I’d heard that he might be up this way. Somewhere. ‘Heard that after the band had fallen apart he had headed north. But how far north?
Of the 560 stories on this website we've got nearly 30 stories that we've listed under 'Humour', kicking off with this year's jazz poems from Bill Arnott and then delving deep into our back catalogue.
Hannah Hunt opens in a seascape. A gentle, pretty song, it initially glides in that ethereal space between sleeping and waking. There’s a quietness, an almost meditative quality to the music that maybe mirrors our narrator’s quest for peace.
As the music plays a green tree viper appears outside my window. It’s slithering through the branches just a few metres away.
Mike Rudd wanted to turn music on its head; like an abstract artist he wanted to create a new tonal reality, a blueprint for Melbourne’s live music scene to follow.
From tips on microphone technique to recommendations about public liability to letters in support of grant applications, the NFFC has been a great ally.
A short poem about COVID, porridge and a Fiona Apple song.
I can’t stop gazing at the album cover. There’s Suzi in black and white, in the middle: tight jeans and leather jacket, hands on her hips, body facing sideways but her face turned front, eyes staring straight at the camera.
Every morning I ride a few minutes to my school crossing and park my bicycle under my Detectorists tree.
A hand touches mine. Her eyes are red but she is smiling: “Put on the song. I want to listen.” The song replaces her mother. It gives shelter, hope and protection.