I sent you a goodbye message in the chat you’d set up because, unlike the song, we never really did talk on the telephone.
A new book charting thirty-plus years of Adelaide’s thriving music scene will be launched next month.
Years later I would come to see and hear what a talent Broderick Smith was, mixing various music styles into his sound, always with some nice blues influenced harmonica licks thrown in.
When my age reached a suffix of teen, I worked after school. Had disposable income. Or rather, had income, and disposed of it. Spent it on records, then cassettes and a Walkman.
Surely Robert Forster wasn’t a surfer, you initially think. He’s having a lend of us. But he isn’t. Or is he?
You don’t have to agree on everything, you don’t have to like the same bands, or like the same bands as much, but there is a bond, a thread.
My muso son Dan texted me. He said that a friend of a friend of a friend is a daughter of a TISM band member.
We are two writers and performers of verse born in regional Victoria back in ’83, two people who are now pushing 40, who are now moving even further from youth radio station Triple J’s target demographic.
A few seconds pass. His gaze goes behind the counter. To a small ornate wooden frame. And an image inside. “Is that Mary?” “No. It’s Jesus. It’s a da Vinci. From a museum in Amsterdam.”
The waitress began to fuss over our beautiful dog before telling us us her husband, Mark, played banjo on a song called Bob The Kelpie.