So, the short story is that I’m in Sydney for a brief visit, caught off guard and out of focus, taking a photo of the Opera House.
The moment seems to have arrived where I’m ready to let my old—and possibly long-lost—friends know that I’ve christened the songs for my endless-in-the-making new album, Blue Shadows & Golden Light—And I guess this is a photo of Yours Truly amidst the Blue Shadows & Golden Light.
Meanwhile, I hope you have time because here’s the long story 👇
Journal — Fairy Floss & Broccoli
I've eaten enough broccoli to know that it bleeds. Have a look next time you cut, wash, and prepare your dinner. Yeah, I know, nobody likes broccoli, but I can't remember if I ever didn't like it. Back in 1985, when I discovered that I had Hepatitis C, I just knew that I had to eat food that gave both my liver and myself a chance to survive. Since then, I've grown to love it, and I’ve eaten a lot of Broccoli.
Like food, the music I'm drawn to can be hard for some to take. Sometimes, while walking in solitude, I hear the soundtrack of my youth playing in the corridors of my mind. Paul Weller of the Jam still screams, “This is the modern world”, and on other days, it's the Strangers, “Something better change”.
These days, I listen to softer sounds but sounds that still take you deeper than where popular music usually goes. I try to listen to popular pop music (as opposed to unpopular pop music). Although I remain respectfully and sincerely impressed by some of these artists' ability to uplift and transcend, the problem is I can't receive much before I need to go elsewhere.
I remember the feeling of going to Luna Park, which overlooked Sydney Harbour when I was growing up, and the ecstatic joy of the Wild Cat roller coaster, which took me to new heights of experience bolstered by the sugar-high hit of fairy floss. I also remember throwing up over the side of a Sydney ferry, not entirely understanding how I could fall from such a wonderful place so fast. I wonder why I still need to dig deep holes in the shadows and can't simply play with the other kids in the sunshine.
So, I've finally christened the songs for my new album, Blue Shadows & Golden Light. I've been quietly working away on it for some time—Some would call it a long time. Since the world had flipped on its head—both mine and the outside world at large—I decided to do what works for me, and if nobody ever hears it except for me, then I'd be happy to have done it with the knowledge it was as truthful and personally transcendent as I could make it.
I saw a documentary on SBS TV in Australia some years ago where Bono from U2 said, “I don't write songs. Songs write me.” Now, I'm pretty sure nobody here is drawing comparisons with U2 and Bono, but in my little private poet world, that simple encapsulation said precisely what I have known to be true since I was a 17-year-old kid with a punk rock guitar.
What is the strange and mystical force that grabs hold of you and demands you translate and articulate what it says to you? Like a pied piper leads the rats that plague the town to their deaths by drowning in the river. The muse embraces you with her deep and compelling love and proceeds to put you through a threshing machine if you resist her, and although it can sometimes be painful, it leaves you with a better version of yourself and maybe even a better idea of the world. It's like a carnival ride, House of Mirrors, that illuminates how your previous view of yourself was mistaken. Onwards, you go back out into the world, where the symbolic ride continues on and on, for better and worse.
Have you ever marvelled at how you are in a crisis one day, feeling like there is nowhere to turn, and the next day, you wake up, and somehow it's completely different, and you know what to do next? We call that “Sleeping on it” but don't think much about what it means. But think about it. One day, all was lost, and the next day, there was unburied treasure at your feet. It can be a bit of a dirty word, but I like saying it: Subconscious. Others call it the divine Mother Mary, but let's not get on that train just yet. When you’re a kid, it's all laid out for you in fairytales, and I'm still not talking about religion. My all-time favourite is Aladdin and his Magic Lamp. It turns out that the Genie is, in fact, or more precisely, in my opinion, the Subconscious. All you need to do is formulate your wish, which is figuring out how to articulate the question, the impetus behind the yet-to-be-resolved whatever-it-is. And, most importantly, to trust yourself. Or maybe I should clarify and say your higher self. Then, voila, you get to escape from the Sorcerer's dark cave.
Another time recently, when I was back in Sydney, checking in on my elderly Mum, I discovered I have a Ganglion Cyst, a strange-looking lump on my left inside wrist, probably caused by playing guitar. I went to have it scanned to see if I wasn't in the 58 per cent of cases that Google says resolve themselves.
The Ultrasound Technician was a sweet girl named Marianne. When she said her name, I immediately thought of Leonard Cohen’s “So Long, Marianne.”
The Technician Marianne was too young to know the song, so I explained in hushed, melodious tones that the chorus was: “So long, Marianne, it’s time we began, to laugh and cry and cry and laugh, about it all again.”
I could have kept things simple and called my new album Laugh and Cry, but the poet in me insists on deeper explanations and calling it Blue Shadows & Golden Light.
Naturally, there is nothing to see or hear yet. I'm just moving one step at a time here—but it is a step.
🎠
