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.
Holidays. Family drives. Family songs. Even singalongs. For Darren 'Smokie' Dawson and family one Paul Kelly song rises above them all.
After calling out to the members of the audience who had ever experienced mental turmoil, or just emotional struggles as a whole, the rollicking beauty of steady electric guitar along with the angelic high pitched crooning of Sultana, the flash light on thousands of phones swayed in time to a truly memorable cacophony of sound.
What does the Paul Kelly song How To Make Gravy mean to you? Cassandra Atkinson thought she knew its meaning, until her parents split up. That's when she saw the song in a different light.
In that dark small house for two single souls I found that I was in love. It had taken three years of house-sharing for the obvious to dawn on me.
While I loved music and sat in class day-dreaming that the girl sitting in front of me in class was the girl Marc Bolan swooned over in Hot Love, I hated school, a situation reflected in my term reports.