Their own webpage describes them as a cross between Diamanda Galás and The Birthday Party. I tell a friend they are like Bikini Kill mixed with Joy Division. We’re both correct.
Photo by Eric Algra. Geelong Library 2016. Rijn Collins was part of our very first show, at the Williamstown Literary Festival in 2014. But she wasn't there. Laryngitis. A croaky, very croaky, voice rang to apologise. The band, and a fill-in narrator, performed her very dry, very funny travel story about Jackson by [...]
I’ve been so immersed in music before that I’ve forgotten where the knife ends and my body begins. Sometimes I wear scars of songs that move me; a nick on my finger, a burn on my wrist.
I hung out at punk squats with pet rats and drum kits. The black lipstick wasn’t a success, but then, is it ever?
If you can mark your steps in the grooves of your favourite records – and we can, of course – then there will always be those songs that guide you in your leaps of faith until you land, safe and sure footed, on the other side.
With a scowl that could scorch the tops of crème brûlée, I would stalk through the bar to the alleyway to glower outside until the song ended. Even the rotting potato peels and pools of stale beer were preferable to hearing it again.
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.
In 2014 I applied for a one-month writing residency in Ólafsfjörður, a remote Icelandic fishing village near the Arctic Circle. To my shock, I was accepted within the week.
I think of my past snakes, all those blue eyes and banjos over the years, the late night knocks and needs that kept my heart shielded and my eyes always on the door.
Rijn Collins Melbourne, 2016 I know little about Cohen, but I’m learning about you. You tell me a story as we drive, and I turn towards you, my hands out to catch the falling words.