How NOT to write about music – 70. Robert Forster


I know I have shared this once already, but it makes me so happy.

This is how I remember Brisbane. This is how I remember The Gap. Such beauty, such greenery, trees crowding round your massive lawns. Sheltering from the summer heat, dreaming of the spring rain, dreaming of ice, cowering from the morning’s heat. Sleeping naked in bed but still tossing and turning unable to rest. Not wilderness as such but next to any suburban town you care name in Southern England, total wilderness. The jungle is coming right up to your door. Thunder and lightning electrical storms that you watch from your decks for hour upon hour, stopping only for another tinny. So beautiful, so gorgeous outside – go on holiday for four weeks and you end up staying for seven years with an irretrievably broken-down marriage and three gorgeous kids as your heritage. Dreaming of under-show house gigs, illicit parties, wide empty turning roads that buses bomb down with no thought for their passengers they just want to be in out of the heat. On every hillside more greenery, more trees. Snakes squirming across roads and rearing up in your back garden. Massive trampolines made invisible by mega gardens. The kids getting up before you on a Sunday morning just so they can hurl paper planes off the deck and then chase down the roadside hill after them. Mowing endlessly. The grass is always a disgrace. Let me out. Let me back. Let me out. Let me back in. Please.

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