01/08/2023 00:55
(Pic by Stuart Spence)
There’s a radio announcer over in W.A. who quite likes my work.
Especially the ballads.
That’s no small thing given I’ve managed to avoid the glamour of getting smashed on commercial radio, for some time now. It’s been a while. Decades in fact.
Not for lack of trying of course. So I’ll definitely take a compliment when it erupts. Especially given the songs don’t seem to be drying up and this last effort, ‘Slow Dawn’, for those of you who haven’t notice, was dare I say.. pretty fruitful.
On that basis, I’m happy to darken the door of any radio station that beckons.
There’s always hope, after all. A bit of airplay perhaps? Can’t do any harm. And we all want to be loved and admired right?
Be wary of the artist who claims indifference to mass approval. Or who cleverly paints their image with down home humility as if to say, I remain pure to my artistry.. My work is all. And deems any move uncool that risks being frowned upon by his or her immediate friends..
See, if you were lucky enough to have enjoyed the spoils of mass exposure at some point, be smart enough to realise that your day in the sun was most likely as much to do with the toil of others, as your own artistic majesty..
Best to embrace your humanity. It is far less self-indulgent. And safer. To deny it, you risk descending into bitterness and denial when the new stuff finally fails to curry favour with commercial radio, which it will, no matter how good you might think it is..
‘So why then are you here sir? With your guitar and voice box? What is it you want exactly?’
Approval at the very least.
On the other hand, I know some, far more venal than me, who’s sense of personal injustice burned so bright for so long, their success was born of the truism:
‘He or she who squeaks loudest gets the most oil.’
And you know what? I admire their shamelessness. Whatever it takes..
Still, our man in W.A. honestly loves a good ballad. As do I. And was particularly excited by my last offering.
Not sure he was across the lyrical verve but the tunes were there and the lads played with great sensitivity..
Our chat ran something like this:
“We’re really excited this morning to have a true rock LEGEND in the studio.. none other than the man himself.. MISTER MARRRK SEEEYMOUR!!
“Yep. Definitely me..”
“Ha! Certainly is. So you have a new album out this week.. Slow Dawn.. it’s what.. your 134th ?”
“Nice one. Something like that..”
“And I’ve got to say, there are some lovely songs on this one. And I do love a good ballad.”
“Yeah. Same.”
“ ‘The whole world is dreaming’.. ‘Slow Dawn’ ‘Kliptown Mud’.. ‘Joanna’.. to name a few..”
He trails off.. staring at the copy.
“And you do write all kinds of songs don’t you, ahh .. Mark?”
Looks up..
“Sure,” I say, “You can write songs about anything really.”
“Yes… but there is this one right here in the middle.. What’s it called? ‘The Demon Rum’.
“That’s right.”
He looks up at me. Frowning now. Voice drops to a murmur..
“Mate. What were you thinking?”
His disappointment is palpable. Like I’ve stepped on something precious and left it lying on the pavement for others to trip over.
“Yeah well. I can get pretty carried away.”
“Hmm. Yes. Well, nobody’s perfect.”
Nice one. Awkward too.
Somehow we move on. I sing a song. Which seems to lift the mood. Not that particular one needless to say. But still, the love is back.
But you see, that’s more or less what the song alludes to:
‘Not being perfect’.
Albeit in a big way. And that’s the whole point.
There are several songs on ‘Slow Dawn’ that address the question of national identity. ‘Demon Rum’ is one of them. It goes to the whole story of alcohol and the noisy anaesthesia it has given us..
Alcohol has literally lubricated our consciousness throughout history.. made victims of us all.
Tyrants and tearful lovers.
Frightening thought that. Hardly the stuff of commercial radio of course but still, there it is. ‘Demon Rum.’
The great howl in the middle of the album.
Loud and embarrassing.
And so to the video clip. Of course!
Segue to a dark hotel room in Marrickville.
My brilliant artistic friend Stuart hand holding an iphone, swinging a portable camera light for effect with the other, me leaning against the hotel room wall, rolling the head back and forth as per direction and bellowing as though utterly stonkered which I’m not..
“BRING UP THE BODIES. THE BITTER AND THE SWEET. WE’VE BEEN DOWN HERE IN THE HOLD TOO LONG.. DRINKIN’ NECTAR NEAT!”
Not too far from the site of the first landing in Botany Bay, oddly enough..
“Very friggin’ SYDNEY!”.. he keeps yelling.
“THERE COMES A TIME WHEN YOU CROSS THE LINE.. SWALLOWED BY THE DARK..”
“BEWARE THE DEMON RUM MY FRIEND IT EATS INTO YOU HEART.”
“Fuck yeah.. It’s eating into mine mate. That was sick! Keep goin…’”
“WE JAMMED THE WIND ACROSS THE SEA TO THIS GOD-FORSAKEN SHORE..”
“STAGGERED UP THAT LONELY BEACH AND CRIED OUT GIVE ME MORE..”
“Wow! Yeah…”
A soft knock at the door. We look at each other..
“Jesus. Wonder who that is..”
There’s no choice. The door must be answered. Otherwise, what will people think? Murder perhaps? Somebody in unbearable pain?
She was a small woman. Possibly Japanese. The way she bowed as she spoke. Smiling softly.
“Excuse me sir. You need towel?”