These songs sit at the end of fifty years of writing. Eleven Albums and Thirteen EP’s later I’ve worn a heavy track through what began around 1975 and continues to this day. For anyone who thinks it’s a lot, it’s not really; it’s the equivalent of an album every five years with some smaller releases interspersed in between. I’m just putting these here to mark the closure of a particular body of work and the beginning of another. I’m happy with what I’ve written and I like what I’ve done, and what’s being left behind.
Whilst I dislike notoriety and I value my anonymity I have to face the possibility of it one day coming to an end because it’s near impossible to stem the flow of songs so I continue writing, making art, photographing the world, cooking and teaching.
‘The Arc of The Sky’ is worth an explanation. It’s a reflection on childhood and a reflection on the latter years of life. I grew up in and spent a lot of time on properties in outback NSW. In the heat of summer my mother had a habit of wearing a cotton one piece swimsuit under her dress. Often when we were travelling to Louth, Goodooga or Brewarrina from places like Weilmoringle, and because back in the early ’60’s there was no air conditioning in cars, if at any time a river looked to be close by she’d stop the car, slip off her dress and dive in for a swim. Often in the interim she’d get me to read the map and work out if we had enough petrol to get to where we were going and if not work out where the nearest property was where we could pull in and see if the owners would sell us some fuel.
Out west back in the ’60’s most townsfolk and out of town’rs had credit or ran tabs with service stations and shops. The locals could tell if you were travellers because for the most part you’d be the only ones to pay for goods / services.
If you were travelling from Coonabarabran to Wallget you’d have to go through the Pilliga via a place called Come by Chance. One service station / general store, one pub. It was black clay country and if you made it it was often a matter of sheer good luck. “Pump it in a the bowser in the heat of the day……” tells that story.
“Slide the record back in the sleeve, pack up your guitar it’s time to leave, maybe next time you’ll have a mind to stay, she say’s don’t worry and walks to church to pray.” it’s when you know that the exit door is close by.
Art + Photography + AI 