Somedays you can rule the world, make new content, slay the day, hustle and flow and GSD. Other days you don’t. On the days that are other, it can feel like you’re wading through softened butter- too soft to slide over, and too sludgey to swim through. So you trudge along, with slips and falls and easier bits and then the dogged trudging again. You know that forward momentum is what you need, in fact it’s the only thing that will get you through the mire, but sometimes you just want to lay down and rest. The butter would probably feel nice, wouldn’t it?

Somedays you wake up with energy and verve, and other days you would rather just hide under the doona and wait for the day to pass without it asking anything of you. Which is fine if that other day is a Sunday with no commitments, but if it’s a work day, and a school day and a you have to be a Mum day, then someone is going to pull the doona back and find you at some stage, no matter how stealthily and silently you hide away.

If this is the someday that you feel inspired to do all of the things: yippee. Go do them.

If this is an other day for you, then this is your reminder that you don’t have to butter up or hide from the world: you are allowed to take the day. You don’t have to be productive and perfectly put together every day. You just have to be true to you. And the only way to know what you wants, and maybe even needs, is to take some time to ask yourself. To sit quietly and listen to the beat of your heart and see what song plays today. It might be different to the one you were secretly hoping to dance to, but just like when the Wedding DJ plays True Colours when you were hoping for She Bop (and who doesn’t love a good She Bop? *leery winky face*) you can still swing it if you let the rhythm flow.

So this is your permission to do whatever day you want. Dance if you like, sing if you’re in the mood, or just quietly enjoy the music.

Tomorrow’s song will be different.

…From The Ashers

PS Sorry if you just found out that your twelve year old self used to dance around the loungeroom to a song about solo female pleasure. But if you did: go you good thing. Bop on.

Mental AS

Once upon a time I had a Dad who was alive in this world and he loved music.

He loved to listen to it cranked up so that it drowned out whatever he was tinkering with in the shed. If you listened hard you could hear his sighing, gravelly voice joining in with that riffy blues that used to get under the skin at the base of my neck and make me want to shrug like Atlas. The blues gave them to me then, and they give them to me now.

Thankfully, he loved many other styles of music, with a record collection stretching from Abba to Zappa like a long line of Friday afternoon bank customers, craning their necks to see when it would be their turn on the table to start the party. His tastes expanded mine from 3XY, giving a breadth that allowed me to take in more than the latest chart topper, and aged my repertoire so that I often have people older than me take in my skin, and try to figure out my generation when I know the words to something before my time.

He taught me that music is to be shared and pooled and mixed together and made available to all. He was always a one for making tapes of the albums he bought home from Brashs most Fridays, taking them out of their slippery sleeves to check for scratches before reverently placing them on the turntable. I think he held his breath a little until the crackles gave way to the opening bars. And then he was away. Lost in the story and the emotion.

The first time I heard Mental As Anything we were at our holiday place at Torquay, where the salty west-coast winds flapped the canvas roof up and down all summer long, reminding us to get to the beach before the cool change came in. My Dad had made a TDK-60 recording to play in the black tape-recorder that sat on top of the 1950s fridge (Current paint job: royal blue).

“Woah-ho, the nips are getting bigger.” sang Greedy and his buddies, the flippy tune forming an exuberant sound-track to my latest Trixie Beldon. It was the one where they found some dope-smugglers and when I asked Mum how to pronounce “Mara-jewu-wana”, she snatched it away with a black-snake whip, until I could convince her that Trixie and Honey were catching the baddies, not sparking up. I spent most of the rest of those hols, humming along to the Mentals, and laughing to myself about how a song about fishing and the nips they were getting, could be so catchy.

Last weekend, Greedy and a new gaggle of fellas came to a little country town near us. Reg has gone onto other things, and Martin is pretty crook, but Greedy was there, playing his keyboard and belting out all the old tunes as if it was 1986.

At first I thought I might stand politely up the middle-to-back and have beer or two (I started out, just drinking beer.) and maybe lip sync a few songs then head home. However the first notes of the fist song did something to my synapses and within a beat I was back in that summer.

White zinc cream mixed with that hard, peeling skin on my nose. Lips infused with salt. Hair faded to light from the sun. Sandpaper sheets, and still, melting heat making it hard to sleep, whilst parents caroused- the cadence of their laughter and stories a backdrop to the click of the crickets. Eventually silent, only moments before the crows started their morning dance on the thick canvas roof. We would toss and turn and try to scrinch out the light, until the paperboy started his litany, “SunAgeAddyAustral-yan” and bleary-headed Dads in their jocks ran out to grab the news of what they were missing from their city lives.

So when Greedy started, I wove my way through the crowd like an eel, taking my place among the old and the young. The Old who were swaying to the echoes from a simpler life. The Young who were there for the cheap live music, or, in one girls case, because her Mum had loved The Mentals.

Had.

I sighed with her, and kissed her maternally on the head as she told me her story of loss and scattered corpuscles, and we toasted her Mum and we toasted my Dad and we toasted the silly, fizzy soundtrack that could take us back to a time and and place where our hearts were still whole and unscarred.

Where we could live it up.

Thanks Fellas, You’re still Mental As.

…From The Ashers

Here are the hits:

1. This little beauty. I’m doing these for All Hallows this year, instead of those thirty-five buck carving pumpkins the supermarkets are trying to sell me. And they come with the added bonus of providing ingredients for all the Pina Coladas I shall be making to survive the trick or treating. (I’m only doing it to get rid of the fruit you know)  Anyway, with pineapple and coconut, a Pina is practically a health drink!

2.  This tasty little morsel.

Sorry. I ripped it open before photographing.
What happened to ‘Tweet it before you eat it’?

I know it’s October, and I know I shouldn’t encourage the Mulit-National Money Sucking Machines by buying seasonal promotional items when the season is nowhere to be seen, but they are only ONE DOLLAR. And they say “Merryteaser” on them (what does that even mean?). Nobody knows, but how can I refuse when they beckon me from the counter with their cheery red packaging and their enticing and cooling snow graphics? And when they are only ONE DOLLAR? So, in a moment of weakness I purchased two, one for me and one for the love of my life. I popped them high up in the fridge, away from prying little eyes ‘for later’. Well, later was much, much later, say around 11pm when Nath had fallen to slumber, and I snuck out to the kitchen and ate mine. And then Nath’s. Sorry Nath.

But never fear, a patient gave the “kids” a giant chocolate Freddo each today. I’ve hidden them in the fridge. For the “kids”. Of course.

3. The Spring Spectacular at school tonight. I managed to sit through it all, even though there were TWO count them TWO renditions of ‘Let It Go’, and not a one Monkey Wrench cover. And my ears aren’t even bleeding. For serious.

So, well played kid’s school, well played.

As you can tell, Coco is a very talented musician.
Liam was also there, clarinetting along, but we didn’t get a pic that didn’t feature other kids.
So just imagine you can see him too. For balance, like.

4.  Did  you see Harry Potter on Jimmy Fallon? I’m not sure if I like Daniel rapping, or Jimmy grooving along and trying to keep up, the best. Something about that man just makes me laugh (Jimmy, not Daniel). Check it out, and watch it through to the end. It’s fun. I shared on FB my version of ‘The Black Widow’ for Edenland’s lip sync competition, but I’m thinking I might have to pop the real thing up here. Or maybe “Ice, Ice Baby”. Nath does a killer version of “Bust a Move”, so the possibilities are very exciting.

5.  Getting some of your feedback on the blog this week. I love your comments, shares and retweets. You might not realise it, but when I’m sitting here, being the little keyboard warrior, it’s hard to imagine that anyone else even reads this drivel.

I can, of course look up Google analytics and see how many of you play along, but it’s much nicer to actually get some feedback. So thanks to all of you who do comment, and then share the love around. It makes a difference to me.

I’ve got a few little writing plans for next year (see, I am following Matthew’s rules from the book I mentioned this week, and telling you about some of my goals) and this blog was created to see if anyone would like to read my stuff. It seems some of you do, and that, quite frankly, is BLOODY AWESOME. Writing stuff has always been a little secret and fragile thing that I’ve held in my heart, too frightened to let it see the light of day, lest it wither and turn to so much dust. Giving it some air, here on my little space on the internet has been both confronting and freeing in equal measure.

So thanks you lot. You make an old bird’s heart zing.

So how was your week? What were your hits?

Did you have any big wins?

…From The Ashers

Music and smells, they take you back.

Tonight on XFactor the Jim Morrison-Nick Cave hybrid dude sang The Power Of Love.

One moment I was on the couch with The Silverback and The Evil Geniuses, and the next I was lying on the spare mattress at Lissy’s house pressing Play/Pause/Play on the Pye cassette player, over and over again to write down the words to Frankie’s version of that same song. In the days before iTunes and Goog, that was how we figured out the lyrics, unless we were lucky enough to have a Brashs gift voucher stored up to purchase the actual record, with liner notes and (hopefully) the words, rather than a pirated TDK-60 tape of the album.

Lissy and I were future songwriters- quite possibly the Lennon/McCartney of our generation. She was Paul of course- that girl had a mighty voice, even back then, so I was John- whiney, nasally, and not all that pleasant to listen to, but I could sometimes turn a phrase or two. It is a shame and a crime that none of our recordings have survived, as our version of Kids In America was second only to our fabulous Wham Rap (yes, I still know all the words). We were magnificent back then in the 80s, with our confidence as big as both our hair, and our appetites for Rasin Toast and Super Sippers (Sing it: When you’re sippin’ all day long on a super Super Sipper), and only slightly smaller than our plastic clown earrings and shoulder pads.

Yes, I still have records. Oh well.

By 1984, we had finally tired of This Is Not A Love Song and were ready for a new challenge. Enter: Frankie Goes To Hollywood and The Power Of Love.

1984 was the year we stepped up our musical talents. No more would we just learn the songs verbatim and sing them endlessly and repeatedly and did I mention endlessly, until her brother would come screaming at us to: STOP WITH THE SAME SONG OVER AND OVER AGAIN YOU LITTLE IDIOTS. No, this was the birth of a new era. Something the kids of today call a parody.

It felt like much more than a parody though. We felt like the chick who wrote that hideous fanfic 50 Shades Of Grey must have felt- we were convinced we were creating something unique and beautiful. A tribute, yes, but a hit in its own right. Something that would make us millions, and most likely get us invited to a Frankie show, probably to appear as the secret climax of the evening. Laws knows we looked the part. No one had more Portmans colour co-ordinated fluro accessories than us.

Thirty years have dulled my memory somewhat, but I can still remember some of the adapted lyrics:

The power of rips, A force from the waves, Dragging me out. Something something something. Make surfing, Your goal.

I know, right?

How are we not millionaires, or at least, insanely famous?

I guess it’s just the way of the biz. A mystery, and a loss. To music-kind.

Before you get too upset, I might have forgotten to mention that in Year 10, my singing talents became widely known. I started up at a new school, and some of my friends were part of the school choir. Knowing how great my vocal range was, I went along one day, thinking I might bag myself a spot in the school musical. I’d heard that the guy who played Kenicke (and had pashed Rizzo for real) the year before might be up for another round. The play was called The Boyfriend, so that sounded all kinds of perfect to put some of the tips I’d picked up from Dolly Magazine to the test.

Anyway, I went to choir and I sang my little heart out, giving Miss both barrels of my repertoire: the startling high notes and the booming lows. After a while Miss pulled me aside, and I just knew she was going to ask me to be the new soloist.

“Ummm, Alison, you’re quite good at sport, aren’t you dear?”

“Yes Miss, sure am. Netty, softball, swimming, aths, I’m pretty good at all of ’em. And now this, singing too, so yeah, an all-rounder I guess,” I giggled a little in what I thought was a self-deprecating way, just so she would know I was also humble.

“Ahhh, yes, well, an all-rounder yes. It’s just that I hear they really need you in the, um, sports, so I’m thinking perhaps you’d be better served supporting the school in the, er, sports.”

What a lovely lady. Putting her entire school musical at risk, just to help out the sporting teams. What great school spirit. I can’t remember our school motto, but it surely must have been something like “Sacrifice one, for the good of all.”

Well played Miss.

The Power of Music, eh?

What songs take you back?

Have you penned a parody? Or been kicked out of choir?

…From The Ashers

I didn’t get around to wrapping up the week with the Hitwave this week. The Apple was being a little tetchy, and quite frankly, I didn’t have the mindset to sort it out. You see, when we have a transfusion looming, there is an undercurrent of stress in my life that doesn’t properly surface until that cannula is finally in place and the ‘danger period’ of the first bag of blood is over. It’s only then that it comes frothing to the top, and I almost cry with the relief and the gratitude of making it through. And that’s when I exhale. When I know we haven’t drowned.

In the week or so leading up to transfusion day, the only times I really stop flipping the scenarios over and over in my mind are when I’m at work, or when I’m tapping away on these keys.

Blogging as therapy? Say yessir. Work as an escape? You betcha sweet corpuscles. And so in these weeks- the ones at the pointy end of the quarter- I am even more grateful than ever to have such wonderful things in my life. Places where I can be in the moment, focussed, and in flow.

I’m pretty lucky to have these two domains, these things that I see as my life’s work.

It’s been a big day for my little girl and I. If you follow my spamming on any of the Socials, you would have seen some of the details. You might know that they couldn’t get the cannula to pierce a vein cleanly: not the first, the second or the third time. It took four punctures, a new doctor, my insistence of using the Accuvein (the infrared vein finder) and a smaller cannula, to finally get the sucker in.

Coco is only seven years old. I think that is a lot for a kid to go through.

Showing off the new blood

So today, I have two hits:

1. I am insanely grateful to the wonderful Cass, who played and played and sang her heart out during all of this.

Cass is the music therapy chick at the hospital. She is sweet and gentle and kind, and a bit of a hippy. If I am to be honest here (and what is the use of this blog if I’m not?) I thought she was a dickhead when I first met her. She came into our room, at a particularly harrowing moment, espousing the benefits of music for kids undergoing procedures.

I wanted to tell her to fuck off.

We were right IN something. Something BIG. Bloody pop tunes weren’t going to help our situation. I gritted my teeth and said, sure, play if you want (and in my head I probably called her a few names).
And so she played.

And it made all the difference. She has a voice of an angel and an energy to match, and Coco resonated with her immediately, and the beauty of Cass calmed her, in a beat.

So now I am in love with Cass and her presence. Today she played everything Coco requested (except that song from Frozen, but ain’t nobody got time fo’ dat): Riptide, Happy, Eye Of The Tiger…. Plus an improv of her own about Coco’s favourite things, where we yelled out stuff, and she made it all into a song.

Cass, I don’t even know if you are real, or if I dreamt you up, but bloody hell, you ROCK.

2.  Blood donors.

Of course.

I wish you could all see the change in our kid today. She is strong and brave and tolerant, and so if you met her earlier this week you would think that she’s just a normal kid. You might not realise that she really was just going through the motions, at times. The motions of breathing and walking and eating. Sure, she still laughed, she still had fun, she still raced to watch Family Feud every night, but tonight? Oh man, that kid is ALIVE.

She is drunk on life and energy and joy. I wish you could hear that laugh of hers that is ringing out over Sunrise Beach tonight, because it truly is an elixir for the soul.

Perhaps if you close your eyes you might hear her at your place? I can tell you right now, it’s worth a try.

I couldn’t get a good pic- there was “too much” laughing!

…From The Ashers xx

A while ago we had an anniversary and it coincided with Dan Sultan and Scott Wilson playing at Joe’s Waterhole.  I didn’t want to go because I knew only one song, and I did not like it, Sam I Am.  But it was our anniversary, and seeing as most other things around this place seem to go my way, I thought it maybe it was time for Nath to have an opinion.  Don’t freak out, it was a one-off, no habits were formed.

So I got that boy some tickets and we were away.

We dressed ourselves young again, and turned the music up loud in the car, tricking the years away.  We even stood up at the bar for a bit, despite there being perfectly good seats available.  I still didn’t want to see the band, but I loved the feeling of the years fizzing away, dissolving into my stubby like an Aspro Clear.  Without the bitterness.

And then the boys got playing.  I was transfixed.  Dan Sultan has a raspy, morning-after voice, and the stories in the songs can take you on a trip to   away.  Scott plays his guitar like it’s his mistress, so you can’t help but wish he’d written the songs for you.  The whole show was cheeky and funny and sensual and transporting.  The boys were just that, boys, having a fine time, and acting like they couldn’t quite believe their luck that they were there and we were there and we knew the words to Sorrowbound and Dingo and Come Home Tonight.  I’ve lived that night many times since, catching a whiff of the exuberance of it all every time I hear the songs.  So I got us tickets to see Dan again. This time without Scott.  This time on a Wednseday night.  This time in the middle of Winter.  This time when we have had a big week, with more to come.  This time when I’ve just given blood.  This time when the babysitter cancelled, and another couldn’t do it.  This time when it all seemed too much effort.

Somewhere there, between then and now, we caught old.  We weighed up the pros and cons and decided it was too much trouble.  To find another sitter, to go out on a work night, to drive all the way down south and out of the Shire, to learn the new songs, to get off the couch.

So we gave the tickets to some young people, and sat on the couch with a blankie and reflected on times gone by- bands seen, comedy shows laughed at, drinks spilled.

I don’t know if this old that we’ve caught is just a virus, something that will pass with appropriate rest and a nice lie down, or if it will settle in our marrow and constrict us until we become fused and immobile.

I hope it will pass.  And that if we tweak and stretch ourselves in just the right way, we can shake it off.  Because I suspect this is exactly how it begins.  The new things seem like too much effort, so you make a decision to stay right here.  To miss the gig, not do the update, wear last-year’s fashion, turn down the music, refuse the newest social medium, complain about how the town used to look.  And the old that you’ve caught, eventually infests and kills you.

So please excuse me, I’m off for my Milo and a lie down.  But I may just listen to THIS first.  See if I can shake it off.

Do you go out on a school night? 

How much do you love Sorrowbound?

And how much am I now spewing that I didn’t just GO?  Answer: A LOT.

…From The Ashers