At The Palais Theatre, most of the audience of 3000 would have known Your Bright Baby Blues. At The Railway Hotel, probably only two brothers.
“Is that all the man sings? ‘How does it feel?’” Hannah, five years old, is making a play-dough birthday cake. Jesse, nearly three, is drawing a map of the world. I’m podding peas.
For once, people in Los Angeles and London and New York might be sitting around listening to a song about where I lived, rather than my sitting around listening to songs about all the places that they live.
You can tell by the catch in Neil Finn's voice that it was a tough gig to play and sing this song for his former band mate.
Then, one day, I am sitting in an okonomiyaki restaurant as a rare treat, when Bridge Over Troubled Water comes on the radio. A song so familiar that I had ceased experiencing it as a piece of music a long time ago. If anything, I was slightly dismissive of it: the glossy production, its mawkish grandiosity.
I'm eating a cheap and nasty pizza – a fitting feed for a failed novelist. I’m watching The Panel. About three slices in they introduce a New Zealander called Bic Runga. I’m enraptured.
My heart hurts as we head towards Port Arthur. So much can depend on one moment; the café we walk into, the car that stops. And as we drive, I tell you about my moment.
Save for the weeds, not much grows in our front yard. The soil is rubbish, almost literally. “What’s the plan?” my neighbour says cheerily, as I'm weeding.
Iryna Byelyayeva ponders which Fleetwood Mac song will be the soundtrack, or the full stop, of a faltering relationship.
Can’t think of a song all festival that blew me away like Old White Men did. When I caught it at the tail end of Vance Gilbert's set I welled up like everyone else.