announces Jimmy.

‘Yeah, yeah, you always say that. Then Solo from Horrorshow or Mantra’s number one,’ I say. ‘Deep shit. Mad flows, too.’

Aleks and Jimmy shake their heads in unison. ‘Nah, that shit’s gay as, always singing and shit. That’s not true school. Plus, Solo looks like a tennis instructor,’ says Jimmy.

‘You’re one to talk, you preppy cunt! You’re stuck in the nineties, bro. Music moves on,’ I say.

‘Now, Trem. That’s an MC. Tells it how it is – graff, crime, darkness. Voice is like a fucken . . . like a diamond cutter,’ says Aleks. ‘Strut too – apocalyptic.’

‘You can’t dance to it, but,’ I counter. ‘That shit’s too serious for me. When it started, hip hop was about getting a party goin’. Sydney shit does that better.’

Jimmy is getting heated. ‘Sydney shit is weird. Their accents sound American. They say “days” like “deez” and “mic” like “mark”. Hate that.’

We laugh.

‘What about a chick?’ I venture. ‘None of us even put one in there.’

‘Tsk. Ya PC cunt. Been hanging with that femmo girlfriend of yours too much. When chicks rap, I just don’t feel it.’

‘What ’bout Lauryn Hill? Jean Grae?’

‘Aussies, I mean’

‘Layla. Class A.’

The boys shrug. As Aleks leans forward, a blue bead swings on a leather strap around his neck. ‘The Hoods sold more than anyone else,’ he says.

‘Fuck sales. It’s not about sales; it’s about impact and the quality. If you use that argument, you could say Bliss n Eso are more important than Def Wish Cast.’

‘Or Vanilla Ice is better than Kool G Rap.’

Jimmy turns his glittering eyes on me. ‘Those private school boys must’ve taught you about hip hop, ay. That’s why you’re not into the hard shit.’

Cunt.

The private school thing is always Jimmy’s trump card,

no matter what the argument,

and it always works.

Aleks frowns.

‘Fuck . . . I went for basketball, ...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• About the Author
• Copyright
• Dedication
• Contents
• Prologue
• Part One
• Part Two
• Part Three
• Acknowledgements
• Credits
• Publishing in the Public Interest