Craig Kirchner reflects on romance, elopement, honeymoon and when life goes awry.
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.
Michael Leach joins the dots between Elvis, Memphis, Marc Cohn and Florence Welch. And teacups.
The Heartbreak Hotel was a real gem, with kitschy Elvis memorabilia, framed photographs of all sizes and a pink plush telephone so fluffy I expected it to purr.
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.
"Her playing underpins the feeling of every song she plays on. How did we exist so many years without her beautiful cello playing?”
The blue star light went to my room, the Pokémon poster and books went to my sister, and the guitar went to a corner in the living room, where everyone fights the urge to strum it when they walk past. What are we if not pieces of our older sibling, broken off and handed to us as they grow?
Craig Kirchner takes us to the drug store corner of his teenage years in Baltimore.
Here's a preview of one of the songs we'll be performing at Tempo Rubato in Brunswick on Saturday 30 November.
Returning to Melbourne always felt like a slow deflation, but I had Paddy and our photos and stories and reminiscences to keep me going through the school term. I longed for open skies and mountains, physical work and companionship, stars and weather and cold.