Il y a quelques routards irlandais qui vivent dans la même auberge que moi. Nous parlons. L'un d'eux mentionne que Joe Jackson joue à Rome ce soir-là. Il avait vu une affiche dans une laverie à proximité.
The keyboard sonatas of Domenico Scarlatti (1685–1757), and a poem I wrote about them, have a close connection to my favourite rental place, an historic mansion in Newtown, Geelong.
You see Clarence wore an old “Lou” reed like a bamboo cravat and a fine felt suit of ebony the colour of half the keys on a honkytonk piano named Hank
I had always imagined myself with tattoos. I saw myself covered in blackwork ink, beautiful artwork, and lyrics that meant something – but I was scared about getting one. With your first tattoo, you don't know what to expect. Is it painful? What if it gets infected? What if it turns out terribly?
The girls signed up for hula lessons, learning the sacred moves of the kanaka. Moves of a gentle, spiritual sway where the hands told the story, sweeping and waving to talk story with each movement signifying a deeper resonance with the past and the people.
The bedroom wall had hundreds of small articles about music, cut out from newspapers. Album reviews. Profiles. Gig reviews.
There was one song that stood out. Hometown: a beautiful melody with evocative lyrics, concluding with a delightful guitar lick by Vinnie Zummo.
I peer into the rear-view mirror/ at my sister’s baby face/The tears brimming
Get to know your neighbours, I thought, stepping back. ‘Grab a chair,’ I said before remembering I didn’t have any yet.
This is Dylan and Hank at their finest; Old Testament moral code made poetic by the phrase, stones in my mouth.