The Time Being | Steve Kilbey

i have to laugh again
at the things bandied around on these pages
the things i write n do
and some of my dear precious commenters stuff
i love to make music
i love to write songs
why songs fly into my mind almost unbidden
music is like in my blood in my genes in my jeans in my fingers
life has shaped me thus
no carpenter
no doctor
no candlestick maker
was i
or can i ever be
i must create
even if no one listens
i did before
i will again
so be it!
i have stood before you all
in all honesty
my blog has turned into a circus
where i try to tame myself
and i let the clowns n villains run free
being partially both of these things myself
yes i am a clown
a clown …did he make you scared
these songs i throw down on here…..
small gifts for you
simple things a master tosses off
(mr humphries!)
easy happy songs
short and sweet
no great shakes
except
oooh i know theyre good
theyre catchy and jesus
now marc bolans gone
who else is gonna write these songs
take em or fuckin’ leave em
theyre there for free
if you like em a real lot you can show your ‘preciation
…thats getting paid for what i do…thats not begging by the way
when you donate money
you subscribe to this journal n my life
and you all subsidize the long hours i put into it
the songs n vids took hours n hours n hours
i’m just exploring i-movie n garage band
and i offer you a chance to view my modest experiments
ive done big budget
ive done small budget
ive done the opening of the games
to being ignored in some empty dive in wollongong
ive given you mystery
ive given you glamour
ive given you all that noir stuff in spades
now at the ripe old age of 55 years
i sit at home n tinker with stuff
the church are beginning up soon
i have some respite now
i spend time with my little familiar s k
shes in on stuff i do
asking questions
she becomes part of the scene
imagine this
i am an old geezer
relaxing at home …a well earned rest
but i burn up with ideas
and i paint n compose n i write stuff n i make up jokes
and i love the new technology that allows me instant gratification
i hate explaining my creative plans to people
this way i just knock it out direct from the source
i am 55
beyond your map of cool n uncool
i wear my shorts cos i live at the beach
i am an eccentric 55 year old beachcomber
who happens to also be a good songwriter
n pretty good at a few other things
ive done my time in the frontline wherever that was
now if you dig what i do
i have many outlets
ranging from the church which aims at being professional i guess
down to my blog
which is my sketchbook if you will
if you want mystery here it is
aint it a mystery to you how i can continue to do it all..?
well
i got this fuckin’ fire burning on n urging me to keep going
you might see me in a tux singing dark cabaret
you might see me wielding my bass with my band
you might see me poncing about on my little vids…is he having a laugh?
is he having a laugh?
and now i’m so old
i’m five years off sixty
i’m old
I’M OLD!
dont you see….
the compensation of being old is
i reckon
i can do what i like
i just got five barrel loads of kudos for u#23
i had an exhibition in pittsburgh n i sold six paintings
i collaborated with him n him n them
and i did this n that
wineries
festivals
guest singing
blah blah blah
it is hilarious to me
to see people pontificating
if i should get a real job
a real job
worrying themselves on my behalf
and my financial stability (none!)
but i’m still here
and i aint retiring cos some small bunch of unnamed punters
rudely and stupidly start discussing this idea
no…i aint gonna stop
no…i aint gonna listen
no…..i am complete n completely mad
and i lay my songs on my fans out of love
as always
these songs can only be written by someone in love with music like me
understanding my terrain
i successfully negotiate minefields of resistance to bring you my offerings
naysayers n tiredness n deafness n blindness n oldness get me down
i create because i create because i create
a true journeyman
a man for all seasons ive shown you ice
now heres warmth
i showed you black….now heres white…
…whatever….

i cant be bound to any old bodys idea of who i am
otherwise i never wooda got started in the 1st place
it is not in my nature to “grow up”
i will twirl if i want to
(hope you can twirl at 55 too ha ha)
(i bet you cant!)
i cant get a job
and i cant go to school
the carping ninnies say
the killers a fool…
i have eight hundred readers a day
you can check the stats yerselves
count to eight hundred in yer head slowly
each time imagining a person somewhere in the world
reading or watching my blog
coming back day after day
because
i dunno
maybe i dunno what i’m doing
it doesnt matter
run off to your frosty idol
the years went past left me stranded here
old n having squandered many opportunities
still i have an unbridled passion for creating things
that only i can create
oh i wood love mainstream success
oh i would love money
oh i would love to live forever as well
however
i do what i like n unparadoxically
i like what i do
no one else can do it
youre seeing the intersection of age n experience
crossed with the raw brutal energy
with which i have attacked all art
against the zeigeist
against the times
against the odds
against the “straights”
against the man in the street
dig it you must
you must dig what i do or switch off
i get it wrong
but my wrong is most peoples right
your right to switch off
i dont ask any to stay if they had enough
enough is enough is enuff, right?
who needs more than enough?
if this is where our ways part
good luck
thanks for everything
so long amigo see you soon huh
to hang about now is churlish
surely
the snipers in the very act of sniping
have deemed themselves cowards
jealous envious bored cowards
sniping in the void
trying to wound me
i say it again
i suffer you in all humility
like i suffer thorns or i suffer from my deafness
things cant be all dancing on clouds
and i understand life needs its obstacles and hurdles
its pests n inconveniences
hence n thus
you have been delivered unto me
pretending to be friends
pretending to be strangers
pretending to be pretending
you are but shadows of mockery
no one will remember you
you arent moving any mountains
you are not seeing any visions
just an aphorism for every occasion
meanwhile
i master the english language and shape it to myself
i write a sentence n you can tell its me
i strum a chord
i pluck a bass
you hear my voice
i chuck on some paint
i write down the words
i edit up the film
i inject myself into it all
i push n push n push
can you even understand
how my idiot/savant-hood wracks me
on its ever burning churning fountain of raw ideas
it cannot be turned off until i die
and oh i will regret losing all this experience
the way only i can handle sound n colour n words
the last fucking renaissance man standing: go on have a laugh
will the real steve kilbey please contact me?
no
i will continue
i will improve
i will confuse myself with my genius and my idiot
i cant get em apart……can you?

i was standing in a guitar shop in queanbeyan with my dad
he said do you see anything you like here, slim
i looked around and the guy brought over this huge red guitar
its a rhythm guitar he said rather foolishly
no dad i said
i want a bass i said
we walked outside n dad was gone
i get on board a bus that drives through the pleasant evenings
down some stairs i go
a whole bunch of guys standing round smoking cigarettes
long hair and impatience
blasting loud guitars
cymbals crashing like white lightning
i light up a peter stuyvo
i drink my chocolate milk
i scream into a mike
i blister my fingers on the bass thats never loud enough
i drive up to sydney n stay at the squire inn in bondi junction
i do a residency at some now defunct joint that now does massages
we carry the gear in
we plug in all the leads
we argue
we smoke
we meet some stupid bigshot whos checking us out
i reckon he wont like us so i’m super-rude
we play awfully
things feedback
someones angry at me
i walk out into a cold morning back in canberra
stripped of band n everything
i fiddle with a tape recorder in a bedroom in rivett
i sit crosslegged on the floor
i got my bass n my e guitar n my a guitar
i got my drum machine n my synthesizer
i got my flange pedal n my distortion pedal
i got my little mixing desk
i got my stack of coloured leads
i got my mike n my stand
i got my exercise books full of words n poems n notes
and i begin
4 years later
i wake up in sydney rozelle
i got this terrace house with black walls n red carpets
i got a load of people hanging around
russell sits at a table eating cornflakes
the music is pounding
people smoking hash bongs n spilling stuff on my carpet
i go off on a tour
everything goes hazy at the edges
we tour the gold coast in summer listening to pet sounds
we get on a plane n fly to england
we stay in a crazy place with a spiral staircase to the roof
we play a gig in london n 2000 people show up
we play pretty awfully but they love it
ploog n i cruise the streets buying clothes n records n dope
we eat hash n go for goofy walks in hyde park
trying to relive a scene out of some beatles movie
we play before duran durank
and i quit
i mean
it was a serious joke
we come home
eventually
achieving little
and we go round n round aust for 4 years
round the mull-berry bush
we check in we check out
we sound check
we have fights with each other
we write songs n we forget chords
we bicker n squabble n wobble n snicker
we bitch n we moan n we goof off
we play great shows n we balls up others
we think we’re pretty good
n we dont like the provinces
we go in recording studios
n we argue n work n whisper n get out
i fight with everyone ALL the time
no one sees it my way ever
and i have to convince em somehow
sometimes i lose heart n go with the path of least resistance
the years fall off the calendar
i wake up in some american town n jump on a bus
we play every night we drive everyday
i feel the world closing in on me
i cant remember who i was
i lose the plot
suddenly i dont care
i let go of the rains
i buy a you-beaut sampler n make “remindlessness”
its clunky n awkward but its where i’m at
i do it my way n i dont have to argue
next thin i know
i gotta studio n a habit n a house in surry hills
n i’m falling asleep on the couch again
or arguing with someone on the phone
or slipping upstairs for a production meeting
or i’m playing my piano behind the glass
boy hanging out for the gear is not conducive for music
grant comes over
we walk around strumming guitars for days
i eat n smoke dope
grant drinks red wine n smokes cigs
we write songs that are so great we immediately forget em
next thing i know
grants moved to qld
and im on tour with marty strumming a guild 12
n then petes back n tim walks in
and i move away
i live in some apartment where its so cosy
but i’m cold inside and i’m frightened to thaw out
i do some ragged gigs on my own
marty n i play sometimes
then i’m in delaware making dabble
n the monkeys jumped off my back
and then i’m in bondi
and we do a song called sealine
and we do a song called block
and we do a tour somewhere
i and i get a blog
and i do a painting
and i sit here
on a warm spring night
listening to the birds n the children
lucky i guess
a song in spades
yes
thats for sure

k/k came n played at the toff in melb
it was very good gig indeed
we were helped out by graham lee on pedal steel
n
michael evans-barker on percussion
it was dreamy singing the songs
i sang em a bit like a stranger
a drifter
a singer who sings in smoky clubs from the fifties
a riverboat gambler
a german engineer from the future
some cabaret star from the czech republic
an eccentric genius
a broken down fool
champagne and novocaine
waiting in some bar on some rainy morning
a holiday in a hotel you’ll never have the time back again
singer tries to impose will on time
that sweet sad distant music
the pedal steel coming up the line
like flesh the songs take on thicker ghosts
the pedal steel renders all slightly melancholy
down to earth sadness
like going broke or getting sick
or getting your poor babys heart broken
for almost the very very first time
k/k miss the train
and sit and the empty cafe
whiling the lazy silent days away
the piano drifts in and out of consciousness
phantom trumpets blow me down in a club in another zip
them old shuffling drums brushes the paint on the sound
the whirrs of tiny machineries
the click of the high hat tick tick tick tock tick
i sink into the couch in a foreign motel
i sip a martini n watch the tv in some strange tongue
eyes appear on the curtains
k/k cruise along a midnight moonlight higher inway
down in cannes or cairns or in the cans
you can hear that lonesome whistle
blowing cross the trestle oooeee
wow under the tuxedo moon
i was steve bennett at last
(and well i could have been)
steve bennett is an aging lounge lizard singer
who used to be a spy or a pop star
(once upon a time)
now he lives in a parallel universe or 2 or 3
where the cellos are slightly drunk
and the woodwinds are all breezy and cheeky
and french girl singers with berets n everything
and there is no other time but the wee small hours
they go on n on forever
in this middle aged hell
of the aching lothario
his catalogue of weariness and disappointments
still the martinis come
still the jazz cigarettes
still all commissions he pays to terence silk
k/k push the buttons and the a/c comes on
in a metallic droney chord
the female vox coo somewhere
the circling flurries of bird noises
i pick up my mike
oh god so sad
so weary
but i manage to smile
past my cigarette
past my going on time
past my las vegas bris vegas new melbourne carry on
i still look alright in a suit (from a distance)
my voice is a bit gruff and outta tune
hey philistines thats called life i remind meself
and i sing my songs
cabaret apocalyptique says the sign
my friend k doesnt say much
hes the sensible one driving down the autobahn
wired on heat tablets and extracts of angelfruit
he zooms past rustic villages
he echoes down halls of telegraph lyres
he accelerates in the sonic patterns of his screen
his dash is illuminated
we watch his eyes as he adjusts the mixtures
he calculates a trajectory
he has never met the singer
until now
as the singer starts his song
and the radio plays on
and oh my melancholy baby
lying by the fireside weeping into the night
the snow on the ground
the sand at the beach
the neon in town
the rain across the windscreen
the sad old bass
the simple shapes
the blurs the slurs the slides the stops
k/k in melb
oh yes that
that
was most enjoyable

adam jam the president of music
summoned a brand new bag
oh those cool be-bop cats playing on
the melodiotron
laying down some deep groove
high in the small hours
in some basement kingdom
all lit up with little LEDs
twang twang twang goes old bass moan
rumble rumble bang bang
the drummed wires half in time
slipping in some strange stuff
takes me back to mixolotyl
and the ancient electric prophesy
and the ripped up strings that were coiled down
and we listened so much we wore silver strips off the sound
and adam jam compressed all the sugary singer
for in truth
the lambless jam was who i am
and we plucked our fluted liars
and god helped the triers
with hoods n friars
we blew up the horn
we called upon the yet unborn
adam jam unto himself
speaks to you now:
the samples of myself
i freely give away for a price
i sing this song
unmastered as it is
the machines are there
the possibility doth exist
drag summer into your head
your guitar gently sleeps
yet you wake upon some treble cliff
strung out between the pearl inlaid necks
looking for a bridge looking for a newline
the moon is singing something
every song that ever was
every dream you ever really dreamed
every sweet n kind dream soft as theme
oh its a wonderful wild music week
and the how the beat has turned on me
and how the key eludes me in spades
yeah adam jam
president of sound
island bound
howl like a hell hound
looping round n round
let all notes be free
let the pianos feed upon the raw audience
let the violins rule the mob
let the bloody trumpet shriek in victory
ah men

i gotta method
i always hadda method
right from the first time
i wrote my first poem for
the lyneham high school magazine
between the lynes 1970

everyone said to me oh you should write a poem for the mag
ok
i sat down
and i wrote the first line
it came to me unbidden
in its complete form
(despite impossibility infinity has been reached)
i didnt know what it meant
but i knew it was the beginning
the mag came out
everyone LOVED my poem
they all saw different things in it
they all saw my sinister half meanings n ambiguities
that i had accidentally n randomly thrown in there

i knew i was on to some thing
onto something
and then when i got my 4 track machine in 1977
it all become obvious
there is a method to raw creativity
there is an in
as i said
everybody got their own in
my in
was
to perceive the creative process
as
just that
a process
a process to be duly followed
into which
you throw
influences
mistakes
random flux
info n disinformation
memory
dream
hi jacked fact n nicked fiction
religion
collective subconscious
technique
lack of technique
but
nonetheless
the process is a process
it is not a miracle
it may be a series of tiny leaps of faith
but it is not one huge miracle (usually!)
so if youre a poet
let it begin with a blank page or screen
if youre a musician with your record button ready to go
as a painter you have your board or paper prepared
it doesnt matter
as a film maker you have all the disparate bits
and then you START
thats right
how obvious kilbey
you start
you start with something
and you stick at it
you start with something small
and you trust in the process
that the line will grow into a poem
the first click will turn into a song
etc
and then you manipulate it
use all your tricks
explore technology
stretch the system to its limit
do whats comfortable
talk about what you know
or what you dont know
i dont know
its easy
like picking foxes from a tree
its gotta look n sound easy
dont frown over it its fun boy
my method wrote song after song for me
i work with people but they cant really use it themselves
they aint got the tiny leaps of faith
like a true artist i can quickly identify n manipulate
elements within the process
like a cake isnt just the ingredients
its the cooking
you gotta experiment with the process
itll always yield something
you can start anywhere
a vague idea n your away
copy something to start with
then bury it in the background when the time comes
just start
just believe
just be yourself
dont talk yourself out of it
dont hesitate all the bloody time
dont question fate or good luck if they come yer way
tune in to your inner marc bolan
he worked miracles with simple techniques
and juxtaposition of themes
the song i wrote yesterday was very marc bolan
at its root
its ok to allude to him but not too much
go as close as you can
but dont directly imitate
i always felt rocknroll was the right medium
to express my biblical aspirations
to recreate the feeling of some ancient city
rome….very rocknroll
nineveh too
lemuria is more chill out ambient
england is forever in the summer of love in my mind
america is brutal like iggy
and its soft like the beach boys
and its wiry like bob dylan
and its smooth like the byrds
and australia is the triffs n the go bes
and the twilight zone is the church
because our songs are sposed to be mostly spooky
or strangely sad
or strangely sad/strangely triumphant
and i created me own tiny little genre
and now cats sit around n try n write songs like me
and they rarely can or do
hardly anyone can even do a good cover version of old utmw
because i dont know
it seems obvious to me to leave that song alone
voice in another room : take your own advice!
anyway
you start with your tiny thing
n you build n build
like you build a house
like you build a plastic model
like you build a bridge
i can write a song from any chords
the chords dont matter
forget your fancy chords
forget your fancy words
get simple
master simple
master short
master brevity
master getting out n still leaving em wanting more
listen / look for the possibility in the minutest things
examine everything you come across
suffer the slings n arrows of criticism
i print most of the good n bad comments
to show you it aint all rosy
of course my carping critics have become obsessed with me
they cant stop reading/watching
and they have become addicted to their negative gearing
i throw up an ingenious little song
they throw up more tedious bile
it is a phenomenon for sure
and it should be considered
when some
‘friend” tells ya what you do is iffy
so have some confidence n take heart
open up your garage band
and know theres a song in there waiting for you
start off unambitious
my song yesterday had a one note bass line
but did you think about that?
leave space or get dense
vary the two
get real dense if you wanna
make up the words
thats right make em up
the way i make em up
you just…make em up
you just say…fuck it…i’m gonna make some words up
5 minutes later you should have yer myrrh or yer block
or yer whatever
it dont take long
singalong
some words’ll come out ..you’ll see
thats what grant did
he just opened up his mouth n sang
n whatever he sang was usually it
and let it contain enough ambiguity
so someone else can get inside it n grok it
or make it totally impenetrable
make it a wall or a sieve
make it a screen or a salvo
manipulate the tiny elements a bit more
new technology allows for this like never before
dont listen to people who
say you cant do anything good on what you got
if you cant get a decent tune outta garage band
go n give up
or
refamiliarize yourself with the method
the method always delivers
as long s you follow the process
start with something
continue with something
give it some heart
give it some history
give it some mystery
keep it simple
keep it sweet
thats it
instant sk on a styx
i do it the same as i always did
my method with its process
i dunno if i can explain it anymore than that
id have to give demonstrations to show you
and still
the leaps of faith would remain invisible
i work on hints n hunches
songs hang in the air as fragile as smoke
someones ill timed words can dispel them
good god
i been writing songs since i was 15
thats nearly 4o years soon
still the process rules
still i believe
now i’m fast so fast
too fast for you
i instantly hear n see n know
but you gotta stick at it
stick stick stick
guess what?
i still love it
i love writing songs
i love the immediacy of garage band n the net
i love that i write n record n video it in a few hours
its up
n very kind people have subscribed overnight
in the old days that may have been a 2 year process
i never been much into hi fi or lo fi
however it comes out
i’ll make it sound good somehow
thank you to all my listeners
thank you even to the pests who haunt these pages
with their tedious tripe
your hatred surely borders on love
and yet
youre still here…why? we ask…why?
because…is it…
i am everything at once
ha ha
its funny
how i can be so much
and
so little
so rich so poor
so old yet…younger than most of you kids in deed n thought
and i knock out more good stuff
i am tireless n moving into the future
breaking the rules about getting soft
my stuff is cool
i know its cool
because i am an arbiter of cool
and yesterdays song
by my own standards was cool
cool as hell
and all because of my method
now
for your secret mantra to unlock all creativity
you’ll have to stay tuned
and all will be revealed
or
maybe not…..