The Neil Young collection of Stereo Stories is quite small – just seven pieces so far – but each sings its own tune, so to speak. And two of the contributions are from two of Australia’s finest writers.
I worried the distance would be a death sentence as I found myself alone in my best friend’s mostly empty new living room, 1681 miles from any possibility of weeknight concerts, impromptu G&Ts and sushi, Galentine’s Day, movie marathons, holiday gatherings, city adventures, beach birthdays, and drop-everything post-tragedy afternoons of comfort TV.
The celebrant spoke, but I didn’t hear a word. I fell into a trance, absorbing every once-in-a-lifetime second.
A piano is broken. Burnt, seemingly. A harp is stranded, unplayable. Chairs in a once lavish dining room are rotting.
He is the magpie, the bowerbird, the blue jay. Bob Dylan collects words. He rephrases his music again and again.
I was pleasantly surprised that the family recognised the importance of Countdown, setting up a tray in the loungeroom so I could totally absorb what everyone would be talking about in the next few days.
As the band was setting up, Johnny’s manager arrived and, handing out sheet music and a running list, said there would be no rehearsals or sound check.
We crossed the border this morning. Six hundred miles. Sorry. Six hundred stories. No-one there to check our licence, registration.
Three short, playful poems. Marriage, Elvis, Lennon and McCartney.
Bendigo, May 2021 I fidget in my seat here in the middle of the second row of an intimate theatre in my birthplace of Bendigo. I am here to see a local theatre company stage ten ten-minute plays, including one I wrote. I am here with my immediate family, including my [...]