yes
i am saddened by rick wrights passing
i love the early floyd
their impact on rock is hard to over-estimate
i remember a time
when they were obscure
in 1970
i stood in a record shop in the monaro mall
upstairs it was
it had listening booths and everything
it had lots of weird records
records i never heard of
there was one called juicy lucy
it featured this blowsy but still erotic woman
naked n covered in fruit
the record itself was a stinker
but jesus…that cover….oh how modern it seemed
the also had the blind faith one
the one with the topless teenage girl….
not the cover that was in the decent shops
i found beard of stars in that shop
oh blessed day
i didnt even know there was a beard of stars
see
in those days
it was hard to glean information
i loved the t rex “t rex” album
but i knew nothing of what came before
so imagine my delight
when i came upon the delightful blacknwhite shot
of marc
looking like shelley or something
and mickey
looking like the handsomest side man in the whole world
anyway
i didnt need the listening booth that day
i wanted to enjoy this on my own
and oh what a strange and lovely record it was
as if it fell from another age
a sexy chivalrous fey rococo electric erotic narnian place
where verily childe
i doth must needs go
anyhow i also bought argents first record there
and the vertigo trip
a double sampler of new vertigo bands
(a label)
who’d just signed about 50 new acts
among them
magna carta
clear blue sky
caterpillar
warhorse
centipede
and of course
black sabbaff
anyway i also bought the moody blues up there
jesus those records aint travelled that well
the occasional song…..but talk about pompous overblown bilge
jesus every ray thomas song makes me want to cringe inside out
but i had em all nonetheless
gee i do still love nights in white satin
cmon scream me down as a soft headed ninny
but wow it still gives me a nice jolt of pleasure
it was spectacular when it first came out….
anyway i’d wag school
(why go to learn the words of fools)
it would be autumn or something poignant
i get on the bus into town
i ride up northbourne ave
tingling in anticipation
you never knew what youd find
how could you know…?
my very generous old daddy
had given me 10 bucks to buy a record
i think a vinyl lp was $5 .95 in those days
i remember the double albums always had stickers saying $8.95
it was important to make the right choice
my dad might buy me a new record every month
my you gotta be choosy
it was a leap into the unknown
i hadnt started reading reviews yet
i allowed my gut instinct to guide me
i went off the album cover or the titles
or what i’d heard someone say once somewhere
i didnt like totally crazy stuff
like zappa
i hated zappa
i didnt like jokey jazzy fiddly stuff much
i hated bluesy foghat savoy brown humble pie etc
i was looking for that weird music that opened up that door
each of my favourite records took me to different worlds
you go home
close yer bedroom door
stick on “the autumn stone” by the small faces
baby you were there
close yer eyes
hey steve kilbey youre a mod in 1968
taking acid with stevie and ronnie
and the world is all wavery
and everythings going whooosh!
or i chucked on yes the yes album
it had all these climactic moments
the bass was extraordinary
the lyrics were nicely non sequitur
or whatever
some records only half worked for me
jethro tull…couldnt really love em
purple sabbath zep…i had em but i didnae love em
only tiny bits in each one
didnt like the singing or the words
abraxas by santana was one of my favourite records
and what a cover….one of the best ever
(more naked women collaged together in some
crazy tex mex wilderness of congas and mad screaming women
and these cool latino players and carlos guitar wriggling like an eel)
the 1st track…its launched me on a thousand attempts at imitation
sighing winds, crying beasts
oh go and listen to that now my children
if you have it
a forlorn piano has its guts stroked in a dali desert reverb
the cymbals exhale like a mirage of distant surf
the guitar feeds back like an overload in the sun
then the most simple sublime bass pulse starts
and the electic piano caresses us
now relaxed
in some cool chlorinated oasis motel pool
we take peyote and zoom out over south america
the spaniards and the portugese
the incans and the mayans
the bongos and congas propel us onwards
into south americas mysterious heart
the magic realism
if you been there
you’ll know what i mean
you see south america is slightly half in
another universe altogether
its like the west but its not the west
its charged with possibilities
like africa i guess altho i aint been there
and have no desire to
africa would nullify me
it does not call me
nor does it want me
but imagine if painkiller became big in south america
then we could play in montevideo
and send some great postcards home
maybe go looking for lemuria or some clue
digging in some jungle ruins
a bearded professor finding my old life in the excavations
a fragment here
a fragment there
brushing the dust from my old mirror
mescaline flares up again inside my fevered mind
i drink the vine
i walk with my spirit guide the black jaguar
i talk to snakes
i emerge from the jungles shadows
in an english pastoral
cirrus minor by pink floyd
on a trip to cirrus minor saw a crater in the sunlight
a thousand miles of moonlight later
and then at the end
ricks organ lingers
it hovers there in the waning light of the song
mysterious droning modulating
the astral path
the shining strange link
ricks lovely sad organ
just hanging there
so solemnly
so regally
so cool