…the crash site, barrel-rolled down the hill at 100 Ks an hour, a miracle we both walked away over a year ago now, sorry for the van, I hate Grafton now…
Over fifteen years, brick by determined brick, we built a life out of thin air and intentions. When I first met you, my mother could not tell her friends her eldest daughter was a lesbian. Talking to her friends, she would shorten my girlfriends’ names to androgynous mysteries. Jo. Nic. Lou.
I’m standing at the end of a long queue talking to a complete stranger. We both agree we never do this sort of thing. Myself, I’ve generally abided that warning about meeting your heroes.
If this music was represented in colour, the canopies of the African jungle would be peeled back, revealing the beauty of the sweaty noise.
Head to the Flem-Ken Bowls Club this Thursday night for an evening of Midnight Oil memories.
You mention Stevie. ‘Did you know,’ you begin, ‘that Stevie was addicted to Klonopin?’ How random this statement is. How randomly cool. How swiftly the ice melts.
In this age where there’s supposedly no such thing as bad publicity, where every mundane detail of life can serve as grist to the celebrity mill, the rarest commodity of all is a genuine sense of mystery. Because he was dead long before he was famous, Robert Johnson will never lose his mystery.
We’re on a bare mattress on the floor. The living room is strewn with sleeping bodies, toppled bottles, and sauce-smeared paper plates. I can’t look at him. I can hardly move or breathe. I’m still, concentrating on the TV.
The immediacy of streaming could never quite replace the satisfaction of buying, owning, and holding music in my hands. And the streaming service’s omnipresent “Daily Mix” – chosen especially for me! – was not so much spookily playful as downright nefarious, with the accompanying emails bordering on harassment.
Celebrate the Oils at a spoken-word event at the Flem-Ken Bowls Club on Thursday evening 2 November, just a few days before the Oils hit Hanging Rock and then Melbourne town.