'Voice' is not a song. It's a book. A slim volume. Just 90 small pages. But a weighty tome.
Mike Rudd wanted to turn music on its head; like an abstract artist he wanted to create a new tonal reality, a blueprint for Melbourne’s live music scene to follow.
It was only as the band members sloped off that they looked a little senior for all this excitement, ready for bed and a Horlicks. The mood in the audience was not just ecstatic but validated.
The keyboard sonatas of Domenico Scarlatti (1685–1757), and a poem I wrote about them, have a close connection to my favourite rental place, an historic mansion in Newtown, Geelong.
The great writer would have been impressed. He was the subject of all discussion, around which everything circled.
Kerouac’s bebop fills my body. His mellifluous slurring cha-cha-cha’s itself into a new instrument, floating notes like his beloved Charlie Parker saxophone...
The vines twisted around the pergola/in my grandmother’s backyard/were gnarled and old
The love of any form of art is always a subjective thing. What is cool is an art form that can take you to a new level of appreciation of another art form.
It’s a song about the frisson of sexual and romantic connection and what’s so piquant and poignant about it is that the film is about dashed opportunities for such possibilities.
With the murmurings of chatter from other tables around us, our own conversation flowed smoothly, a stream without pebbles to impede the course.