He is a Kylie tragic, and the CD that’s playing in the car is a compilation.
It’s a raucous, shambolic, ranting wreck of a song, which ends with a well-oiled Leonard chanting.
Dr G listens as Bruce purrs the first track of Western Stars, the album that came out just a few weeks ago. “This would be perfect for someone learning English!”
I don’t buy the album after the gig at the merch desk because I’m still holding onto the memory of hearing Chasing Van, of savouring it, of treasuring it. I don’t want to make a commercial transaction. Yet.
Carpenter became a recluse: first painting houses, then studying to become a Buddhist monk. He drifted between cities during those lost years, buffeted by unknown storms.
As fitting as it was to imagine Mrs Hart perched atop a fleecy cloud, my sympathies were firmly with her howling, motherless child.
After that moment where life seemed beautiful, my father had a visit from the sherriff’s department and ended up serving a year in county for elder abuse (though forgery and theft charges were dropped in the plea deal).
It was the lyric and the lilt that hooked me in. The metaphor about the airstrip, the plane and hope. And I’d never heard a song that referred to Casablanca, the movie.
Mainly I wrote songs for their own sake - most were never performed in front of an audience.
Tt was an enjoyment I kept to myself because sometimes that’s just the way it is. I did wonder if I was the only person in Melbourne, in Australia, listening to Steve Forbert. A one-man fan club. A secret society. A lone, solo follower.