There are many ways to meet a song for the first time. I didn’t meet Angelina until I read a novel called The Best Of Adam Sharp, by Graeme Simsion.
One singer is 77 years old. Greying curly hair. One singer is in his early 20s. Flowing ginger locks. Both are sitting at a keyboard, backed by a four piece band.
“Is that all the man sings? ‘How does it feel?’” Hannah, five years old, is making a play-dough birthday cake. Jesse, nearly three, is drawing a map of the world. I’m podding peas.
Sometimes it’s only when you see a girl for the second or third time that you realise how beautiful she is. A song is a bit like that.
All I could think of , as she stood just a metre or two away, unflustered by betting deadlines, was her voice, her laugh, her brown eyes, her cascading hair, her full figure. And the inexperience of my heart (plus anoher vital organ).
I had better things to do than to listen to another song identified by my music-obsessed brother as worthy of listening to. Yet, I was polite, I was always polite. You see, I’d been through this process before.
Vin Maskell Melbourne, Midnight, November 29, 1982 On a piece of foolscap paper, at my desk in my single-bed bedroom or maybe at the small table in the little kitchen at the end of the long hallway, I wrote a little poem. Nothing special.
Vin Maskell Pix Theatre, Geelong West, early 1970s What is a 14 year old boy to make of Just Like A Woman? What does he know of fog, amphetamines and pearls? What does he know of standing inside the rain, of dying there of thirst, of a long-time curse?
Stephen Andrew Share house, West Geelong, 1983 Phil was divesting himself of all material possessions, man. Fortunately, I was on hand to help him cleanse himself of the most evil of these things, his LP records.
Brian Nankervis Driving To North Balwyn, July 2002 I'm staring at strangers, wondering if their dads are alive. How often do they see them? Do they find their dads wise, embarrassing, or supportive? Reverie and envy turn to alarm when I realise the horn from the white ute behind is directed at me.