That power and passion that Winton speaks so rightfully of in his essay that runs through the body of the slick to 20,000 Watt R.S.L., their new "best of", is the language of anger, concern, involvement and responsibility. The most enduring memory of a legion of Oils gigs is the smiles. Wealthy, abstemious and comfortable.įor the drummer and co-composer of Midnight Oil, it's an anchor in a life that's seen as many miles as it's seen smiles. If the great racial divide that threatens to engulf Australia is simmering, you wouldn't know it in Manly, where the toughest decision is which seafood cafe/restaurant/takeaway to grab a smorgasbord from.
On a November week day in the seaside town of Manly, Rob Hirst watches the boats ferry daily commuters and inquisitive tourists in equal amounts into the suburb's safe embrace a glittering mix of Minoltas and mobiles, neck heavy or hip fixed, delivered safely to the long arm that juts out on ancient wood piles into the calm bay. They still kiss no bum and they still tug no forelock. They kissed no bum and tugged no forelock." - Tim Winton True to a time and a place and pretty damn defiant about it. "Finally someone was playing stuff that was musically idiosyncratic, fresh and strong. You know: life on the road and the in convenience of VD. It was almost too much to believe that rock music could be about anything but itself. Well, with a mind at all, for that matter. At last there was an Australian band with something on its mind. The music sure as hell made you want to dance, but it carried ideas, raised pressing questions. Someone had finally got beyond the easy nihilism of the time. This wasn't mere teen angst, or personal teething trouble. Australia seemed about to stop thinking and just go shopping and here was a band anxious about our communal future.
The new music connected to all that restless energy, the hope, the dismay, the paranoia. I was bewildered by the power and the passion, the temper of the time.
I could sense the rich getting richer, see the poor get the picture. I too had known many restless summers and held fast to precious places, places without a postcard. Underneath the bland, safe surface, a jerky agitation, an itch I recognised. The music contained an unmistakable atmosphere of the suburban Australian life I was part of.
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