Recorded in Graz and Melbourne, early to mid 2009. An instrumental demo of another piece for a mostly acoustic based recording and performance project. Features an Ondes Martenot I'd performed with at the Magical Soundmachines exhibition, Kulturfabrik, Hainburg, Austria.

 
 Don't Touch The Art (Demo) [5:58m]: Play Now | Play in Popup | Download

Kalk Bay, Cape Town, Jul 2009
Photo: Alex Bozas

This time last year I was about to experience my first Austrian new years where hefty fireworks would be launched from apartment windows, backyards and rooftops, brilliantly lighting the snow drenched city of Graz. It would be a year of wonders and contemplation amidst calamity in the Australian bush and grim discoveries in the remote forests of Sarawak.

I would play an Ondes Martenot in Heinburg (Austria) and perform with the inspired Benguela in Cape Town. I would collaborate with the legendary Seppo Grundler and Tone Master in making, the young Peter Venus in Graz, on one of the finest Terminal Quartet performances and re-invigorate a music writing partnership with my EPC buddy, Ludwig Zeininger.

I would be humbled and enchanted in a Viennese cafe by stories from the origins of radio and electronic arts told with great clarity and humour by Robert Adrian X and Heidi Grundmann (they are national treasures to be sure), and relish an evening with the finest instrument makers in Europe, to be invigorated by the Southwell A Series concert guitar hand crafted by British luthier, Gary Southwell.

The Penan of Long Kerong would share with me their homes, their food and their struggles, from the disappearing herds of rhinoceros to the soap vines that they would once cleanse themselves by. I would trek into virgin, un-cut rainforest and hear sounds that defy explanation and piece together the last few moments of their former headman, the much loved and respected Kelesau Naan, before he was murdered at a remote river bed in the Ulu Baram.

For a couple of months I house-sat Steve Law and Bunny's North Melbourne apartment where I re-connected much deeper with my musicianship, writing pieces that would be played in Cape Town, that would be further explored in Dunmoochin, where I now reside, and I would counsel my journal into the night at The Drunken Poet, discovering parts of Melbourne that had appeared since I had left.

In Argentina my prized camera would be stolen, but I would leave with a vital fusion of tango and folk guitar performances that resonate with me still. By the time I got to Cape Town it seemed near impossible to imagine the life I had in Austria, German lessons with the ever-curios Mrs Riga and the tireless and enthusiastic conversations with Reni and Jogi, Elizabeth and Roland, the deliriously delicious banter over food and wine with Doris, whose apartment I had stayed in, and the touching, poetry enthused dinners on a balcony in Kalk Bay with Ruben and his daughter, Sahara, with whom I stayed a month.

My Austrian family would leave me with hope, inspiration and the treasures one finds in an old, refined and eccentric extended family and my daughter would leave her Sydney home for an uncertain, but wilful future in Bali. My mother turned 80 and my brother Roderick and I once more discovered synchronicities in our lives through the Tartar singer Zulya and her version of Dark Eyes, a song our father and his mother had once sung.

I can barely begin to imagine all the people with whom I had shared stories with, those who had listened to my agonising songs and read my scant emails... it would be a year I would spend less and less time online, even removing stores of material from social networking sites and seek to repair a body that had spent far too much time at a keyboard and laboured under injuries sustained on the road that had barely been cared for.

One year on and I'm sat in a mud-brick shack, far from the gas heated and tastefully furnished apartment I was to share in Graz. With views out across parts of the Yarra Valley, temperatures to soar into their mid-30s, a fire evacuation plan sketched out, guitars to my right and Kookaburras to my left, I reflect on the past 12 months and all the beautiful people who had welcomed me into their lives, whom I had to farewell. Too many goodbyes.

So, my humble apologies if I have been tardy in my correspondence with you, but you have been in my thoughts, all of you... May we continue to find strength in our friendships and families, our creative and professional pursuits... the years ahead may be challenging, but full of hope too.

Where you can, build a garden, plant a seed, compost your left-overs and be magnificent...

A day amongst the gums and magpies in Dunmoochin, a glorious sunset, two glasses of wine and an evening with my guitar. Oh, and a mix at Wind & Sky Productions for good measure.

 
 Heart In Resin (demo) [2:58m]: Play Now | Play in Popup | Download

Composed whilst in a fine mood a year ago in Graz. I longed for someone that once longed for me, but today I long for whom ever I may yet meet, or may find re-vived in the spirit of all things.

Today... today I sought to know your face
Today... today I desired to hear you speak my name
Today... today I was reminded of you in the myriad shades of red of near Christmas
Today... today I wanted to taste the sound of your voice and hear the colour of your horizon eyes
Today... today I imagined your life heart at work as you sleep
Today... today... today I wanted you.

Dunmoochin, 22 Oct 2009

Some say Dunmoochin is dying. In recent years the drought has drawn moisture from most parts of Victoria at an astonishing rate.

No more so than at Dunmoochin where, despite the recent rains and over-flowing dams in other parts of the catchment, here the canopy has lost its dense foliage and the ground in parts are littered with the fallen trunks of dehydrated trees.

Dunmoochin resides in what is described as a rain shadow. It has, as Clifton Pugh's son, Shane describes, always been dry. That said, the events of recent years have seen a substantial decrease in the water table here, so much so that trees that would once survive on the lightest of rain-falls, have dried and fallen in a crest of shattered branches and splintered trunks, some black as if mercilessly scorched.

The guitarist, Sebastian Jorgensen, at an open studio day at Dunmoochin, told a small gathering of thoroughly engaged listeners, that the local Aboriginals to this area, revered and protected the Koala. At a time when indigenous communities held even more profound knowledge than those that survived colonisation, a curse was placed on any who brought harm to the Koala. Were  they to  eat of it's flesh or warm themselves with its fur, a drought would fall on the land.

The Koala derives all its moisture from the Eucalypt and these trees, although thirsty, do survive through the harshest of conditions. Humans cannot.

Perhaps, Sebastian suggested, we are still bound to this curse, and not only Dunmoochin, but throughout the country. Not only had the colonisers sought to hunt the Koala, they pillaged the land and decimated its people. Will there be no end to the suffering?