Paul Dufficy has just published his memoir, Fingers Crossed, Stories from The Road to Becoming.
I had no idea what the scene would involve, but I was chosen to be part of the Military Police who would guard the young women from marauding GIs.
I realised that oratory is a wonderful thing but passionless rhetoric is both hollow and soulless. My debating career was over.
Baldy wished Steve a happy birthday and opened the door of Steve's birthday present, the Chrysler Valiant Baldy had just stolen.
The theatre manager probably retired to the screening room and poured herself a stiff drink or two.
I was in my new outfit and if truth be told I looked a bit like Thurston Howell III from Gilligan’s Island. I think most of the girls there thought so too.
I write down everything I know: albums, early bands, band members, famous gigs, instruments played and anything else I could remember. You couldn’t record with a Walkman but I had kept my small cassette player/recorder and now made sure I had new batteries and a clean C90 cassette.
Although he was from Sydney he wasn’t from my part of town. He was wealthy, connected, lived in a suburb where people had tennis courts, and he wore fashionable corduroy, high-waisted flares.
As we made our way north through Rajasthan to Delhi the song was everywhere. There was no escape. Sometimes I would shudder to consciousness late at night, sweat drenched and hysterical, as Disco Deewane played endlessly in my head.
Steve and I are driving from Kempsey to Crescent Head in 1972 at about 9pm and the local DJ at 2KM puts on the Hollies’ Long Cool Woman (in a black dress) and apparently goes outside for a smoke as the vinyl single hits a snag and repeats and repeats … and right in front of me the Disciples of Soul …