The lyrics of Rattlin’ Bones were apocalyptic and disorienting but somehow strangely comforting after our deeply personal experiences of the Black Saturday fires.
We mourn the dead, but if they touched us in some way they never really die.
James Reyne was unable to mask his concern, yelling into the microphone: “We are not coming back on until you have all stopped fighting!” And with that, the band hurriedly disappeared from the stage.
The opening bars of Tucker’s Daughter will forever be associated with the interminable wait during school dancing lessons of holding the clammy hands of a socially inept male counterpart.
Past the age of 30 everyone has collected at least one shameful secret. From international war crimes to embarrassing crushes, we all have things we’d rather keep hidden. But hiding can be tiresome.
When we tire of climbing and jumping, we let the current drift us back to our towels and trannies, still keeping an eye out for snakes swimming in the river; supposedly they can’t strike in water, but we don’t want to test the theory.
In a car with my first lover/our relationship fraught, almost over./Song on the radio.
I defy anyone to label the following two truisms my subjective opinions: 1. John Farnham is deeply cheesy. 2. John Farnham has a beautiful voice.
It’s as if Don Walker is merging two mythologies – the Australian desert and the Bible, concluding with a verse that shifts to Christ’s resurrection.
It was a big deal in my heart when my brother responded enthusiastically to my studiously low key suggestion that he and I form a scratch band to play at the St Andrews Festival in 2007.