Sometimes we’d awake to the low rumble of Joe’s mongolian throat singing, undulating its way through the misty campsite like some sinister incantation. He’d sit in the jungle hut stormy faced – brooding for hours over a long succession of lethal one skinners.
As the day went on though, he’d gradually come to life – jovial and full of mischief. Then something would set him off and the madness would begin.
They’d come out of the woodwork then – with guitars, drums and digeridoos. Jew’s harps, fiddles and harmonicas. Casks of wine and bags of hydrophonic weed. Soon, he’d be capering around like a demented ringmaster – whipping the freaks into a frenzy.
It wouldn’t take much. One afternoon an errant crisp packet appeared in our midst – ‘YOU can win fifty thousand dollars,’ it proclaimed.. With a breathless whisper he held the sacred bag aloft – ‘Fifty thousand dollars’…
The refrain gathered momentum as we kicked in hard – big chords ringing off the rafters as we battered our instruments. Djembes pounding, fiddles squealing, the primordial growl of the didge reverberating up through the Earth.
Above everything, Joe’s madcap wail – ‘Fifty THOUSAND dollars!’ We howled along happily as he conducted us toward an ecstatic crescendo, bursting with joy at the sheer ridiculousness of it all.
Artwork – Aimée McLernon
I was dandering happily through The Holylands one hazy dawn, when some fools started hurling slurs from their top floor window. They were crass and clichéd.
Somewhat marmalised, and feeling magnamimous, I embarked upon a lecture – admonishing them for lowering the tone of a neighbourhood once the closest thing to Belfast bohemia.
This soon culminated in them exploding out their front door, intent on knocking my ballix in.
As the first flailing fist floated past my face, it occurred to me defensive measures were called for. We swung simultaneously.. An unmistakable ‘crack’ rang through the night as our fists collided.
While recording electric guitar for one of these songs, I had to mic my amp in the other room so I wouldn’t pick up the sound of my cast rattling. This led me to doubt the wisdom of the whole enterprise. Django went on to great things after melting his hand, but he was a genius.
Then I cast my mind back to Byron Bay and a musical friend who’d had the misfortune to be molested by the wildlife – twice in one week.
Simon had been at a bush doof out near Nimbin when a snake had taken a crack at his leg while he was having a wee. No doubt vexed by seismic vibrations out of the sound system, the poor creature had drawn the line at his habitat being used as a latrine.
It seems Simon had been so shroomed he’d had a word with the cosmos, shrugged and danced back into the dreamtime.
The next day, he’d found the punctures and been thankful his assailant hadn’t been of the venomous persuasion.
His next encounter with the local fauna would prove less fortunate.
A queasy awakening on the first day of the year is hardly unusual for the musically inclined, but when Simon’s fretting hand began to blacken like an accursed buccaneer’s, it was clear there was something more sinister than a hangover afoot.
In hospital they told him he’d been bitten by a RedBack spider.
An amorous Fiona kept Simon’s spirits up during his convalescence – climbing in the window to bestow noctural comforts. When he was finally discharged, however, his hand was still banjaxed, with recovery uncertain.
I’d have been inconsolable. Simon seemed unshakable. He knew he’d always make music no matter what.
I found fortitude and cranked my amp.
The third finger on my right had has a tendency to do its own thing these days. I’ll never play flamenco. I’m pretty swift with a pick though. And I’ve enough analogue delay machines to send The Holylands into orbit.
Artwork – Glen Fabry
A crowd of us were busking on the corner in town, banging out Break on Through (To The Other Side) and it felt like we actually might. The street was going off and we were inundated with dancers, chancers and loons. Maniac tourists tearing off their clothes and leaping around the place.
Eben’s guitar case was overflowing with change, bills and buds as the good people of Byron showed their appreciation.
Suddenly, someone careened into the case and its precious cargo scattered across the pavement. In a flash Matty was down on his knees scooping it back in.
Then some fruit loop launched himself from the bench in a naked stage dive. For a moment he crowd surfed.. Then he came atumbling..
I’ll never forget Matty’s horrified look as he raised his eyes to the sight of an arse hurtling straight for his face. Only swift evasive action saved him from a terrible fate.