I sat before the drum kit and just marveled, before playing along to my Blondie 7-inch single Denis as loud as my record player could go.
I blink - and the Badloves disappear. Instead, on the stage, I see a ghost. Not Elvis, no. But a King nonetheless. Heath King.
The guest-house proprietors were an odd, mismatched couple, in their fifties, I’d guess – he, short, understated, a little creepy; she, a tall matronly type, usually sporting a well-practised smile.
Baldy wished Steve a happy birthday and opened the door of Steve's birthday present, the Chrysler Valiant Baldy had just stolen.
I take off and pedal cross the road. The waa-waa synth-like drop begins, and the drums kick in as I, too, drop onto the Merri Creek path, a petite valley sectioning the northern suburbs of Melbourne.
I watch the funeral on my own, in bed, after recording it. I don’t want to watch it in real time with others around me, the people who don’t understand, who tell me I'm being silly.
Here's a fine piece by Matt Zurbo that covers a lot of ground: work, ambition, festival sabotage, a funeral...
I realised the lounge room had become quiet, like a courtroom waiting for a verdict. As the questions continued the crowd in the room began to swell.
The song, like him, is drenched in space. The unhurried chords set the scene perfectly. Space.
I’d never seen the Eagles play at the G and my pulse was racing.