There’s nothing the policewoman can do. My witness is the cloudless sky, and I know he’ll lie about it.
From Strauss to the Stones, I jammed my classroom with music, matching songs and symphonies to subjects, activities, and transitions.
We will be performing four shows this year; three at writers’ festivals, and one under own umbrella, so to speak.
Dad stands at the bowser. I sit in the passenger seat. The thrum of petrol is like a bassline.
The sweet, pure voice of Connie Francis singing Italian Lullaby hurtled me back to an encounter in a café that spoke to me tenderly of parenthood.
Michael Leach recalls a Superjesus/Baby Animals gig.
Cars may come and go but some you never forget.
It was a time of riding on a barrel of a song and being saved by a fisherman called Friedrich Nietzsche and his novel Thus Spoke Zarathustra.
As the sun set, a man took a seat at a truncated keyboard. A 60-key piano that barely fitted in the space, jammed between the door and a window. With minimal fanfare he played for the few of us there.
It was just after 9 a.m., a week out from Christmas. My best friend and I were on our weekly record hunt.