In the lee of an old wooden dock with barnacled pilings, fishing boats bobbed at anchor.
That’s it. That’s the bit in the song. The gulp catches my breath. Staring out the windscreen and emotion spills from me and fogs the glass.
The Fender Stratocaster guitar sat propped up vertical on a barstool at waist height, like a ventriloquist’s dummy, the strings facing the audience.
There’s nothing the policewoman can do. My witness is the cloudless sky, and I know he’ll lie about it.
From Strauss to the Stones, I jammed my classroom with music, matching songs and symphonies to subjects, activities, and transitions.
We will be performing four shows this year; three at writers’ festivals, and one under own umbrella, so to speak.
Dad stands at the bowser. I sit in the passenger seat. The thrum of petrol is like a bassline.
The sweet, pure voice of Connie Francis singing Italian Lullaby hurtled me back to an encounter in a café that spoke to me tenderly of parenthood.
Michael Leach recalls a Superjesus/Baby Animals gig.
Cars may come and go but some you never forget.