Russians by Sting
Nathan Johnson South-Eastern Australia, 1985Sometimes we travel far away and I feel like we’ve reached the end of the world. Wagga Wagga, Yass, Goulburn. I trace our route excitedly with a highlighter on my fold-out map of Australia.
SAILING TO PHILADELPHIA by MARK KNOPFLER. Essay by Ann Banham.
I am intrigued with the lyrics sung by the distinctive gravelly vocals of Knopfler. Who is this Jeremiah Dixon?
SAME ROOM. Song and story by Stephen Andrew.
It was only when I listened back to my song that I realised what it was about.
SAN FRANCISCO DAYS by CHRIS ISAAK. Story by Virginia Muzik
Later, it’s six of us at a workmate’s one-room apartment, watching videos, drinking, talking. He and I sit on the bed, a purring cat between us. Kitty’s tail flicks against my thighs as he strokes one end, I stroke the other, our hands sometimes touching: poor kitty a conduit for the swollen energy between us.
Sanu Ik Pal Chen Na Ave (I cannot find a moment’s peace) by Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan
Azlan Jahan, post 1947-48 Kashmiri War Fiction by Zainab NasimThe gramophone resounds in the galleries of the haveli, stirring it awake. As the needle twirled around delicately on the vinyl, he closed his eyes softly settling comfortably into his rocking chair with his stack of letters and a lit cigar.“It is not like I am not proud to be a martyr’s father, Bittoo ," he said to his grandson.
SATURDAY NIGHT by COLD CHISEL Story by David Oke
Chisel got in the groove and just after the ninth repetition of ‘Saturday Night’ I yelled out the famous line: “Well if you don’t like it what are you doing standing there for twenty minutes for?” You should have seen the stares I got.