That night I hung out down the back of the venue because the molten mosh pit at the foot the stage was simply terrifying.
This is big sky music, languid yet powerful, like a wedge tail cruising on an updraft. The spirit of the sound echoes the spirit of the land.
While his voice is shot through with the after effects of treatment for neck and lung cancer, his vocals lend a rich, warm, knockabout tone to his new songs.
I know I’m uncomfortable but can’t feel it. Jokes. Laughter. Blood pressure tests.
My mate Tommy had a licence and a car; the only one in our gang with a birthdate old enough to drive.
Summer Love is a glorious example of perfect power pop. This is what a breaking ocean wave sounds like when represented musically.
We wouldn’t have called it shoplifting, but we also knew we had to be surreptitious when we set about manually adjusting Coles’ profit margin.
Greedy Smith was the biggest dag in a band full of dags. They looked like they didn’t take anything seriously, yet they made some ripper records.
Despite my stage fright, a dodgy monitor and a handful of fluffed lines, my little trio are sharp enough and together enough to sound OK.
We’re so open to it all it’s no wonder that Friday on My Mind made such an impression. Bowie's version especially.