Anyway, this particular setback to my innocence happened on a rainy day at the family farm (Mendip Hills) in North Canterbury, two or three hours north of the now blighted city of Christchurch. Mendip Hills was the jewel in the crown of the Rutherford family, our forebears on our mother’s side. Our grandfather, Norman Rutherford, had inherited the Rutherford homestead, which, as he was the youngest of the seven Rutherford brothers, was not strictly according to the dynastic script and may have been the cause of some ill-will between Norman and his elder brothers. Mind you, I’m only guessing this because I was too young to appreciate the intricacies of family politics at the time, but our grandmother only maintained regular contact with one of his brothers after Norman’s premature death as far as I know.
The importance of Mendip Hills for the young, innocent version of me was that the rambling Spanish stucco homestead was surrounded by Australian natives of all persuasions and had enormous gumtrees lining the road into the property, evidence of the affection the Rutherfords felt for their previous home in South Australia. There were photos of the Australian landscape hanging on the walls and we were read Snugglepot and Cuddlepie stories before we fell to sleep – I can still remember being terrified of the Banksia Men. Perhaps that’s why Melbourne felt relatively familiar when I arrived here fresh-faced from Christchurch back in late 1966 – looking back on it, it almost felt like coming home.
Mendip was also where I discovered how sheep ended up as roast lamb on the family dining table, an experience that convinced me that domestic animals, while obviously not obsessing about their mortality over a skinny latte or on their blogs, are just as aware as humans of their imminent demise, especially when being herded into an abattoir by blood-spattered blokes wielding large knives, a philosophical position I’m both amazed and ashamed to say is only now being considered by thinkers in the West.
Those kind of things can weigh heavy on a young mind and I think it might’ve even turned me vegetarian – for one meal at least. But there are other more positive possibilities that excite young male minds. I’m sure we all must’ve asked our fathers at some stage if we could drive at the fastest speed displayed on the car’s speedometer. The fastest speed on my Mitsubishi van’s speedo is 180 kph. The Mitsi is designed for Japanese conditions where they apparently drive at a sedate 40 k round the city and perhaps an impressively restrained 60 or 70 k on the open road. Driving at the suggested top speed on the Australian ‘open’ road of 110 kph has the motor screaming in indignation and when I occasionally surge to 120 kph it practically bursts into tears. 180 k is out of the question; it’s simply a dream, a fantasy.
Maria’s Renault’s speedo cheerfully bypasses 60 kph and goes straight to 70 k with typical Gallic indifference. The poodle’s top speed is allegedly a stratospheric 250 kph, at which speed the unhappy marriage between plastic and steel would undoubtedly be dissolved spectacularly and completely.
Now that I’ve grown into an accredited grumpy old bastard, I’m wondering why these aspirational speeds are even suggested on our (analogue) speedometers in the first place? Do car manufacturers imagine that we really believe their vehicle can actually reach the speeds that are suggested on the speedometer? Even if they could go that fast, just where in Australia would this be? In actual fact, more legible detail on our speedos round about the legal speeds would be appreciated by punters who can be slugged mightily for straying over the prescribed speeds by a mere couple of k. And while I’m at it, why do we have this malarkey of speedometer checks dotted along the major highways telling us that our speedos are unreliable at 100 – 110 kph by a factor of about 7 k? Of what use is this information?
I concede that not flying along an almost deserted freeway in my (fill in your personal dream car) at fantastical speeds with a girl by your side and the wind blowing through your hair is a minor disappointment in the scheme of things, (having bugger-all hair for the wind to blow through is actually more irksome), but, staying with the theme of disappointment, the other night I went to Bluetrain at the invitation of Brian ‘Frog’ Harris from the Songland Records in Canberra. I was sitting next to Joe Camilleri and was intrigued to listen to his stories of actual fame and accomplishment. He reminded me of the last time we met, (which was at the Beach House, his joint enterprise with Paul Hester), but I actually remembered a time before that back in the ‘80s when the Mike Rudd Quintet was doing a season at the Botanical Hotel.
Incidentally, I’ve always been impressed with Joe’s various bands, (he reminded me that the Falcons often supported my bands over the years). Joe writes great songs and he’s got a gritty and malleable voice that he’s not afraid to use. I suppose you could say that I’m a fan although I’ve never actually bought any of his records – which makes me a crap fan, of course.
I know he keeps on putting out records, but I was flabbergasted when he said he’d put out a massive one hundred and forty five records over the years! I’d just been moaning about how difficult it was to get motivated to finish off the current bleedingly obvious blues album that I owe to Bill’s memory. (Honestly - what more motivation could I possibly need?)
Anyway, at the time of Joe’s chat with us at the Botanical I was most likely having the very same motivational issues and Joe said it was all about having a dream and pitching that dream to those poor benighted bastards that were incapable of having a dream i.e. record company executives.
I came away from the Botanical singing Happy Talk from South Pacific to myself.

Happy talk, keep talking happy talk,
Talk about things you'd like to do,
You gotta have a dream, if you don't have a dream,
How you gonna have a dream come true?

Which is inspiring and true, but for some reason my life seems best described by another song lyric, Leiber & Stoller’s Is That all There is?

Is that all there is?
Is that all there is?
If that's all there is my friends
Then let's keep dancing
Let's break out the booze and have a ball
If that's all there is..

Post Script
There is a nod to Joe Camilleri's band, Bakelite Radio, in the pic of the bakelite radio at the head of this P&W, of course, but the following anecdote may stretch your credulity a bit. The hit version of Is That all There is? was sung by Peggy Lee, (incidentally orchestrated by Randy Newman), and there’s the faintest of connections here between Peggy Lee and, well, me, because in 1978 Bill and I were holidaying in California when I was invited to a guitar collector’s house in Long Beach. The most interesting guitar in the collection that I played that night belonged formerly to Peggy Lee’s guitarist husband, Dave Barbour. I’d never seen anything like it - and I never will again, because, unlikely as it may sound, the one-off beautiful creamy-coloured arch-top guitar was made entirely of.. bakelite..