Category Archives: vinyl records

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Mystery Pub: Goo and Gump

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The most magnetic pub in Norwood is The Colonist. Its exposed ceiling beams and ducts, and unplastered, aged walls give it a vintage aesthetic. Claire and I made the staccato crawl along Currie Street, through the parklands, and onto The Parade. Turning into the pub carpark, the golden light pushing from the windows into the darkening July evening set a welcoming tone, a hostelry hug.

I’d booked a table by the fireplace and spent the working afternoon congratulating myself. I chuckled as I imagined Claire by the crackling flames melting into her Chesterfield, nursing a pepperminty Coonawarra cabernet, and smiling at me with involuntary, eternal appreciation. However, proudly marching us into the fireplace room, we stop and grimace as it’s more like a shopping centre café with severe, unforgiving lighting and utilitarian tables. It had less appeal than the pool chemicals aisle at Bunnings.

Stools were urgently pilfered and we claimed a spot at the bar. With white wine and a Pirate Life ale (R) in front of us, we unwound into our visit and dissected the surroundings. The absences were gladly met. No TVs, no thumping house music, no maddening distractions. Just a pub bursting with punters. Occasionally, it’s elevating to be slap in the middle of the bellowing din, to be among boisterous strangers, and relish their anonymous shouting and thrumming oomph. A young, beardy man offered us oysters from a tray. ‘No, thanks,’ we chorused, glaring at the cold globs of snot.

Contrasting with the naked women artworks decorating the pub innards was an interesting image. ‘See that picture on the far wall,’ I said pointing like a self-pleased museum tour guide, ‘that’s similar to a famous album cover.’ Claire surrendered to my mansplaining, powerless. ‘It’s like the album Goo by Sonic Youth.’ A great record, the cover art’s inspired by Maureen Hindley and David Smith, key witnesses in the 1966 Moors Murders trial involving a couple of (crazy) Mancunian serial killers. ‘Thanks for that!’ Claire could’ve chirped.

We returned to our endeavours which being a Friday approaching six o’clock meant our second and final (boozer) drinks. Mystery Pub issues a license for us (Claire) to be alcoholically adventurous — this monthly boldness finds expression in cocktails. The arrival of a concocted refreshment is an event — her Long Island Iced Tea comes with aromatic New York cool and dreamy Gatsby evocations. Claire takes a purposeful sip. Then another. Her assessment: blah.

A camel plops in the desert, the caravan moves on.

Zinging along Greenhill Road and homeward bound (I wish I was) when a deplorably monstrous truck — a ute, to you and me, Gladys — veers into our lane. On its whale-sized rear bumper were two stickers. One read: Pray for America. Neither Claire nor I could tell if this came with irony or sincerity for Friday night, as we all know, is not the time for considered subtextual appraisals.

The other was for Alabama’s Crimson Tide — the college football team Forrest Gump played for — not a sticker you often spot on Adelaide utes. The Crimson Tide is mentioned by 1970’s act Steely Dan on their Aja album in the song ‘Deacon Blues.’ It’s about elegant failure and I thought of my fireplace booking and Claire’s Long Island Iced Tea. The chorus goes

Learn to work the saxophone
I, I’ll play just what I feel
Drink Scotch whiskey all night long
And die behind the wheel
They got a name for the winners in the world
I, I want a name when I lose
They call Alabama the Crimson Tide
Call me Deacon Blues.

Safely home in my wicker chair, beer in hand, Aja spun on the turntable. ‘Deacon Blues’ glided about the living room — to my delight, if not Claire’s. Mystery Pub had begun at The Colonist, but we’d detoured to far-flung Americana. This was intriguing and soaring.

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Five Things That Made My Saturday

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Saturday afternoon and I’m home alone. Chores are in hand. Nothing on TV and the book I’m reading, the collected stories of cult American author, HP Lovecraft, is more medicinal than recreational, so it sits untouched by our bed.

On Record Store Day (globally recognised on April 19th) I swung by Mr. V’s on Semaphore Road, and because one of the very best ways to invest half an hour is by listening to a Beatles’ album, I bought this. The music transports me to my childhood. It remains thrilling and urgent and while Paul is my favourite, I can understand why George Martin, their producer, commented that of all the great things he got to do with the Beatles, his absolute preference was mixing the vocals of John. As I type, the album’s on and it’s utterly joyous and innocent and compelling.

I love our backyard. And the time of peak admiration is, of course, in those first minutes after it’s been mowed on an autumnal afternoon. The breeze is coaxing the trees and shrubs towards folksy dance and there’s bursts of birdsong. I’m in debt to Claire who, with her artistic eye, designed and brought our garden to painterly life. Later, I may sit out here with a quiet ale and admire the view.

I purchased Glenelg Footy Club’s 2023 premiership jumper at Adelaide Oval during last year’s finals for tuppence and my appreciation of this simple item is twofold. Yes, the dual flags (nice win yesterday over Norwood in the Anzac Day grand final rematch with Lachie Hosie kicking eight goals) but the guernsey is my default running top. It’s frequently a conversation starter and when I’m on the beach in the morning a passerby will sometimes say, ‘Go Tigers’ as we puff by each other. I had it on this morning at the Patawalonga parkrun (my 110th, the 200th such local event and day number 729 of my current streak) and it was a fun 5k (24.49 which is decent for me). I’m grateful for footy and running.

Dinner is slowly cooking in the slow cooker. Which is what the label promised, Mr Spock. It’s a beef casserole and I look forward to it. I assembled it late morning with the help of a Ball Park Music playlist. Can you remind me to throw in the beans around six o’clock? Thanks.

It’s a bit of a narrative but Claire has been in receipt of red wine. Needing some for the aforementioned dinner, I opened a bottle of the 2005, McLaren Vale. This was done with nervousness for I anticipated it might have aged as well as the K-Pop song, Gangnam Style.

How is it? It was a little cantankerous during those early minutes, but I commented to Claire that if I’d been trapped in a bottle for twenty years I would be too. I slopped a few generous glugs into the cooker and popping into the kitchen across the afternoon, both casserole and plonk are doing well.

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To Alex and Max, on our Sydney Trip

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Dear Alex and Max

I appreciated the experiences we shared during our visit to Sydney and from start to finish, our trip was filled with your curiosity, infectious enthusiasm, and so many moments of fun. You subscribed to each day and excursion with open hearts and minds and for this generosity, I thank you.

It began (intentionally) with our exploration of Circular Quay and the Opera House, followed by the awe-inspiring sight of Ovation of the Seas. Taking your debut ferry ride to Luna Park and walking back across the Harbour Bridge was an adventure in itself, and Alex and I enjoyed the thrill (terror for me) of climbing the Pylon lookout for those tremendous views over the harbour. From there, the stroll through Hyde Park to our accommodation provided the perfect balance of excitement and exercise!

All the while you’re both nattering away to each other; to me; talking about what’s in front of us, work at Pasta A Go Go—your sense of teamwork and camaraderie is impressive—and so much other stuff. I was constantly reassured by your brotherly relationship, and how you look out for each other. This joint resourcefulness shone when you returned from the op shops with your new finds. Shirts, pants, tops.

One particularly dramatic moment came in Bondi. Jumping off the bus onto the footpath, Alex immediately realised the problem. ‘Dad, I’ve left my video camera on the bus.’ The 333 omnibus promptly roared off down Campbell Parade—with the camera still on the back seat. I said, ‘You better run off after it!’ Watching you both dash off, cinematically, to catch the bus—and succeed about 500 metres later—was a heartwarming moment although Max hurt his calf (too many weights and insufficient cardio). I was reminded of Jason Statham in The Framer.

Though the weather tried to challenge us, it never dulled our eagerness. We then explored Bondi Pavilion’s art gallery and walked along the vacant beach up to Icebergs, marvelling at the raw beauty of the coastline, even in the abysmal conditions.

The opportunities for learning and reflection were abundant. From the Sydney Museum’s stories of the First Fleet and Indigenous history to the Museum of Contemporary Art’s powerful environmental themes, there was so much to absorb. I liked how you both were particularly captivated by the MCA’s bookshop if not the rebirthing film. Exploring The Rocks, Barangaroo, and the surrounding areas deepened our connection to Sydney’s geography and culture.

There were ferry rides aplenty too and how excellent are these?

A highlight was our trip to Balmain. Going along Darling Street was great, as was stopping by the Hill of Content bookshop, where Max picked up a Jack Reacher novel. It pleases me profoundly that you’re both happy to engage with ideas and writing—a bookshop hosts all of these. Our visit ended with schnitzels and T20 cricket from New Zealand at Dick’s Hotel—a perfect end to a day of discovery, despite the beer garden being closed due to storm damage.

Manly was another adventure entirely, with its jaw-dropping weather. We were bemused by the surf lifesaving carnival, witnessed the heaving ocean swell, and encountered a just fallen tree blocking our path on the way back.

As we bounced along on the ferry, Max’s Sam Pang-like quick wit in hoping the owners of a small boat, ‘hadn’t left any eggs on the kitchen bench’ was a moment of humour on the stormy seas. And though Alex’s new/old 49ers cap now resides in the Pacific, the voyage on the Manly Fast Ferry, especially past the Heads, was exhilarating. The skipper’s skill in navigating the massive waves was impressive.

Culminating with a salty coastal walk along Bondi, Tamarama, Bronte, Waverley, and Coogee— was a fitting finish to a shared adventure that was as scenic as it was fun.

A final stroll around Surrey Hills record stores and op shops. Flicking though the vinyl Alex paused and said, ‘Dad, here’s Skyhooks!’ There was the black lamb on the cover of Straight in a Gay, Gay World. He continued, ‘You’ve already got that one.’

Thank you for being a part of this experience. It’s an incredible destination that offers so much—beauty, history, learning, and exciting connections. Sydney gave us that and beyond. More vitally, you both offered your willing participation and your faith.

Love Dad

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Discarded boots, our old car, and Hotel California

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Nostalgia and detachment are constantly at war.

For me, the former wins more than it should. But sometimes disinterest rears up like a startled horse and I make an utterly sensible decision.

In July of 1993 I bought a pair of boots and trudged about in them for decades, across continents. I wore them to work. I wore them to the footy. I wore them everywhere.

During recent years when they began to require frequent repairs, I determined that new soles and patched holes in the leather toes were just steps to guarantee the immortality of my beloved boots.

I’d be buried in them.

But one day in September I drove to an Op Shop on the Broadway, flipped open the collection bin lid, and deposited my boots. They’d become heavy to wear and almost curmudgeonly. I now saw them through different eyes.

Suddenly, we were done, and surgical detachment triumphed. I didn’t stare at them wistfully, shed a lonesome tear or even have a rush of cinematic vision, showing thirty years of life’s high (and low) lights of me in my boots.

I then made my way to the kiosk where I looked at the beach and sipped a cappuccino and relished the cheerful afternoon breeze.

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Claire’s car is also in its third decade. No mere toiler, it’s a treat to pilot: compact, nippy, and gently joyous. It zips along Anzac Highway like a nimble fawn.

Having done 435,000 kilometres, I’ve been wondering about the time it’ll need replacement. Looking online at the cost of similar vehicles we may need to up the insurance for it seems to be worth more than I thought. Evaluating the RAV 4’s condition has triggered some introspection and a rediscovery of personal values on longevity and utility.

But I hope we can celebrate the half a million milestone when it should get a signed telegram from the King or at least someone in the Palace who can use a pen.

I now feel refurbished sentimentality for this precious motor and its unswerving everydayness. It could star in its own Little Golden Book.

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On Boxing Day, the transformative power of objects again grabbed me. By the airport I drove past a sprawling discount shopping centre, sat fat and foolish. Cars were parked chaotically in the creek bed, nose-to-tail on the verges and, if I checked, likely on top of each other too. Instead, I went to Mr. V’s record store on Semaphore Road. He offers no festive discounts.

Exploring vinyl albums is a sentimental experience. I am returned to being a teenager and these artefacts lead to a wholly immersive bliss. While I enjoy flicking through the modern releases, I find a deeper delight at the 70’s and 80’s section where my younger self forever lives. Rationing this indulgence, I ponder purchasing one of these:

The Boys Light Up– Australian Crawl

Straight in a Gay, Gay World– Skyhooks

Place Without a Postcard– Midnight Oil.

Rather I zoom across the Pacific and buy Hotel California. It’s unstoppably captivating and I’ve always surrendered to its narrative power. Kapunda’s a long way from the Hollywood and Beverly Hills setting of these songs but my connection is strong as steel.

Listening is a cheerfully simple, analogue experience. With a crackle the needle descends on The Eagles and I’m again in a boxy Kingswood patrolling the homely streets of Kapunda. It’s the clumsy sway of the last dance at high school socials (formals or proms to some of you). It’s the boyish allure of American cityscapes.

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What to finally make of dumping my boots, refreshed appreciation for Claire’s car, and the untarnished radiance of an adolescent record? The past is seldom still, but sometimes rushes at us like a rampaging bull and leaves me standing in its dust, bewildered. I’m caught between nostalgia’s gilded cage and reality’s sharpening edges.

But I always was.