The band members are shimmering like an aurora on the stage. Daryl’s spunky in white satin. Garth’s hot on the keyboards. I love them both.
The lilac beaches, the rough promenade,/have frozen over in the night.
I’ll blame the sweet caress of the violins.
Celebrate 10 years of music and memoir at Willy Lit Fest on Friday 14 June.
“Well, Mr Jukebox,” the elderly man said. “How about I offer you a request?”
Hugh Jones, a decade-long supporter of and contributor to Stereo Stories, launches his book about two Tasmanian friends and World War I, in Hobart next Wednesday evening 15 May.
But now I was almost nine years at the plant, and that novel was in a box in the closet, kept company by two others I’d gone on to write. The plant had become quicksand.
But I remember watching Sinéad on stage. I remember trying to absorb some of her strength, to physically inhale it across the crowd. That’s how you construct identity, surely?
...we laugh in fear’s face and sing words first sung by TLC...
Why had nobody told me the descent from the mountain would be so much harder and more painful than the ascent? And when was this ear-worm going to disappear?