We’d run out of petrol returning from Mildura. Mobile phones were an invention of the future. We couldn’t even see a house light in the distance, let alone a public phone.
We never rehearsed, or even discussed what we would play; we just dove into the river of music and let it carry us along. Ross' playing was so in the moment, and each time we performed it felt like it was for the first time.
While I loved music and sat in class day-dreaming that the girl sitting in front of me in class was the girl Marc Bolan swooned over in Hot Love, I hated school, a situation reflected in my term reports.
Clawing for the echoes of what was; an ode to imperfect romance...a short film by Jesse Maskell
…the crash site, barrel-rolled down the hill at 100 Ks an hour, a miracle we both walked away over a year ago now, sorry for the van, I hate Grafton now…
Over fifteen years, brick by determined brick, we built a life out of thin air and intentions. When I first met you, my mother could not tell her friends her eldest daughter was a lesbian. Talking to her friends, she would shorten my girlfriends’ names to androgynous mysteries. Jo. Nic. Lou.
I’m standing at the end of a long queue talking to a complete stranger. We both agree we never do this sort of thing. Myself, I’ve generally abided that warning about meeting your heroes.
If this music was represented in colour, the canopies of the African jungle would be peeled back, revealing the beauty of the sweaty noise.
You mention Stevie. ‘Did you know,’ you begin, ‘that Stevie was addicted to Klonopin?’ How random this statement is. How randomly cool. How swiftly the ice melts.
In this age where there’s supposedly no such thing as bad publicity, where every mundane detail of life can serve as grist to the celebrity mill, the rarest commodity of all is a genuine sense of mystery. Because he was dead long before he was famous, Robert Johnson will never lose his mystery.