It was one of the few gigs I have ever played where all the bands on the bill supported each other with real verve during each of the performances.
Our song then started to play over the speakers as Laura handed me a light blue notebook which she said was filled with her dreams and writings.
Night times were sunburnt agony. We both lay on the edge of the bed far away from each other hissing 'Don’t touch me'. Not what you want on your honeymoon.
Damian Balassone’s latest book is Chime. It collects the best song lyrics, ballads and narrative poems from two earlier volumes.
Mike Brady's guitar strums ripple through the MCG and reverberate through the living room.
Dja Dja Wurrung Country, Monday 18 September 2023 A new week has dawned outside this all-but-empty house in the country that I’ve come to call home. As Monday morn becomes more of a memory, I stay seated at my desk with a sick cavoodle on my lap and a view of [...]
We have been looking at other people’s houses. Not like the characters – a cleaner and her child – in Paul Kelly’s 1992 song. No, not like that at all.
Who were they – this Sparks? No internet back then/No instant information. You remained agog before Google.
Although mine was a record and dad’s was a tape, there was no mistaking a shift in the axis that staked our two worlds.
I knew that the only way to achieve full closure on this difficult chapter of my life was to go to London and retrace Rory’s own steps by walking his Lonely Mile. It would be a strange form of pilgrimage for me.