This song sounds like Phil Spector has died and is rising to heaven. The track is a religious pop song offering deep gratitude for the divinity that can sometimes find its way into the Top 40. The rest of the album is an abomination.
I’d smuggled in a small cassette player and bootlegged the show. The resulting tape (now long lost) was rarely played. It sounded like a Chuck Berry cover band rehearsing in an aircraft hangar. Which I guess it was.
Stephen Andrew The road from Hurstbridge to St Andrews, summer, 2000 I pulled off the road and spun the wheel of my iPod. I dialled up Cornershop singing Brimful of Asha. Tenzin listened intently and then said, “Play that again, Dad.”
Stephen Andrew Yarra River, Warrandyte, 8 December 1980 Word comes from a car radio in the riverside car park. Calling out, surreal, to nobody, “John Lennon has been shot”.
Stephen Andrew Share house, West Geelong, 1983 Phil was divesting himself of all material possessions, man. Fortunately, I was on hand to help him cleanse himself of the most evil of these things, his LP records.
Stephen Andrew A bedroom, Melbourne. Late autumn, 1981 I fell endlessly in love with a girl who had sultry brown eyes and a firecracker laugh. I’d try to impress her with my nascent knowledge of feminist philosophy while trying not to stare at her breasts.
Stephen Andrew St Andrews, Victoria, March 2009 Windows open, I ramp up the volume and feel an intensity in the band’s playing that suddenly seems new to me. This opening of my senses is one of the unexpected gifts of the bushfires.
Stephen Andrew Somewhere along the Hume Highway, summer of 1982 I catch myself staring too long at the sunlight on her hair, or laughing too loud at one of her jokes, and feel the sharp pierce of an unbridgeable distance.
Stephen Andrew Central New South Wales, circa 1987 By the time the bus hit the Queensland border, I was a changed man, hearing things in a new way. It was a conversion of sorts, or perhaps, a mini musical epiphany. From that day on, country music made sense to me.
As James and I quietly reflect on the day’s pedalling, we are interrupted by the sound of something akin to a squealing, stuttering dentist’s drill a few thin tent walls away from us. Before you can say, ‘Hand me my hair gel’, Jon Bon Jovi and his Jersey boys are bellowing the song’s chorus, sixteen seconds in, no beg pardons.