There were only so many times you could listen to Hurricane, Just Like a Woman, Lay Lady Lay and lots of other songs before the tape ended, was turned over and you get it all again. This went on for about three days.
Down came all the posters in my bedroom. Out went my CD collection. All traces of my previous life gone in one fell swoop.
Knowing my father’s especially strong dislike for Rod Stewart, I quickly scrolled past, until my father spoke.
When the plodding piano intro of Don’t Look Back In Anger came through the speakers Oasis’ extraordinary had transformed our ordinary and the truck no longer drove but soared on the melody.
Message Of Love was my sister as she drove free, in a car that was ridiculously expensive and unmanageable to maintain but a promise to herself that she wasn't willing to give up.
I realised the work that had gone into placing the songs in this order, and that listening on an electronic device with shuffle on, does not allow the connection between the songs.
We’re so open to it all it’s no wonder that Friday on My Mind made such an impression. Bowie's version especially.
The best thing about Glenda’s enthusiasm, though, was that it triggered my interest in Slade.
A quarter of a century later, I hear this song again, rising spontaneously through the eucalypts.
Zoë Krukpa Cleaning my bedroom window, Canberra, 1982 My ear was burning in the sun, and my nose, which I had just recently pierced with the aid of a needle sterilized with a match and a handy bit of raw potato, was throbbing softly. The window rag smelled of this new stuff, eucalyptus oil, which I wanted to drown the world in I loved it so much, and my music box was precariously perched on a stool.